Wanted: 1 Ninja

07/10/2007, 10:00 am -- by Job Tate | 2 Comments

Best of Job, December 2005

I need a ninja to do various ninja-type things, and assist me on several missions.

You don’t need to know all the deadly arts but I would like for you to be able to kill a man with one punch to the neck, efficiently disembowel any living thing, swiftly detach a foe’s tendon using just your thumb and forefinger, make a decent grilled cheese sandwich, and provide your own throwing stars.

You must be a multi-tasking human weapon, though, because I will not be exclusively asking for lethality from you. In any given 40-hour week, I might require my ninja to do some banking for me, maybe some light landscaping.

The right ninja can even be disowned from his master for bringing great dishonor to himself and the entire ninja caste, sentenced (in truth, doomed) to wander the Earth in shame.

I’m cool with that — you got shame, I got game…

Are you my ninja?

This is a full-time position with a fast-moving, rapidly-growing outfit that has tripled its enemy production threefold in the past year alone!

If you want to work in a fun, team-oriented and vengeful environment, then drop off an application and a lock of my hair you took without me knowing today!

Bweinh! Goes to Boot Camp — Week 3

07/5/2007, 5:30 pm -- by Job Tate | No Comments

Article VI: “I will never forget that I am an American, fighting for freedom, responsible for my actions, and dedicated to the principles which made my country free. I will trust in my God and in the United States of America.”
Code of the US Fighting Force

Week three of boot camp is filled with more push-ups, more humiliation, more challenges and less sleep — but it also contains more classes, more structured PT, and more camaraderie. With routine comes the ability to plan how and when to hide in the shadows.

Our classes are surprisingly engaging. From a legal course on the Uniform Code of Military Justice to Basic Seamanship, Navy recruits quickly learn that learning most separates us from the other branches’ basic training. Understanding sonar is not something you pick up off the back of a cereal box, and mastering Aegis missile guidance requires a level of assistance just this side of a sensei. Finally beginning to feel like a sailor is the most satisfying aspect of it all.

With the passing of the third week, the hemorrhaging of recruits has begun to abate, and we’ve found some stasis — although some attitude issues remain, and other recruits are on physical or academic probation. But I’m “Tater” now, the division tutor and smart aleck, son of a preacher man. As I look out for them, I have a sequence of guys constantly looking out for me as well. We fix each other’s bunks, spit-shine each other’s boots, and guard each other from our drill instructors’ wrath. I’ve never liked cliques, but now I love them. A solid clique in boot camp can mean survival. Perhaps even success.

This week we were also given two things: our first decoration, and one phone call. Every male and female in our division was awarded, on behalf of the President, the National Defense Medal, for joining the military during wartime. They gave them to us so soon so we’d have yet another thing to shine, I’m sure. My phone call was sent to Benson, Vermont, and my mother’s voice was one of the sweetest sounds I’ve ever heard. How odd to spend almost a month without hearing your own mother’s voice. I hadn’t been fully aware of how much I’d missed it.

So far I’ve scored perfectly on every test I’ve been given, and this even goes for mail call. I haven’t had to endure one mail call without receiving any mail. Spectacular. Makes this boot camp experience so much easier when you’re reminded daily of the people, by the people, whom you joined up for in the first place.

Evil eBay

07/3/2007, 12:00 pm -- by Job Tate | 1 Comment

From the Best of Job, December 2005.

Me Evil eBay.

Every now and then Good eBay make mistake. Good eBay change mind about bid. It look like Good eBay actually going to win guitar Good eBay bid on! Turn out Good eBay doesn’t want guitar. Oh no! What Good eBay going to do?

You need me take blame? I take blame for Good eBay. Good eBay don’t want to lose perfect feedback rating!

Evil eBay has completely different email address and hometown than Good eBay. But in fact, we both same person. I gladly take blame for Good eBay. I outbid Good eBay to take load off Good eBay’s bidding shoulders. That what Evil eBay do.

Oh no! Argh. Some guy in Oregon sell you book but when it come it not actually book you bid on? And when you wrote him he write back and say “tough break”?

This make Evil eBay turn into Angry eBay. Evil eBay begin long, protracted war on guy in Oregon. Evil eBay employ all tools in proverbial Evil eBay toolbox.

He “bid” $600 on antique hutch. He pretend to be “Wesley Smithson” from Huntington, CT. He never even been to Huntington, but Evil eBay sure it lovely town. Lovely town full of hard-working, honest-bidding people.

