One More Song...

If there is one thing that shapes your perception of a concert, it’s the encore. It’s the last thing you hear for the night and it can be the tipping point on whether a show is good or bad. Thursday’s encore from the Turnpike Troubadours definitely capped off their show in a positive way. The first of the two songs was “Whiskey In My Whiskey,” a heartwarming song about shooting a former love on the dance floor, with bassist and bearded American RC Edwards handling the vocal duties.

The second song was the hammer though. After going off the stage briefly, the group returned and fired through a solid version of the Mel McDaniel class “Louisiana Saturday Night,” which happens to be one of my favorite songs of all time. For those of you wondering, the line that refers to “a possum in a sack” is talking about lunch. I’m fond of saying that if a band came out and played nose flute for three hours and closed with “Louisiana Saturday Night,” I’d still be a happy camper.

My only qualm about the encore was the process of the encore itself. I understand the whole “go off the stage and make the crowd shout for more” idea, but I’m not a fan. I’d rather the band just say “Listen, we’re going to do two more songs then we’re out of here. Thanks for coming.” But that rarely happens so I’ll just have to be content with the current process and hold out hope that all will be made alright with the sounds of Mr. McDaniel. 

It Has A Certain Ring To It

A few weeks ago at my brother’s wedding, Daniel asked me when I got used to wearing my wedding ring. Having been married since February of 2009, I told him I’m still not used to it after more than three years.

There is just something about that little metal band around your finger that begs you to do anything but just keep it there. Daniel didn’t have his on for more than an hour when he started fidgeting with it. My co-worker Pavel got married a few weeks before Daniel and I can constantly hear him playing with his ring, which has a section that spins while still on his finger.

I myself mess with my ring way more than I should, at least according to my wife. I spin it on my desk. I flip it up in the air. I sell it at a pawn shop. In short, I’m not nearly as careful with what is supposed to be a symbol of our love.

The closest I ever came to actually losing it though came during a time when I wasn’t messing around with it. I keep my ring in my wallet at night so it won’t be misplaced, which is all well and good unless you lay your wallet on the top of your car before you go to the gym then drive off. I still consider myself lucky that some Good Samaritan found it a few blocks from our house and took it up to the office after recognizing my name from the newspaper.

Not that it would be the end of the world if I did lose it. My dad lost his first ring after a softball game when it fell off his motorcycle. He lost his second a few months ago while doing yard work, although he did buy a metal detector and the search for the ring continues. It’s hard telling whether or not he’ll get a third, but my parent's marriage is just fine without it. Dysfunctional as ever, but fine just the same.

While a ring may symbolize a love that has no beginning or end, it’s still just a piece of metal. It doesn’t matter whether it cost $10 or $10,000. What matters is the love and support you give your significant other. And I hope my wife remembers that when I inevitably drop my ring down the sink, or in a sewer grate or whatever other stupid thing I do because I won’t keep it on my finger.

Center and Guard: Burning The Olympic Flame At Both Ends

I fully admit that I am addicted to the Olympics. It’s not just the overwhelming sense of patriotism I get while watching the Americans win that draws me into the games. It’s the opportunity to become fully engrossed in a sport that I wouldn’t give the time of day if it wasn’t on the Olympic stage. A few good examples of this are cycling and women’s weight lifting, which were the bookends of my Olympic watching experience on Saturday.


I woke up a little before 9 a.m. (don’t judge me) and flipped straight to NBC for their Olympic coverage, which happened to be cycling. Even though I didn’t watch one second of the Tour De France just a few days before, I found myself glued to the television and buying completely into the story lines the announcers were feeding me.


In the end, some guy from Kazakhstan won the medal and hopefully he got to hear his actual national anthem.Earlier this year, at the Arab Shooting Championship in Kuwait, a Kazakh athlete had to stand on the podium and listen to the rather offensive version of the anthem taken from Borat, a movie that did for the nation of Kazakhstan what Deliverance did for the idea of southern hospitality, which was mistaken for the actual anthem. Thus ends the part of this column where I tell you everything I know about Kazakhstan.


The day ended with me falling asleep to the dulcet tones of women’s weightlifting, specifically the 48 kilogram class. Like most Americans, the metric system still gives me some trouble, as in I have no idea what kilos are in pounds, but eventually the announcers helped me with some of the conversions. While weightlifting is something that I rarely watch, or participate in for that matter, it’s pretty amazing to think that a 106 pound woman can lift more than 250 pounds over her head. Plus the names of the weight disciplines (the snatch and the clean and jerk) make me laugh every time.


