Marshall Ramsey

It was our last of at least 40 ‘Super Circuit’ stations this morning. (Each station lasted 45 seconds with a 15 second break to get to the next station.) My oldest son was my workout partner.

We shuffled toward the home stands, tossing a big, blue medicine ball back and forth to each other. The wind blew and I could hear the ball smack him as I threw it at him. I can close my eyes and see the determined look on his face. It was 45 seconds I’ll never forget.

You only make memories when you’re truly in the moment.

For 12 weeks, I’ve watched him grow and improve. And it has been more than just physically. On the way home, I asked him if he had achieved his goal.

“Yes, I got in Line 2,” he replied. He started in five. Line 2 is the line that I am in.

“I also learned a goal can’t be achieved without some pain. But you break it into small pieces and focus on each part to get through that pain.”

I was starting to get impressed. I’m 32 years older than him and sometimes I struggle with that one.

“I also learned that when the coach corrects you, you don’t get defensive. You listen, say “yes sir,” and try to do what they are saying.”

I know a lot of grown-ups who fail at that one — me included at times.

His mama sure raised him well.

So after 12 weeks of watching my son workout, I have a lifetime of memories to carry with me. I hope he has a few, too — and that they are good.

I would have given anything to workout with my dad.

This post could refer to about anywhere. I’ve lived in Georgia, Texas, California, Tennessee and Mississippi. All have had great things about them that I’ve loved. And all have severely ticked me off at one time or the other.

Let me ask you a few questions:

Do you ever have days when you get frustrated and say, “This place will never change!!!”? Do you throw up your arms and think, “That’s it, I’m outta here!”? Do you lose hope when you look around and see people you think are idiots? Do you think the political leadership in inept?

Of course you do. Well, unless you think you live in Shangri-La (I know some do). But most likely you’re like the majority of us and you get frustrated. (I read your Facebook posts, I know you do).

Trust me, I do.

But instead of saying, “This place will never change,” I’ve started asking, “How will this place change me?” If for the good, I can become part of the solution. If for the bad, I can continue to complain.

P.S. This also works pretty well for impossible people, too.

This is the last week of the 12-week Paul Lacoste Bootcamp. I work out on the Madison Central football field from 5 until 6 each morning — it’s an intense workout. And I’m easily in the best shape of my life. But today, I faced one of my biggest challenges yet.

As you might of noticed, it’s very hot — even at 5 a.m. My body does not handle heat well (a curse) and my athletic ability has suffered. I’m not going to lie, today’s was difficult. And somewhere along the way, the little voice in my head uttered the two nastiest four-letter words in my vocabulary:

Just Quit.

It happened as we were running up and down the bleachers at the end of the workout. We had already been taken to the woodshed and were tired. I had stumbled and bumbled and felt dizzy. And then I heard it.

“Just quit.”

“NO!” I yelled back to myself. “I WILL NOT JUST QUIT!”

My body raised its hand, “Um, if we walk right now, you can catch your breath.”

“NO. I have come this far.”

I started thinking about how hot it was and how my body wasn’t handling the heat well.

Then I thought, “But I am doing this. And by doing this, I’m getting better and stronger.”

“Just quit.”

I heard it again. I stiffened my resolve and answered, “Hell no.”

Paul Lacoste talks about the Next Level. I’m sure it means many things to my friends who are out there with me. For me, not quitting when things get tough is the next level. It’s learning to master and dominate the little voice in your head. The voice of doubt.

I’ll be back out there tomorrow. I’m sure I’ll hear that voice again. And once again, I’ll tell it to shut the heck up.

Mississippi produces some of America’s most creative artists. So I wondered, “What if we could pack my radio studio with a stand-up comedian, an editorial cartoonist, a musician and two authors and get them to talk about their creative process?” Well, tomorrow, that’s exactly what we’ll do. Tune in Monday at 10 a.m. on Mississippi Public Broadcasting​ to hear Rita B. Brent​, Vasti Jackson​, Steve Yates​, Matthew W. Guinn​ join me on what makes them tick creatively.

Click here to find out more. 

“I want to do Paul Lacoste training with you.”

My then 14-year-old son had seen me working out and wanted to try it, too. I have to admit, I was a little wary. I had done the bootcamp eight times and knew is was physically tough. I didn’t want him to start something, get frustrated and quit. But one thing I know about my kid, when he sets a goal, his laser-like focus kicks in. And I thought it would be fun for us to have something to together. You know, currency for conversation.

So I wrote the check, signed him up and he joined me on the football field.

That was 11-weeks ago. Not only did he get up at 4:15 four days a week to train (how many teenagers do that?), but I’ve seen him get stronger and faster. I discovered he’s remarkably fast. (I mean scary fast). And I’ve watched his confidence soar.

I cherished the rides too and from Madison Central. We’d discuss the workouts (that currency I was talking about) and what ever came to mind. I watched with pride as he would blow past me running (I am heavier, older and have bad knees after all). I’ve watched him set a goal and achieve it. And I watched as he became healthier.

As a dad, I could not be more proud of him. Now, I need to up my training so I can continue to run with him.

Thanks to Paul Lacoste​, Clark Bruce, Ty Trahan, Coach NASCAR and Neil Woodall for helping him change his life.