When “bid” over, Wesley Smithson disappear like person in scary movie. Like person in Witness Protection Program. Wesley Smithson start new life.

Guy in Oregon very sad. Guy in Oregon must start over. Happy bidding, Hutch Boy.

Evil eBay say “tough break.”

Evil eBay been all over world. Evil eBay even live in Nepal for few days. Evil eBay bid 300 Rupees on espresso machine for Buddhist temple. Evil eBay not saddened by exorbitant shipping and handling charge. Evil eBay simply could not care any less. Evil eBay get tuckered out not caring.

Evil eBay Protestant, not Buddhist, silly goose.

That what Evil eBay do.

Bweinh! Goes To Boot Camp — Week 2

06/28/2007, 5:30 pm -- by Job Tate | 1 Comment

“Man’s hand assaults the flinty rock and lays bare the roots of mountains.”
Job 28:9

The first knot the Navy teaches you to tie is the one in your stomach.

After the first week of boot camp, called “P Days” for processing, the medical facility stamps your file one of two ways: “Fit for full duty” or “Light limited duty.” The first means you can be subjected to any and all forms of physical punishment the drill instructors might dream up. And after learning I have 20/20 vision, AB+ blood, strong hearing and no skin diseases, I was declared to be “fit for full duty.” Thus began the ballet that is staying off the drill instructors’ radar.

I will warn those considering a military move such as mine that drill instructors are easily the sharpest cats in the Armed Forces. You don’t outsmart them, trick them or make them like you. They are complete professionals and viciously good at what they do. But what you can do is outsmart, trick and befriend your fellow recruits — and like sacrificial lambs, use them, and their mistakes, in place of you and yours. More on that next week.

Meanwhile the Navy keeps challenging my division and our ranks are dwindling. Last week an 18-year-old kid here complained that he had no feeling in his hand. He was sent to medical, but on his way he ran away — tried to hop the fence and flee the base. Now he’s in the brig. Another kid a few bunks down from him was medically discharged for a psychological problem: inability to obey authority. One-fourth of the division failed the swim test and three-quarters failed the initial physical fitness assessment (both of which I passed because at 27, I get more time to complete my mile and a half, push-ups, and sit-ups).

As a result, a dark pall settles over the bunkhouse at times, as the sobering realization that people can actually fail sets in. We are all becoming more intimate with our weaknesses, and that, my friends, is scary. Weakness in boot camp isn’t something that can be put off, stuffed into your kitchen junk drawer next to the twist ties. When you have a physical or mental shortcoming here, you’d better scare up a physical or mental tallgoing right quick, or buckle up for the consequences.

They gave us our dog tags this week. I was telling a friend how odd it is to be wearing something so iconic around my neck. I shower, sleep, study and sprint in these, and when they jangle I feel part of what I imagine parenthood must be like. There’s no going back now.

My dog tags say “Tate” and “Protestant” on them. Finishing strong is the only option.

Coming in Week Three: The Sacrificial Lambs

For He’s a jolly good fellow

06/26/2007, 9:00 am -- by Job Tate | 4 Comments

Best of Job, Christmas 2005.

On the anniversary of my Savior’s birth, I’ve decided it is time to return the favor for all His grace and sopping up of my sins and whatnot. This time of year is so manic, as we stress about what to get people and what we might get. But the true meaning of this season is the manifestation of the Messiah — it’s His birthday!

We should give Him a gift, right?

But what do you get for the man who can claim every last sin the human race has ever committed? That’s a tall order!

I’ve thought long and hard about what to get Him. I listened intently to other Christians this year, read their devotionals, publications, and blogs, listened to their prayers, engaged them in discussion of their struggles, and through all this, I noticed one thing I should get the Son of God this year.

A total overhaul of his Faith!

During this “makeover” we’ll cut off a lot of scriptural “fat”. You see, we like the Word of God, but must there be so many words of God!?

The first to go will be “Lean not on your own understanding, and in all your ways acknowledge Him.” It’s cute, but it’s so Little House on the Prairie! C’mon on now, Lord, let’s get into the 20th century!

While my insides broil with wild insecurity, self-doubt and loathing, I am so much better at faking it when I lean on my own understanding. You don’t want your followers running around acting insecure, do You?!?

Of course not!

If I can delicately, artistically and smoothly integrate worldly things into a quasi-Christian walk, I’ll blur the line between faith and opaque hedonism so seamlessly that I’ll put the world on its head faster than You can say “Kanye”!