Saturday’s viewing will most likely be a prime example of my viewing habits for the Olympics this year. There will be a lot attention in the Herschelman household to the popular sports like swimming and track, but there will also be time for water polo, judo and handball, which kind of looks like a sport my brothers and I may have created in our back yard.


And watching those sports is probably as close as I'm ever going to get to actually being in the Olympics, unless useless trivia becomes an event in Brazil in 2016. But I'm okay with that. Even the sports that look easy take years, if not decades, of practice and preparation. In the end, while it'd be cool to have a gold medal, I'd much rather spend all that time at home with my family, where we can share in thrills of victory and the agony of defeat from a comfy spot on my couch.

Running With The Big Dawgs

I admire the people that been bitten by the running bug. Many of these people aren’t super athletes or longtime runners, but each one has embraced the lifestyle of putting one foot in front of the other, a few miles at a time. I’m not one of these people. After my 5K adventure last April, I promptly dropped off the face of the map when it came to running. I can list off a ton of excuses (a hectic work schedule, the impending birth of Mary and I’s first child, alien abduction), but in reality, I just didn’t want to do it.

I had numerous people tell me that once I finished my first 5K, I’d want to do it again and again. That didn’t happen. It’s not that I didn’t enjoy my race and the journey to get there, it was just that my desire to continue running was knocked down and stomped on by my desire to stop running. I’ve thought off and on about trying to get myself back on track and try another 5K, but I’ve resisted the temptation so far. The strongest pull to lace up my Asics once again came recently with running of the inaugural Big Dawg Dare just outside of Litchfield.

The course for the Big Dawg is a nice easy 5K run, except it’s anything but easy. With competitors running up hills, through culverts, over walls and through water, the course resembles more of a boot camp obstacle course than your typical 3.1 mile jaunt. It also looks like a lot of fun. As I covered the race for the paper, I watched runner after runner splash through the final obstacle with a tired smile that conveyed not only relief that they were almost to the finish line, but also a sense of accomplishment. That’s one of the things I miss about running. I miss the thought that I accomplished something that depended solely on my abilities.

As hard as I tried to ignore the pangs of guilt for not signing up myself as I sat near the finish line, the nagging feeling that I should be out there as well kept creeping in. But I realize you can’t undo the past, although you can take advantage of opportunities in the future.

With that in mind, I’m here to say I will be participating in the second annual Big Dawg Dare, providing the event continues (and talking to race coordinators Brian Hollo and Jim Hewitt after the race, all signs point to the fact that it will go on). Hopefully I can convince my siblings to partake in the event with me. While Shane was busy at school, Mikaela and Daniel both ran the first 5K with me and the picture of all of us after the race is one of my favorites.

This pledge doesn’t mean that I’m all the sudden going to catch the running bug, although I will definitely do some training after watching people much more in shape than I suck wind after their run. It’s just an opportunity to prove to myself that I can do this. I can accomplish something far outside of my comfort zone. I can get off the porch and run with the big dogs.

Saying Goodbye To Ray Winder

Paul Allen, my friend and former roommate during our interning days in Little Rock, tagged me in this photo of Ray Winder Field, which is currently making the transition from  historic ballpark to less than historic parking lot.

After 81 years, a significant chapter of Arkansas sports history has come to a close. Ray Winder Field, the home of minor league baseball’s Arkansas Travelers from 1932 to 2006, is being brought down piece by piece to make way for a parking lot for the University of Arkansas for Medical Services.

I myself have mixed feelings about the former relic. In 2005, I spent seven months at the park as an intern for the Travelers. I remember cursing the fact that we had to pick rocks out of the infield and questioned why the playing surface was no where near perfectly level. I remember picking up peanut shells and scraping gum off grandstand seats that were 75 years old at the time. And I remember power washing – dragging a hundred foot of hose up and down ancient stairways to hose off the nasty things that accumulate after a few months of baseball.

But no matter how many bad things I recall about Ray Winder Field, I can’t help but feel saddened by its demise. The place holds so many fond memories for me that it will always hold a special place in my heart, even if the former field is on its way to becoming a slab of asphalt.

There was the time myself and another intern managed to wrangle a stray cat and her kittens out of the storage area between the stands with nothing but an old batting practice net and a wand off the power washer. There was the time that the relief pitchers took to the mound with pick axes and shovels just hours after their complaints that the mound was too low fell on deaf ears (the opposing pitcher nearly broke his ankle on the first pitch of the game just a few hours later). There was the time when I was doing donuts in the parking lot in one of the “Clunker Car Night” giveaways so the battery would stay charged enough to take it out on the field.

