Posted by: furmanbisher | March 27, 2009

Back in the Saddle

Well, where were we a week ago, before I left for a vacation of sorts? The NCAA was dribbling basketballs and Tiger Woods was returning to golf and we have a new President, and if you haven’t heard the speech that Tiger made at the inauguration, then your patriotic juices must drive you to fetching a read. It is moving, and it has such a theme, totally diverse of politics, that it should rouse your flag-waving instincts no matter what your bumper stickers read. How the news services could so blatantly ignore it infuriates me.

It has been a past week spent in Texas, concerned with the old and the very young. A few years ago a bunch of sports writers who had spent so much time together covering such pastimes as the Super Bowl, the World Series, the Kentucky Derby, Final Four, Masters, U.S. and British Opens, we decided it was time to get organized. Somebody—I’m not sure who—labeled us “The Geezers”, not altogether complimentary by dictionary definition. It means “eccentric old men,” as in Webster’s. I’ll settle for that, for Webster was eccentric and old himself, and should know one when he sees one. We usually meet once every year, and have, in places from Peachtree City, Ga., to Phoenix, Ariz., and it’s usually the same. We don’t exercise, or collect funds for the needy, or deliver meals on wheels. We sit in hotel rooms and solve the world’s pressing issues, eat too much….we used to drink too much, but it’s strange. The older we’ve gotten, the less we drink, the more problems we solve—tell you this, if it had been left to us, that little jerk in North Korea would have in control by now.

We’ve lost a couple who moved on, and the rest are not as vigorous as we once were, but that hasn’t softened our opinions. We’ve had only one political miscreant, but the one Democrat has sort of dismissed himself. So be it.

That was the old guard. I left early to visit with my son Monte and wife and twin grand-daughters in Round Rock. They are Morgan and Megan, now eight years old and precious as a starlit night. They were adopted, found in an orphanage in Smolensk, Russia, at the age of seven months. Ironically, they were collected about the time of Nine/Eleven, and I’ve sometime wondered if there wasn’t some kind of symbol of solace in this coincidence, they have been such a treasure to us all. They are bright, they are beautiful, they have personality, they are athletic, they have qualities found only in Camelot. Much of it is natural, but I give their parents a lot of credit for their developing personalities. It sometimes makes me wish I had been adopted. But, I’d probably still be left-handed and slow.

There was a sporting interlude, a sitting with Mack Brown, my coach of the year, in his Texas Longhorn quarters. But that’s another topic for another day. Probably a Sunday column in the sports section.


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