“I fooled you about the depth of my Christian walk and I give all the glory to God.”

Boom!

Number two — only one way to the Father? Tsk tsk!

Can you imagine if Disney World only had one entrance? They’d hardly get any business at all, and that’s the happiest place on earth! In all seriousness, Christ, this is pretty potent, hard-to-swallow stuff. We need to water it all down (some doubt about scriptural integrity, the true nature of the Biblical narrative, the essence of grace, etc.) to pave the way for a “catch-all” deal, where even the people who patently reject You are still accepted.

We’ll call this “progressive” because it’s kinda sexy that way. I’ll make it seem like I’m compassionate and understanding — even loving — toward people of other religions. I hate to be harshly and crudely judgmental of them, so I’ll carefully renegotiate the fact that I am only loving myself (and my carefully prepared self-image) by not wanting to appear as a closed-minded prude lacking the intellectual integrity to see the peace and beauty of other religions.

I’m a modern man, for Christ’s sake!

And if this convoluted, turncoat love actually winds up damning souls to hell, at least I won’t have to face their aggression, contempt and incredulity here on Earth!

Phew! Dodged that bullet!

(James, you and your five chapters were fun, but we’re all set now, I think. You can probably catch a few gigs at a Greek Orthodox Church or something. Thanks for coming out.

And hey, when you see Peter, could you ask him, hypothetically, if his two books were drowning, which one he would jump in and save? This sheep is plenty full.)

Ha!

And last, I think this whole thing will click much better if I finally acknowledge that it’s all about me. I will pray, incessantly, about tired and petty subjects that concern only me and my endless cycle of relational and financial problems. I will reduce the world to such a small scale that the idea that it will go up in spiritual flames won’t occur to me — unless it happens at work or in my bank account.

I will try to please fickle humans consistently, and You collaterally. (Hopefully.) (Kinda.)
I will worry about tomorrow, and the day after that, and the day after that.
I will be passable at what’s good, while fully immersed in what’s evil.
I will rarely finish what I start if it demands too much of me.

Throughout it all, I will summon the gall to call myself Your follower, and in a sense of obligation, I will say I love You more than anything or anyone else, put You above all else, blah blah blah.

And the world will know us by our love! *wink*

Happy Birthday!! I hope You like it!

Bweinh! Goes to Boot Camp — Week 1

06/23/2007, 10:00 am -- by Job Tate | 5 Comments

“The end of a matter is more important than its beginning,
and patience is better than pride.”
Ecclesiastes 7:8

We come from all over, quite literally: San Diego, Burma, Texas, Nigeria, the Carolinas, Arizona, the Philippines, and Vermont. Congregated in O’Hare International Airport’s USO, we had our last civilian meal and watched The Bourne Identity on DVD. The thick apprehension in the room was cut only by forced bravado, nervous laughter and naivete.

We were embarking on a 36-hour sleepless endeavor of fittings and proddings, extreme dental cleanings, shots in every prone piece of skin, and learning the distinct differences between our drill instructors’ breaths. The old lady at the USO smiled knowingly when she thrust a pillow under my arm, advising me to secure some shut-eye. But she knew, just like me, such an attempt would be futile.

I found some guys from Maine and we stuck together for a few hours before being separated by “The Grinder,” where we were sorted into divisions and given our seabag and first uniform — a pair of Navy sweats and New Balance tennis shoes. A harbinger of the coming week’s activity.

Boot camp is very real. I think the most accurate description is that it’s akin to holding your hand in an open gator’s mouth ALL DAY, just waiting for it to snap shut. Watching grown men cry and sweat in salty unison will sober you up quickly, and will make you work furiously to ensure you don’t join their ranks. Our drill instructors do not attempt to be our leaders; they work, rather, to foster mutiny. We team up against the common enemy, and with every passing day, our barracks turns more and more into the Bounty.

The first week of Navy boot camp is one of mass uncertainty, deep, deep exhaustion, and intense aggravation. They reduce you to infants, telling you when to eat, sleep, shower and use the bathroom. I was surprised (and admittedly frightened) by how many recruits dropped out that first week. Asthma attacks, torn tendons, failed drug tests and just good old-fashioned quitting. You learn to make friendships sparingly. Those friends may not be there when you wake up.