All of the fond memories I have of the park and the people that I worked with cloud out all of the negatives about that summer (the heat, the long hours, the unabashed stupidity of some people).

In June of 2010, I got what would turn out to be my last chance to see Ray Winder Field thanks to a surprise birthday trip planned by my beautiful wife Mary to go see the Travelers play in their new stadium in North Little Rock. After being out of commission for four years at that time, the stadium was obviously rough. Weeds and grass grew where the ball diamond once was and much of the paint was faded on the billboards that dotted the outfield wall.

But there was still something special about the place. You could almost close your eyes and hear the crowd cheering for that big hit as it cleared the 30-foot “Screen Monster” in right field and bounced across I-630. You could see the joy on the faces of the millions of baseball fans who had set foot inside the park to watch the next big thing come to the plate.

And now it's gone, but not forgotten. Someday though, when Mary and I take our daughter Grace down to Arkansas to see the Travelers for the first time, I'll drive past where Ray Winder FIeld once stood and remember all of those sights, all of those sounds and all of those memories.

Throwing Rationality Out With The Bath Water

Sorry it has taken me so long, but May is one of our busiest times at the paper. Today's post is a preview of our Father's Day section that will be in the M&M Journal and Journal-News on Monday, June 11. Three of us on staff were tasked with writing columns about some aspect of fatherhood, so here is what I came up with. Enjoy. ~ Kyle

~ ~ ~

"If you don't stop pooping in the bathtub, you'll never become president."

Those were the words that I said to my nine-month-old daughter a few weeks ago as her mother and I watched her defile her pristine baby bathtub. While I said this partially just to make my beautiful wife Mary giggle, there is something about becoming a father that makes you lose your sense of rationality.

Do I actually think that Grace could become president? Not really (in fact I kind of hope she doesn't), but there is something about that sweet little face that makes you think that the world is her oyster and nothing is impossible.

For example, one day I was watching Grace sitting in her high chair, content as could be, gingerly picking up the snack puffs that were scattered across her tray. After a while, I began to notice that she was doing most of the picking up with her right hand, making my mind jump directly to the world of athletics.

"I guess this means she won't be a southpaw," I thought to myself.

Those thoughts were quickly followed by fleeting ones of Grace standing on the mound, mowing down batter after batter in the Olympics (provided that softball returns to the games someday). I then questioned whether her right handedness would limit her scholarship opportunities in volleyball. After all, my future sister-in-law said that if Grace turned out to be left handed and close to six feet tall, she'd be able to write her ticket just about anywhere.

Fortunately, I came to my senses fairly quickly. I know that Grace still has a while until she is eating solid food, let alone setting foot on a volleyball court. I also know that if she has any of my coordination, then she'll be much more apt to nailing down A's in the classroom than strikeouts on the ball diamond.

What I haven't quite figured out yet is how something so small, so fragile, can turn my life completely upside down, in a good way. With one laugh, one smile, one well placed piece of baby jabbering, Grace has the ability to change my mood from bad to good, which can sometimes be a full-time job.


Sitting on my desk at work, I have two photos. One is of Mary and I, decked out in our Mizzou and Illini jerseys, looking like a friendlier version of the Hatfields and McCoys. The other is Gracie Lou, blue eyes shining, my dad's NAPA hat backwards on her head, mouth open in an ever-present smile that never ceases to bring on one of my own. The picture reminds me of the joy that Grace brings to not only to Mary and I, but to both of our parents, who have been generous enough to donate their time for baby-sitting duty week in and week out, and our siblings, who treat her like she's a little princess. That cherubic little face seems to elicit smiles wherever we go, even from complete strangers.

It makes me wonder what I did to deserve this blessing. I don't donate hours and hours of my time to worthy causes. I don't work nonstop to make the world a better place. Heck, I'm not even all that nice to people most of the time. But for some reason, I have received the gift of instant joy in the form of my daughter.

That doesn't mean there haven't been hard times. I've found myself gritting my teeth more than once as I rolled out of bed to give Grace her pacifier at 3 a.m. I've shaken my head as she sneezed pureed squash and giggled at the Jackson Pollock-esque landscape that used to be my shirt. Then of course there's the whole pooping in the tub thing. But none of that holds a candle to the good things she brings to my life. Like the way she falls asleep on my chest. Or how she flaps her arms like a little bird when she gets excited. Or how she giggles at the stupid little noises that I make.