I look back at the past five years and honestly believe that everything bad that happened was placed in front of my path to make me better. I’ve faced challenges that have made me question my talent, my abilities, my work ethic, my heart and who I am as a person. In that time, I’ve succeeded — and I’ve failed miserably.

It has been a time of reflection. And anger. I’ve struggled with forgiveness. I’ve learned who my true friends are.

I needed the past five years and the challenges it brought. After my cancer, I sought security. Security is a mirage that can be blown away with the flick of a finger. What I should have been focused on is embracing change. There is nothing more dangerous than a comfort zone. That’s where I planted my flag — and I paid steep price for it.

Build your house on a foundation of stone.

We live in tough times. But tough times require tough people. I now know that I need to put my family first. My wife needs me. My kids need me. Everything else will fall in place. I also need tough personal standards. Hard work and talent are great. But without focus, you get nowhere. So I am working hard on strengthening my will — that’s why I get up at 4 a.m. to crush myself on a football field. I’m relighting the pilot light in my heart. That’s what drives the perseverance required to truly to succeed.

I’m a blessed man. A lucky man. I get to do what I love to do. I have my health and my family loves me. Yes, I have struggles. But we all do. The best way to overcome them is to help others.

So I reject fear. It has crippled me too long. I’m so thankful for the blessing of tough times.

I was temporarily stuck in traffic this morning and I decided to look around at the people surrounding me. There was a balding man, probably my age, driving an older four-door sedan. He had a worried look on his face — I began to make up a life for him (I do that a lot.) He probably had a family. Or he could be going through a divorce. He might be worried about his job. Or he could just have to pee because he drank too much coffee. On the other side of me was a younger woman, probably 25 or so. She had a small SUV and was busy tapping on her phone. I could see her smile — whatever it was she was reading brought her a moment of joy.

We pass strangers every day and just let them pass us by. I thought about that as I watched the people in the cars. Every one of those people had a story. Every one of those people has something they are dealing with. It may be a tragedy. A divorce. Sickness. A loss of a job. Drugs may be destroying someone in their family. They may be battling the bottle themselves.

It’s easy to get caught up in your own drama or even some trumped-up controversy on cable news. Lord knows I have gotten worked up over my own stuff recently. But at that moment, when I was sitting in traffic, I thought about my purpose on this earth. And I thought, if I can bring a moment of joy to someone else — someone who is going through their own hell, then maybe a good life is possible after all.

Empathy is hard to find when you’re caught in rush hour traffic. But for a brief moment, I felt it.

On a old porch, a small boy sat with his mother. Lightning flickered on the horizon off toward the Yazoo River. The boy, frightened, asked his mother if they’d be safe from the storm.

“It’s just heat lightning,” she said. Her hand shook as she spoke.

It was the first of many lies she would tell him. A storm was coming — and not just one from the sky. He was six and soon she was gone. His grandmother, a stern woman with short gray hair and a shorter temper, would raise him. He never saw his mother again.

Thirty years later

Lightning flickered across the sky. Watching the clouds, he thought of his mother and wondered what had become of her. He had wondered off and on about her for thirty years — mainly when there were incoming storms. “It’s just heat lightning,” he thought to himself. “Just heat lightning.”

No.

The air was thick. Humidity choked the Mississippi Delta — so thick that even the mosquitoes were swimming. He sat on the tailgate of his pickup truck. Lightning flashed again, illuminating the towering thunderhead. Next to him was a small boy.

“Dad, is that heat lightning?”

He looked down at his six-year-old son and said all he could say, “No. It’s an incoming storm. But I’ll be here to protect you. And I’ll always be here for you.”

In a way, I wish my dream had been to become a doctor or an accountant. Both are noble and require a mind-numbing amount of work to achieve. But I couldn’t do anything that easy. I had to chase after something that has no textbook, no plan, and no roadmap.

That’s why I admire Scott Albert Johnson so much. He’s chasing a crazy dream, too. Monday, I interviewed him on my radio show and my questions kept drifting into the “when did you get this dream of being a musician and how did you achieve it?” Scott went to St. Andrew’s Episcopal School and Harvard. He’s smart enough that he could have done anything he wanted to. But while in college, a muse whispered in his ear — and she handed him a harmonica.

There was one point that he said he was studying for a final exam but kept picking up my harmonica and playing it. That’s when I knew his dream was real.

You know your dream is legit if your heart drags you toward it.

Yet there is a pretty large gap between playing music and being a professional musician. Just like there is a gap between drawing cartoons and being a professional cartoonist. It’s hard to cross that chasm. There is no roadmap. You look for role models and then you get to work.

You have successes.

And you make a lot of mistakes.

A dream can be cruel. Failure humbles you and you get to a point in your life where you start having to make choices. And during your darkest hours, you are tempted to give up. But you don’t.

Scott’s blessed. He has a great day job (at St. Andrew’s where he helps their students chase their dreams) and he has an amazing spouse. Dreams become houses of cards without a solid foundation and the glue of someone who believes in you. Scott has both. So do I.

Scott’s new album is called “Going Somewhere.” I think it’s aptly titled — because he is. He’s has a great mix of talent, hard work, friends and support.

He’s one of my role models. We dreamers need to stick together.