Up to this point my name and clean tongue have been the only real witness of Christ I’ve been able to exude — those and my prayers at meal times, but I’ve found they’re best for ministering to my own soul, rather than my fellow recruits. As I said, boot camp is very real, and it contains all of the imagined horrors. But I do have a great peace knowing that I serve, first, the armor of God before the uniform of a United States sailor.

Coming in Week Two: Intense Training

88 Keys

06/19/2007, 10:45 am -- by Job Tate | No Comments

From the Best of Job, November 2005.

I destroyed a piano today.

No, seriously, destroyed it — in every way you can imagine.

I got a phone call from my old boss this morning, asking if I was free today to do some work up in Bridgeport. Since almost my entire CD collection was straight-up stolen from my Jeep and I want to replace a few choice discs, I decided to devote the day’s manual labor efforts toward rebuilding my music collection.

Ironic that this involved destroying a piano.

It was actually pretty educational. Mr. Rogers could’ve done America’s youth a great service by doing a segment where he and Mr. McFeely went postal on a grand piano. I finally learned, in sweaty and splintered detail, how those behemoths make the sound they do.

The dude who needed the piano detroyed, moved and placed in a dumpster was named Claus. He came from Sweden, and looking every bit the part of Santa, he gave me (without wrapping) a pick axe, crowbar, hammer and chisel.

English is running a little late in explaining the ineffable pleasure of sending the blunt end of a pick axe into the top of a piano. The reverberation sends shock waves through the axe handle, into your arm and through your spine, while your feet tingle from the overwhelming sensation.

I totally let go. White and black keys flew up around me as I bit my lip and brought the grand to its knees. The back end, composed of the brass fittings and tightly-wound string, fell to the ground with a loud blast of both wood and tone.

Do re mi fa so la ti doooooooooooooo

Blow after blow rained down as old wooden parts, carefully and lovingly glued together by a man long dead, met the sheer force of this millennium’s pick axe. Sentimental feelings asked to come to the surface, but I told them to return a little closer to Christmas.

Today was my day. My day to do something most people can only dream about.

I could go on and on. Destroying that piano will be remembered as the greatest moment of my year. It was indescribable. It was the musical giving tree — she gave up her musical ghost so I could re-purchase The Low Millions album.

Perfectly indescribable…

Ah, beep beep, yeah

06/12/2007, 2:30 pm -- by Job Tate | No Comments

From the Best of Job, November 2005.

“Job, if girls were cars, what kind of car would you want to date?”

‘Dude, totally a Honda CR-V.”

“Honda CR-V?? Are you crazy? You wouldn’t want to date a Lexus or a Benz?”

“Lexus or a Benz? No way. You think I want to always be stressing about whether someone’s going to steal her? And goodness, no dirt roads for that chick, and you always have to park far away from other cars so she won’t get any dents… Plus you know her engine is gonna start groaning if you don’t get her the super premium gas every time.”

“Well…that’s a good point… But, dude, a Honda CR-V?”

“Sure. It’s decent looking, has pep, and you know it’ll always turn over, no matter how cold it gets. If the road gets bumpy, you know she’ll persevere and kick up some mud if she has to. She can tow, ford streams, and carry a few kids. All that, plus it’s Japanese. I’ve always dug exotic.”

“Okay, okay. But if you want this rugged chick hauling through the woods and jumpin’ stumps, why not just date a Jeep Wrangler?”

“No way! A Wrangler doesn’t shave her legs.”

All-Time Fantasy One-Liners

06/12/2007, 10:00 am -- by Job Tate | 4 Comments

From the Best of Job, October 2005.

These are a few things I would love to say to people in certain social situations . . . but never will.

To my waitress:
“The size and/or existence of your tip will be based entirely on this glass, and the liquid that is either kept in it or sorely lacking.”

To super-cute co-pilot Glory Waischekowski:
“That’s quite a last name you’ve got there — I can fix that for you.”*

To anyone slumped over a convenience store counter going to town with a dime on scratch-off tickets:
“You’re an idiot.”

To that dude at the coffee exchange who likes to discuss politics with me:
“You’ve been speaking for five straight minutes, pausing only briefly to draw life-sustaining oxygen into your lungs, but during those five minutes I’ve mentally balanced my checkbook, written a letter to a friend, proved the existence of God, and thought of one hundred ways I could drive your VPR-stickered Outback off the road so I’ll never have to endure this again.”

To Continental employee Robin in Albany:
“Good morning, Robin! Could you please hand the phone to someone who actually knows what they’re doing? That’d be great.”