Those little things are probably why I think she can be president, or a gold medalist, or both. The love in my heart clouds the reality in my mind. My mind tells me that she's more likely to be just an average ordinary young lady when she grows up, which is completely fine, but my heart tells me that the sky is the limit when it comes to my little girl.


And I kind of like it that way. The reality is that life is hard, and sometimes kind of like Grace's bath water that one day. If there is any way I can keep that reality away from her for just a few seconds longer, then I'll do everything in my power to do just that.

A Good Snapshot Stops A Moment From Running Away. ~ Eudora Welty

Photography is something that I'm definitely interested in improving on in my work at the paper. My beautiful wife Mary, who was a photo journalism major at Missouri, has given me a lot of help over the years and while I still have a long way to go, I think I've come up with some pretty decent shots, whether it be by luck or improved skill.

One of the smartest things Mary ever taught me was to get the shot you need for the paper, then experiment and try some different things. I have tried to take that to heart and although sometimes I get caught up in the experimenting side before I get something I can actually run. Thursday was one of those times that my creative side nearly got in the way of my practical side.

I was shooting at the Class A track sectional in Staunton and I began experimenting shooting the high jump and shot put. I was pretty sure I had the shots I needed for the paper, but I wasn't 100 percent certain. Instead of trying to get more, I got caught up in shooting these other events, trying to get some different lighting situations and some different angles. As it turns out I did manage to get a handful of shots I could use for Monday's edition, plus a few others that will never make the pages of The Journal-News, but did give me something to build on in my road to become a better photographer. 

Below are shots of Mikey Williams of Bunker Hill in the high jump, Jack Denby of Carlinville in the pole vault, and John Roller of North Mac and Jake Mahin of Staunton in the shot put. I didn't do a whole lot of work on them, mainly because that's not really a weapon in my arsenal, but I think a few of them turned out pretty cool.

Journal-News Photos

I'd Like To Thank The Academy...

I have a love/hate relationship with awards. No matter how many times you tell yourself that you don’t do this job for the recognition, there is still something to be said about being acknowledged by your peers. This past Friday was a perfect example of all that is good and bad about award banquets.

Mary, Grace and I traveled south to Makanda on Friday for this year’s Southern Illinois Editorial Association awards. We knew going in that we had done fairly well, with The Journal-News earning seven awards according to the preliminary list, but you never know whether it will be a first place, an honorable mention, or something in-between.

As it turns out, we did get one first on the day, for best sports coverage in our division, which is for “weekly” papers with circulation over 2,800. This is the second time we have received this award since I’ve been at the paper, although we had to share it with one of the Collinsville publications last time.

I take a lot of pride in what I do and work very hard to put out the best possible product I can for my three or four pages that center on the athletic accomplishments of the area. So I was feeling pretty good about myself as we collected our bounty and headed back to Hillsboro.

This is where the other side of occupational accolades comes in. We knew that a letter from the Illinois Press Association announcing the winners of their annual editorial contest. The J-N had done pretty well in the advertising contest, which was announced a few weeks earlier, so we were eagerly anticipating seeing how we did on the editorial side. As Mary opened up the letter, it was hard for me to hide my disappointment. We were finalist in just one category and for the first time since I began at the paper, I was shut out by the IPA.

As I said, you tell yourself that you don’t do this for the recognition, but I still found myself questioning my worth. Was all of 2011 a waste? Why even bother trying in 2012? If my contemporaries think I suck, how long until the general public comes to that conclusion too? Of course all of these are ridiculous, but at the time, I didn’t want to hear about it. I just wanted to be mad.

Right then and there I told Mary that I wouldn’t be attending the banquet, even though I always enjoy it and was really looking forward to taking Grace for the first time, just a few hours before opening that cursed letter. I’d like to say that I’ve come to the realization that awards don’t matter and I came to my senses, but I’m still a little bitter.

But I’m working on it. Rather than lament the fact that we didn’t get much recognition, I’m going to work on getting better. I look back on some of my work when I first started writing for the paper and I see how much better I’ve gotten over the last five years, but I still want to get better. Everyday is a learning experience and I think when that stops, it’s probably time to do something different.

So I will try to take the attitude that as long as I’m doing my best, everything will be okay, no matter how hard that may be. I imagine if I can do that, the whole awards thing will figure itself out on its own.

