Marshall Ramsey

A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I played high school football. It was an education in itself and has given me lots of skills — like being able to tell when it is going to rain. But it also taught me the value of teamwork, gave me the gift of resilience and showed me that even when you are down, you don’t quit until the clock says 0:00. Tonight I’ll be the speaker at Madison Central High School’s Playbook and Pearls event. I have about 15 minutes or so to talk — I need to make every second count.

Like my old high school coach (Coach John Paty) always used to tell us, “I need to get my mind right.”

So what will I say? Not sure yet. But I do know I’ll remind the parents how damn important they are to the success of their kids. Sure, I’ll be preaching to the choir. But the choir needs to know how important they are to the congregation’s spiritual well being!

For every football player, cheerleader, dance-team member, manager, band member and any other student out on the field on a Friday night, there is someone who loved them enough to get them there. Sit in the stands and you can feel the pride wash over you like a wave. That pride is the fuel that takes a kid to practice everyday, carts a student to the doctor when a bone needs to be x-rayed, propels a hand when writing a check or inspires a shift in the concession stand.

I wrote yesterday that I now understand why my dad loved watching me play football so much. It wasn’t just his love of the game. It was his love of me. I watch my kids passionately perform and my heart bursts out of my chest (and I don’t breath for 15-20 minutes, either!)

Soon, the lights will blaze brightly on Friday night. I hope parents remember how important they are in making that happen.

Maybe I’ll say this. I dunno. Whatever, I look forward to evening. And I won’t quit until the clock says 0:00.

Some of my earliest memories were going to the old ATL airport and waiting for dad to fly in from a business trip. My mother would take me up to the observation area and I’d watch the parade of planes take off and land. I remember the first time the “new” ATL airport opened. We rode the underground trains to go to and from our flights — it was like Disney World without the Mouse. Recently I flew through Hartsfield-Jackson and remembered those trips as I was running like a bat out of C-Concourse so I could make my flight. Atlanta is no longer where I live and the airport is no longer my final destination. Home is another flight away.

As I waited for the tiny plane to Jackson to board, I stood at the end of the concourse watching the world’s busiest airport in action (there wasn’t a ground stop because of thunderstorms — I was grateful). Planes clawed up into the air like overweight pelicans while others glided gently back to earth like hungry gulls. The concourse looked like someone had kicked over a human ant nest. Soldiers traveled to far off destinations. Parents drug their protesting kids along. People quickly drug their suitcases behind while beeping carts parted the mass of humanity like Moses. Yes, it was chaotic — but there was a visual poetry behind it all. Everything worked because of its purpose. It wasn’t confusion for confusion sake.

I looked out the window at the control tower. Its domain is the five runways before it. Like a conductor at frenetic symphony, they kept things in order. If they didn’t — well, there’d be twisted wreckage watered by tears.

As I was sitting there eating my grossly over-priced airport burrito, I thought about what a great metaphor the ATL airport is for life. It’s what makes your destination and plans possible. It’s chaos, but it works because of purpose. There is a healthy dose of faith and action. Planning behind the scenes makes everything work. Well, planning plus execution. I’m sitting here this morning, thinking about where I want to go in the next few years. Like the big screens on the wall, I’m thinking about my arrivals and my departures.

Like airplanes, dreams require a lot of work to take flight.

They say you have to go through Hartsfield-Jackson International Airport to get to heaven or hell. There’s probably more truth to that old joke than we all know.

A marriage is like a book. Some end happily. Others end only a few pages in. Its contents are written by two people who change throughout the story. Sometimes they end up on the same page — other times, well, that’s when stuff gets divided and tears flow. People from the outside try to tell the story for the writers, but honestly, they are the only two people who can tell it. The setting sometimes changes over time. The plot is linear and ever-changing. It’s illustrated with joy, tears, laugher and occasional anger.

Amy and I are now 24 chapters into our book. There have been great moments and not-so-great moments. We’ve tested “for better or worse,” several times. I know there have been days when she has been sick of me. And there have been days when I’ve been smart enough to keep my mouth shut (and other days when my mouth has been my worst enemy.) We started as the two main characters. Now we are the supporting cast to three new characters. They are currently the stars of our story.

I’ll never review another person’s story critically — I know how hard it is to write. Yet I will tell everyone who’ll listen that I’ve been lucky. I picked a great co-author. She, thankfully, has agreed to continue writing the remaining chapters with me.

How will it end? I don’t know. But what I do know is that I hope the last chapter ends with these six words: “And they lived happily ever after.”

There were no bars on my phone and the Avett Brothers were blaring from my SUV’s speakers. The rural Mississippi countryside whisked by me, blurring the various shades of green. God prefers a two lane road. The Devil prefers a two-lane road with traffic. Today was heaven-sent. It was just me and the road with no tractors or log trucks in sight. My foot pressed down on the accelerator; my speedometer teased the speed limit sign that I had just passed.

