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Reflecting upon weeks on the road

It has been a tumultuous few weeks in the sports department. I have made numerous trips to Montgomery for things like the AISA state softball tournament, the AISA baseball playoffs and the AHSAA South Central Regional Tournament.

I have spend dozens of hours in the sun, watching Marengo County teams.

I have seen parents cry. I have seen players cry. I have seen coaches cry.

I have nursed a sunburn that seems to get to healing only to worsen at the next tournament.

I have seen the total abandonment of logic in the name of cursing umpires.

I have continually reprimanded myself for not carrying cash and neglecting to remember that concession stands do not take debit cards.

I have sometimes worked periods of time that exceed 24 hours in order to get everything done so that I may be able to attend these events.

I have been hot. I have been tired. I have been thirsty. I have been scatterbrained. I have been excited. I have been frustrated. And I have been hot. Very hot.

But at the end of it all, I have arrived at this simple conclusion. It is hard to call what I do work.

Yes. I am often exhausted and frustrated and flustered and completely spent. But this is absolutely one of the most fun jobs in the world at times.

Think about it. I get to develop relationships with some remarkable coaches, players and parents. I watch them in their triumphs and defeats. I tell their stories, extol their virtues and help bestow upon them well-deserved accolades.

What in the world is there to not like about that?

Really contemplate that for a moment if you will. At its root, my job is to wake up every day, watch people play a game and tell other people who didn’t get to be there about it.

Yes, there are some other complicating factors involved there. Nonetheless, it’s a pretty decent gig if you can get it.

Five years ago, I was admitting patients into a state-operated psychiatric hospital. Now, I am watching people play the games they love. I’d call that an upgrade.

Although, some of the aforementioned anti-umpire tirades often trigger flashbacks of my psych hospital days. Sometimes I think the boys in blue need the same nonviolent crisis intervention training required to work at the psych hospital.

Regardless, what a wonderful run it has been these last few weeks following Demopolis and Sweet Water and Marengo Academy.

And while I am so appreciative of the opportunity to be a part of all of it, I couldn’t be happier that it is all finally over. Now maybe this pesky sunburn can heal.