Marshall Ramsey

Jack Rigby stood over his precious daughter’s bed.  The weight of the world was on his sizable shoulders. As he watched his little brown-headed girl’s stomach rise and fall with her breath, she slept peacefully in a unpeaceful world.  Jack had grown up during the Great Depression. He had worked odd jobs and scratched and clawed to keep his young family together. His father had committed suicide in 1929. He and his mother had kept his brother and sister together in their house.  Then Jack married Susanne. A couple of years later, the stork made a surprise appearance and brought them another mouth to feed. Jack rubbed his temples. Earlier in the day the radio blared the shattering news.  The Japanese had attacked Pearl Harbor. Hitler was on the march in Europe.  Within two years, Jack would be on a Pacific Island no one had heard of.  Within four, he would have left his right leg on Okinawa.

The world had gone mad. How could he bring a child into this world?

The little girl grew up, married and had a child of her own.  Jackie Harris stood over her little boy’s bed and watched as he peacefully slept.  It was 1973 and the world was in chaos.  Vietnam had torn the country apart. OPEC was strangling America with an oil embargo and the economy was suffering because of it.  Within a years, the President would resign, inflation would begin to run rampant and interest rates would shoot through the roof because of it. And then there were the Soviets. She thought about the constant fear of nuclear annihilation. She remembered that frightening time during the Cuban Missile Crisis.  The world was on the brink.  She pulled the cover over her son James and kissed him on the forehead.

The world had gone mad. How could she bring a child into this world?

James grew up and like his mother married and had a child of his own.  His little boy slept peacefully in his bed like he had so many years ago.  He was six and the nation had just gone through the most serious economic crisis since the Great Depression.  James rubbed his temples and thought of all that was wrong with the world. The economy, the national debt and gridlock in Washington. He thought about how polarized the country was.  And then he thought of that dark day in 2011 when terrorism bit like a venomous snake. He pulled the cover over little Jack and kissed him on the forehead.

The world had gone mad. How could he bring a child into this world?

He paused, looked at his son Jack and thought, “Because without the love of a child, fear would win and the world would cease to go on. That’s why I brought a child into this world.”  He turned off the light and went on living just like his grandfather and mother had before him.

I loved taking my oldest sons to school. I used to take them every morning. It was pure joy to see their little faces grow up in my rear view mirror —  it was five minutes of quality Dad/Son time.  Along the way, I became a connoisseur of the crushing chaos of carpool.  There’s nothing quite like that community bonding experience of trying to cram 400 cars through a single lane while dropping off small children all within a 15-minute window.  A hot dog eating contest is more relaxed. Atlanta rush hour is less insane.  I’m convinced the F-word (not Fudge) was invented in carpool by a mom in a Tahoe who was cut off by another mom  who was texting while driving her Black Suburban.  It’s just a hunch.

I remember the car-pool process well.  I’d turn left onto the road were my sons’ schools were. Then I’d come up to the crossing guard who looked like Santa (I always thought it would be fun to have a guy dressed up like the Devil. If you’re entering Carpool Hell, why not?).  Then I’d enter the loop of doom — the road that took me past both schools so I could drop my precious cargo off.  Reentering from space was less stressful.  And less heated.

There would be cars cutting and dodging.  Delicate ears would be tarnished by words that would make salty Marines blush. When I finally got to a school, a nice teacher or teacher’s aide would open the door and I’d eject a son and his 500 lb. backpack (I think my son carries Jimmy Hoffa to school every day) out the door. I’m sure in a perfect carpool world, I wouldn’t have stopped. But my son can’t quite run 20 mph — so I did use the brakes.  It’s a father’s love.

My carpool days are past me now.  My wife, who teaches at my youngest son’s school, takes the two younger boys to their respective places of learning.  My oldest son rides big yellow and will be driving  soon (my car insurance just went up from me merely writing that.)  I am now officially retired.

I miss seeing their faces in my mirror. I miss the daily adrenaline rush of battling the mom-driven SUVs. I miss a part of my life I’ll never get back.

Time allows you to forget most pain. Even the pain of carpool.

As a long-suffering University of Tennessee football fan (Thanks Lane Kiffin for the evilness and salt you plowed into the sacred checkerboard turf), I’ve endured some cringe-worthy seasons.  Don’t get me wrong, I love my Vols.  I spent too much money there (and had too good of a time in college) to ever give up on them. So I watch the games loyally.  My blood does run Orange.

Last season was tough on many levels. It was the swan-song season of Derek Dooley, the orange-pant wearing son of the Georgia coaching legend.  Everything that could go wrong did.  I’m surprised that locusts didn’t swarm Neyland Stadium and carry off the Pride of the Southland Band and Smokey.  But one thing I did notice is that the Vols would have a great first half and then get their butts handed to them in the second.

Part of that, obviously, is depth of talent. You play a team like Alabama (who, to quote Dooley, doesn’t recruit, they draft), that is to be expected.  They can hit you with fresh talent all game long. But on other occasions, I noticed something else happening.  The other team adjusted at halftime. And Tennessee didn’t.

Life is about halftime adjustments.

I watched a good man’s life crumple because his airline went out of business due to a greedy owner. I saw another man slip into alcoholism because he was unjustly fired.  I saw people in the newspaper business fall apart because they were cast aside during layoffs.  All good people who had strong first halves but couldn’t make the halftime adjustment after circumstances outside of their control destroyed everything.

My wife has worried about me.  I’m in halftime and I’m having to make adjustments. She doesn’t want me to fall apart because external circumstances that have thrashed my childhood dream.  The industry I love is going through major changes. Some good. Some not-so-good.

But she doesn’t need to worry.  I’m ready for a strong second half.  I have the depth, talent and will. I have an amazing family that motivates me to get back out on the field and fight to win. I’m redoing my game plan for the second half. You’ll continue to see my cartoons. But you’ll see much, much more.

It’s the second half. It’s time to win the game.