National High Five Day

It seems like the important holidays always sneak up on me. I never get my Christmas shopping done before December 24. My anniversary present to Mary is still "in the mail." And my parent's anniversary was last week, I think, maybe. To cap off this streak of forgetfulness, I nearly missed one of my three favorite holidays, along with May 13 (Top Gun Day) and Sept. 19 (International Talk Like A Pirate Day). Yes, for those who don't know, today is National High Five Day, held every third Thursday of April for the last decade.


I've always been a big fan of the elevated hand slap, mainly because of its impact on my career. When I was an intern for the Arkansas Travelers, "Free High Five Nigh" was one of two ideas that I pitched to my boss, and now Travs GM Pete Laven. The other was "Hugs from the Homeless Night," where we would pay the bums that hung out around the park $5 to go around hugging people.


While the latter never really took off, "Free High Five Night" debuted at Ray Winder Field on May 5th (get it... 5/5) the next year. Unfortunately, I was in Tennessee by that time and didn't get to see my handiwork in person, but the promotion was named the best low cost promotion by ESPN the Magazine that year and earned Pete the Texas League's Top Executive (there might have been some other factors involved). I know I've mentioned this accomplishment several times in columns before, but in all honesty, if I can only have three things on my headstone, I'd want "Husband, Father, Inventor of Free High Five Night."


This year, the boys at National High Five Day are working to raise money for cancer research, something that has touched my family's life in the last few years. More than 180 people registered to give out 55 high-fives today to inspire donations to four cancer research centers. As of 3 p.m., the National High Five Project has raised $11,505 of their $15,555 goal, with the proceeds to be split between the V Foundation, Sanford-Burnham, Gateway for Cancer Research and the Fred Hutchinson Cancer Research Center.


I'm kicking myself that I didn't join up to be a part of this great cause, but there is always next year. Until then, I will try to make the most of this wonderful day and like they say with Christmas, keep the spirit of National High Five Day in my heart all year long. For more information on National High Five Day or to donate to the cause, visit www.nationalhighfiveday.com.

Baseball Fields and Baby Smiles

I still find it amazing the power that a game has over me. I could be having the worst day ever and within a few minutes at the ballpark/basketball court/football field, all of that can be forgotten.

For example, Sunday was one of those days that makes me not only question my career choice, but my sanity. I made the decision to go in late to work after the opportunity to see my family arose, and while I think this was a good decision, it put me in a pretty big hole in regards to my writing for Monday’s paper. By six o’clock, panic had started to creep in as my list of things to write still couldn’t be counted on one hand. By seven, I was in full blown meltdown mode. Thankfully, my beautiful wife Mary talked me off the ledge and I managed to get everything done, or most of it at least.

Even though it ended up being okay, the episode shook me a little. I began wondering if I might be better off doing something else. I’ve always enjoyed eye patches and parrots, maybe I could be a pirate. The thoughts still lingered a little as I finished off my work day on Monday and headed over to Litchfield for the Panthers game against Lincolnwood.

The game was neither particularly close (Litchfield won 16-4) or particularly well played (a high sun and strong wind out to right contributed greatly to some miscues), but there was something about it that made everything okay. I’ve been working on shutting out the outside thoughts in my head more and being more mindful of what I’m doing right there and then. And I think that I accomplish this more at a game than at any other place.

It seems like that there is always something there that can bring a smile to my face, whether it be an amazing play or one that just leaves me shaking my head, like during Monday’s game when a ball was actually lost briefly in the outfield grass. It’s moments like these that I am thankful for because they make me know that I am doing exactly what I’m supposed to be doing.

This same feeling translates to my home life as well, in particular my new job as Grace’s dad. One moment she can be screaming bloody murder as I question my worth as a father. But with a look or a few words from me, the smile that melts my heart comes out and I know that the Grace Monster will be okay and that the good times way outnumber the bad.

Now the key is to remember those moments during the rough times, both at work and a home.

Underdogs, Stuffed Ducks, and Fallen Tigers

Prior to the NCAA tournament, I had this wonderful idea to have my six-month-old daughter Grace pick one of my brackets. I figured that this would be a fun, if not completely original, take on March Madness.

I had it all planned out. I would take Grace’s Snoopy doll and have that represent the lower seed (a play on the “underdog” moniker), then take her stuffed duck (because it was on top of the toy box) and have that represent the higher seed. That plan lasted about five minutes before Grace realized it was more fun to stare at the duck and Snoopy than to reach out for either animal, which was going to be my clue on her choice for that game.

Going to Plan B, I picked up two of her favorite rings, which seemed to work for a while. The little one made it all the way through the South Region before her toes took precedent over the rings. Rather than press my luck, I decided that I would pick the remaining three brackets.