I was on my secret shortcut to the Neshoba County Fair. The line leaving Leake County welcomed me to Neshoba with orange dirt. Neshoba is a county that has produced some of Mississippi’s most frightening history. It also is the home of some of the nicest people I know. In the past 20 years, I’ve discovered this one simple truth –nothing is ever simple in Mississippi. As I turned right down another country road; I heading toward the dust-covered parking lot. It would be the 20th year of political speeches I’ve covered. I knew the drill: I’d catch up on political gossip and see people I haven’t seen in 365 years.

Like the blurred countryside, time has passed quickly.

That same rapidly moving time didn’t allow me to spend my normal amount of time this year. But I caught up with Dan, my editor and friend from Conroe, Texas days. I visited with Kate, who’s a master lemon cake maker and the daughter of one of the finest men I know. Billy and Martha welcomed me into their cabin once again. I listened to the speeches, had a few pictures taken with fans and then headed back home.

The Avett Brothers were blaring once again as I left the Fair behind in a cloud of red dust. The song ‘The Once and Future Carpenter’ sonically wrapped itself around me.

I smiled as these lyrics played:

Forever I will move like the world that turns beneath me, And when I lose my direction I’ll look up to the sky.
And when the black dress drags upon the ground, I’ll be ready to surrender, and remember
We’re all in this together.
If I live the life I’m given, I won’t be scared to die.

Amen.

This is the crap I thought about while running this morning:

Love really isn’t like money. When you invest money, you expect a return. And when you give away money, you have less of it. When you invest your heart, you should expect nothing in return. And when you give it away, it does nothing but grow.

(As my right leg and back hurt) I really need to stretch more.

The biggest lie people tell is “I’m fine.”

This shirt really needs to be burned. It stinks.

People are so afraid right now.

That pothole was the size of a bus.

What am I going to draw about today?

Have I only gone a mile? Damn.

We live our lives one feeling to the next. There’s nothing logical about our brains.

This humidity is like a wet wool blanket.

People are all self-medicating one way or another. Some drink. Some shop. Some eat chocolate. We’re all trying to fill a God-shaped hole in one form or fashion.

I’m glad it is dark. I bet I look really stupid.

What can I do to be a better husband and father?

I really like this song.

Almost done with the run.

(As I gave at a couple of stars through the clouds). We really are insignificant in the scheme of things.

It’s dark. I hope the alligator isn’t on the bank again.

I’m grateful for another day.

I’m getting too old for this $%^#.

My 5th-grade Target teacher (what they called the gifted program back in the day) told us that experiments allow us to simulate conditions in the real world in a controlled environment. For some reason, that popped into my head this morning as I worked out. I think it’s because my one-hour bootcamp is my daily experiment for daily life. It allows me to test myself and my philosophies. It gives a morning “gut check” to see what I’m made of and how much will I possess. Some days, the results aren’t that great. But I can always come back the next day and try something different. I can get stronger both mentally AND physically.

Here are a five things I’ve learned from my morning experiment that help me get through the tough times:

1. Stay in the moment. When you going through a particularly rough exercise, you don’t look down the field at another station. You don’t think about the last one. You focus on what you are doing at that particular second and try to do the very best you can. When your mind wanders (What will I eat today? Why is my wife mad at me? Will I make deadline today? I about puked at that last station!) you lose focus and make mistakes. The past doesn’t matter. The future doesn’t matter. You focus on the now.

2. Break every exercise into small sections. That makes it easier to survive when it gets really tough. Think, “I can do this for another minute,” instead of “I can’t do this for another hour.” I’ve survived many of crappy days that way. The other day, I was about to pass out while pushing tackling dummies down the football field. I kept telling myself “I can make if five more yards.” I was right. If I had said, ” I can’t do this,” I’d have been right too.

3. Everyone around you is in pain too. Everyone around you is going through something. Focus on helping them and it will help you get through your pain, too.

4. Don’t allow mistakes to rattle you. I used to be the king of allowing screw-ups to yank my chain. Now, I breathe deeply, listen to the coach (if I am being called out) and try to do better. You just keep moving past the error — not reliving it.

5. How to work through fatigue. I used to be a bear when I got tired. Now I am tired most all the time — I don’t have the option of being a bear anymore. By the end of 12 weeks of grinding it at 5 a.m., your body and mind are very exhausted. But you learn you can push past both pain and fatigue. My back hurts today. There were a couple of times I thought, “I can sneak out and head home early.” But then I thought, “I made it this far, I can make it 20 more minutes.” And I did.

There are more, of course, but those are the ones that popped into my head this morning.

How has exercise helped you?