So with the opening weekend over and done, I thought I’d reveal how the Grace Monster did in her first NCAA bracket. Through 12 games in the South Region, Grace has had her highs and lows. She went 6-2 in the first eight games, but only has one team left in the Sweet 16, third seeded Baylor.

The two games she missed in the first round were Iowa State beating Connecticut and Colorado upsetting UNLV.  Her big win came in the 2/15 match-up, where she picked Duke to fall to Lehigh, who was an 11 and a half point underdog. I fully realize that the pick was just a fluke, but I was still awfully proud of my daughter for seeing through the overhyped Blue Devils in favor of the Mountain Hawks. Unfortunately Lehigh’s run came to an end in the next round, spoiling Grace’s hopes of another upset with a win over Xavier.

Her daddy, on the other hand, has done okay in the other three regions, but not fantastic. All told, we are 32-of-48 so far, but our hopes of finishing at the top of the standings in our group went down the tubes with the other big upset of the tournament. Partial in tribute to my wonderful wife Mary who attended the University of Missouri, and partial because I thought they were a good team, I had Mizzou as my national champion.

In my bracket, the Tigers would take on their hated rival, the Kansas Jayhawks, in the championship game in what would be the final meeting between the two teams for a while, since Mizzou is jumping ship to the SEC. But that was not meant to be as Norfolk State (which is actually not a state at all) defeated my wife’s alma mater in another 2/15 match-up to end their national title hopes and my chance at a winning bracket.

In reality, I don’t really care whether I finish first or 50th in a bracket pool. The tournament has always been one of my favorite sporting events of the year, regardless of how my bracket or my favorite team does, not that I’ve had much to cheer for in that regard (looking at you University of Illinois). That love of the tournament has grown over the last few years as I get the chance to watch the games with Mary, who roots for the underdog without fail, unless they are playing her Tigers. And as Grace continues to get bigger, I can’t wait watch the games and fill out our brackets as a family. Who knows, maybe she’ll even pull another Lehigh out of her sleeve someday. 

Center and Guard: Sending Out An SOS

This column was originally published in the March 15 edition of The Journal-News

On Tuesday night, the Litchfield school board had to make a decision that I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemy. With the state of Illinois swirling further down the toilet, the district continued to lack funds, meaning that jobs and programs would have to be cut. It was the board’s job to figure out what and who made it through. In the end, 14 staff members, nine coaching positions, and 11 middle school and high school extra-curricular activities didn’t survive the chopping block, including the boys soccer, girls softball and both golf and cross country programs. My heart goes out to those who lost their jobs, and I sincerely hope that some of those positions will be reinstated.

As for the athletic cuts, which hit hard for me, now is not the time to lament that they are gone. Now is the time to figure out what to do next and how to somehow keep these sports alive. Success isn’t everything, but in recent years the programs that were cut have produced regional champions (girls softball in 2011 and boys soccer in 2009 and 2010) and state qualifiers (Victoria Quarton in cross country and Brandon Stieren in golf just to name a couple). While those successes will always be a part of the school’s history, if these programs don’t continue, they will always be a bittersweet memory of what Litchfield once had.

The cuts at the middle school level will also have a big effect on the high school teams. I would think that football should be fine, considering that the JFL Titans thrived before the school took over the program a few years ago. But wrestling and volleyball could take a major step back. The success of the middle school wrestling program, which has sent kids to the state tournament each of the last 12 years, has had a direct effect on the success of the high school wrestling program, which has been one of the best in Class A in the state. As for volleyball, the high school program won its first regional game since 2005 and has increased its win totals each of the last four seasons. Without the middle school program, which was coached by high school head coach Gena Elliott and Jennifer Ruschhaupt, that step forward could be followed by several steps back if future players don’t get to learn the fundamentals at a younger age.

When it comes down to it though, the true value of these programs isn’t measured in wins and losses, but in how they affect a student’s life. I recall Terry Todt saying at an MTXE check presentation that not all learning is done in the classroom. Sometimes it’s done on a playing field. Sports are not the end all, be all, for high school, but they can be a valuable tool to teach responsibility, accountability, teamwork, leadership and numerous other traits that can be helpful in the real world.

Personally, I have many fond memories of the sports that were cut, in particular the boys soccer program. In 2009, I watched as Dylan Treece netted a game tying goal that went off either Travis Blom’s head or Metro-East Lutheran keeper Chris Fulkerson’s hand to send the rain soaked game to overtime, where it ended with a Devon Fenton goal in the final 30 seconds. Not only was that game one of the best I’ve seen in my time at the paper, but it was also the wettest I’ve ever been with clothes on and resulted in me needing to replace my waterlogged cell phone. Moments like that 2009 game and Devin Brakenhoff’s go-ahead goal in the final two and a half minutes of the regional title game against then-undefeated Lincolnwood are the things I will remember about Litchfield soccer whether last year was the final one in the program's history or not.

But my hope is that it will be back, along with the rest of the programs and jobs that were cut on Tuesday, however unlikely that may be. While I may not be able to help out much financially (most of my disposable income will be heading to a college fund for our daughter Grace), hopefully I can lend a hand someway to ensure that when fall and spring come around next year I will be watching the Panthers on the pitch, on the course, and on the diamond.

Freezing Time

Late Saturday night, as we drove north on I-55 from a wedding in St. Louis, I found myself tired, depressed and frustrated. It was almost 11:30 p.m. and I had been in the car for more than an hour on my fourth trip in the last two days down that stretch of road that connects Montgomery County with the Gateway City. As we passed Hamel, a topic came up during a conversation with my beautiful wife Mary that almost always results in hurt feeling for one or both of us.

Agitated at the world already, one of the latest songs about how country the singer is came on the radio, thus sending my mood further down the slide. I flipped the tuner to 95.1 for the Decatur station’s Uncut program, which features music that falls just outside the mainstream for most country stations. As the already in-progress song played, I found myself just wishing I was home and that the long day and night would be over. Then four familiar words echoed through the speakers of the car. It’s a beautiful morning…

Despite the fact that the singer, Brandon Rhyder, doesn’t perform much outside of Texas, I recognized the song right away. In fact, I hear those same four words every time Mary calls me. The song Freeze Frame Time has been my ringtone for my wife for more than three years. It was also our first dance, but is even more meaningful to us than just the fact that we swayed clumsily to it on our wedding day.

The song talks about the little things in life that make life worth living. Rhyder sings about the sunrise, about his son, and about his wife, who he says “picked me up when I was down, turned me around, and you made me fly high.” The chorus explains that it’s these little moments that make Rhyder wish he could freeze frame time.

I can relate. Sometimes it seems like the entire world is spinning out of control. Demands at work and away from it occasionally take their toll on my state of mind, but the little moments like sitting on the couch with Mary asleep on my shoulder or getting a smile from my six-month old daughter, Grace, make me crave more moments like those. Those moments also make me know that no matter how bad it gets, everything is going to be okay.

And that is what the song did at that moment. Despite being more than 100 miles from Decatur, somehow that song came through as clear as a bell, just when I needed it. What are the odds that song, which most people in Central Illinois have never heard of, happens to come on the radio at just the perfect moment? Whether it was coincidence or a higher power at work, I couldn’t help but smile as those familiar lyrics played on. Despite all of the consternation and discouragement I felt minutes earlier, I knew that everything that really mattered was in the car with me at that moment, either sitting on the passenger side, holding my hand, or quietly sleeping in the back seat.

This was one of those little moments that let me know that everything was going to be okay, no matter what. And like the song says, moments like that make me wish I could freeze frame time.

Stand By Your Manning

In 1998, not long after the NFL draft, I purchased my first NFL jersey. While I’d always been a fan of football, I’d never really like a team enough to add their uniform to my wardrobe. The Rams had only been in St. Louis for three years at the time and were still a year away from “The Greatest Show on Turf” days, and their predecessor, the Cardinals, were 1,500 miles away in Arizona.

But on April 18, 1998, my allegiances swung to the Indianapolis Colts when they selected Peyton Manning with the number one overall pick. Manning had been my favorite player, regardless of sport, since his freshman year at the University of Tennessee. My uncle, who was living in Knoxville at the time, had told me to keep an eye on the youngster out of New Orleans who seemed poised to take over for the Volunteers.

While Manning was racking up records and awards at UT, I was in high school following along every step of the way. I lived with the successes and died with the failures, most of which came when the Volunteers played Florida.

As the draft approached, I had to listen to my friends chide me over how Washington State QB Ryan Leaf was going to be a better pro passer and how Manning couldn’t win the big game/never won the Heisman/had the personality of skim milk. But I stuck with Manning, which paid off when Leaf flaked out in San Diego and found himself gone from the NFL three years later.

As Manning’s career continued, I celebrated the success of the Colts, including the 2006 Super Bowl victory. But now, with Manning being released after 14 years with the team, I find myself with a dilemma. Do I continue to root for the team that I’ve followed for the past decade and a half, or do I follow my hero to wherever he lands next?

In reality, it’s not much of a question. I go where Manning goes. While I rooted for the Colts, Manning was always the driving force behind my fandom. When he was injured last season, missing the entire 2011-12 campaign, my interest waned for the team as if my connection to the Colts had disappeared.

The fact that the Colts probably could have been beaten by a fifth grade JFL team that year may have contributed to my disinterest, but the real reason stems more from my attitude toward sports that don’t involve a bat, a ball and a diamond. Baseball is my first love and other professional sports seem to take a back seat to the national pastime. While I am a die-hard St. Louis Cardinals fan year round, my support when it comes to other athletic endeavors centers around a singular player, whether it be Manning, or New Jersey Devils goalie Martin Brodeur, or former Vancouver Grizzlies big man Bryant “Big Country” Reeves.

So as this year’s draft approaches, the Colts will prepare to usher in the “next Peyton Manning” and close the book on the actual one, while I do the same in regards to my NFL fandom. And while I will follow Manning where ever he goes, whether he is wearing turquoise in Miami, burgundy in Washington, or black and white in the Oreos Double Stuff Racing League, I know that his best days are probably behind him, with age and the questions about his neck injury still lingering.

But whether he picks up his fifth MVP honor or goes out and throws ten picks in his first game, Manning will always be my favorite player. And I’d like to think that’s the meaning of being a fan, regardless of whether you’re rooting for one guy individually or 30 guys on a team. 

Learning Not To Sleep On The Skins

Eventually one day I will learn not to discount the fact that Nokomis High School wins basketball games. Period.

As we prepared Wednesday for Thursday’s edition of The Journal-News, I fretted over the fact that half of the ads on the signature page commemorating the Redskins’ regional championship not only said “congrats” but “good luck” as well. While this is a wonderful sentiment, it remained to be seen whether the “good luck” part would even be necessary since Nokomis was playing Madison that very night in their opening game of the sectional tournament.

It’s not that I didn’t think that the Redskins could win the game, I just didn’t think it was all that likely. Madison was bigger, faster, stronger, more athletic and had beaten Nokomis two years earlier in the sectional final, which was probably the best high school basketball game I have ever seen in person. But in true Nokomis fashion, none of that mattered as the Skins trailed only briefly in their win over the Trojans, thus making my signature page worries a moot point.

The kind of fight that Nokomis displays game in and game out is why they have gone from a team that I dreaded watching in high school, due to their proclivity for beating my alma mater, to one that has been one of my favorite to cover during my time at the newspaper. I fully understand that Coach Steve Kimbro’s demonstrative nature has resulted in a few kids deciding not to play basketball, but for the ones who have stuck around and persevered, the trials and tribulations make the success all that much sweeter.

So with game two of the sectional tournament, just a few hours away, I won’t make the same mistake. I’m not saying that I guarantee Nokomis will defeat the Carrollton Hawks in Nokomis, but no longer will I be surprised when the Redskins are celebrating a victory after a game they weren’t supposed to win.

Finally...

I’ve wanted to do a blog for a long time, but for one reason or another I always came up with an excuse not to do one. First it was time, then it was lack of a name, then it was the fact that I’m just not that interesting. Finally on Saturday, I decided to quit putting it off for stupid reasons (no matter how valid they are) and pull the trigger. Thus I introduce to you the latest weapon in the Herschelman journalistic arsenal - my blog, Dead Center (don’t ask why it has taken me so long to post the first one).

Right now, the plan is to update at least once a week with whatever is floating around my head. I’m still hoping to churn out Center & Guard columns for the paper (although it’s been way to long since one has made the paper), but I’m hoping this can be an outlet for some of the things floating through my head that are either too short, too long or too out of leftfield for publication in a highly respectable newspaper like The Journal-News.

I had kind of tried this once before with Center & Guard On-Line but the hassle of having to be in the office to update quickly zapped my enthusiasm for the project. Hopefully, that doesn’t happen this time. I go into this knowing that my audience will most likely consist of a handful of people that want to see me succeed (mostly friends and family) and a handful of people that want to see me crash and burn (mostly friends and family).

With that said, I’m really looking forward to a new opportunity to write creatively. Even if I am just basically talking to myself, it’ll be nice to show the Grace Monster some day, if for no other reason than to show her that her daddy’s incessant ramblings aren’t just made in the living room, but also on the world wide web.