To Gwen Stefani:
“Hello.”

To Indian telemarketers:
“Yes, I’d like to order a large pepperoni with mushrooms and green peppers. Hmm? No. Luh-arge. Mmm-hmm. Thanks. 30 minutes or less, or it’s free, right? Awesome. Thanks!!!! Bye!!!”

To frequent flyer Jean:
“Oh, hi, Jean. Do you think I’ll need 400 or 600 milligrams of ibuprofen to beat back the relentless headache you’re about to give me?”

* — not a fantasy any longer!

Punching Up the Resume

06/5/2007, 10:00 am -- by Job Tate | No Comments

From the Best of Job, originally published in September 2005.

Trooper Perkins and I have discussed in detail some romantic resume boosters that no one thinks about, but would be incredibly cash. These aren’t necessarily the type of women you’d want to marry, or the type to take home to Mother; just the kind of thing that would enliven dinner-table conversation and make you seem like a well-rounded romancer.

These are the top 5.

1. Saudi Arabian Princess Saudi
European monarchies are so worn-out, not to mention inbred. Saying “I dated a Saudi princess for a while,” carries with it all sorts of cool baggage. Their exotic quotient could knock an English duchess cold, you’d have a file at the FBI (but for love!), you’d probably have some cool gifts to sell on eBay, and your breakup story could be the best in the hemisphere — totally unembellished.

“Yeah, dude. She was like, ‘Worship my god and move to the motherland, and you’ll live in unspeakable luxury and extravagance, your every need and desire met before you can even conjure them up!’ And I was like, ‘Step off, sugar! These colors don’t run.'”

You could totally dedicate that break-up to the troops.

carnie 2. Carnie
This carries some qualifiers. The girl at the Tilt-a-Whirl ain’t gonna hack it, homes. It has to be a tightrope walker or something like that. She needs to be incredibly talented, athletic, and hot, but still have that thick insecurity that comes from being, well, a carnie, rather than in the Olympics. You’d have a blurry 7-day romance before she took off for the next town, an affair that would taste like cotton candy and be lit by neon. Lions roaring, clowns juggling, teddy bears being won, fried dough, cool evening air, midgets — it’d have fantastic tales.

But don’t hurt her, dude. Be tender. Tell her it’ll only be 349 days till you’ll be at the top of the Ferris wheel again. It’s probably a rough life for her out there.

Free admission?

gypsy 3. Real-live hocus-pocus Gypsy
Tread lightly, friend. Dangerous ground. Meeting one and winning her heart would be laborious, I’m sure, which is what makes her so valuable to the resume, but it’s important that SHE breaks up with YOU, and that you learn a few of her tricks. Think about it — if you’re ever able to open a can of pickles when someone else failed, you can say, “Sabrina taught me how to do that,” while looking away wistfully.

Also, concentrate on learning some magic. Act like a part of your soul still belongs to her. Act like you’re still her possession. Inexplicably scratch at the floor or something sometimes. Make your woman feel she must drive the gypsy from you, while she’s constantly reminded that, dang, you must be something if a gypsy dated you.

But it’s important that she dumps you — otherwise people may doubt your claim is genuine.

4. Girl from Nebraska
Having dated a girl from Nebraska is like having eggs and flour. When you need to cook something up, the basics need to be handy.

5. Journalist
While you risk having everything over-analyzed and your past meticulously researched, the appeal of having a journalist on your list is undeniable. The conversation would be stimulating, the memories vivid, and the love-letters long and grammatically sound.

Many are tempted to go with a nurse instead, and they are kin, but a nurse lacks the careful resume planning of a newspaper writer. A journalist doesn’t make as much as a nurse, so your masculinity will emerge intact, and she never draws or cleans up blood.

Plus, if you have an arch-nemesis, a young Lois Lane could be very valuable in having him being “lambasted in the press.”

Finding My Peace…

05/31/2007, 2:00 pm -- by Job Tate | 2 Comments

From the Best of Job, originally published in September 2005.

Of deserts dry / Of cool green valleys
Gold and silver veins / Of the shining cities
In this heartland

Jeep I took this photo in the winter of 2003, and I took it for a volley of reasons.

It was the first time I ever relented and bought an ice scraper (visible on the hood of the vehicle). For the longest time I viewed those who owned ice scrapers as faint of heart. As flatlanders.

Second, it was -20 degrees.

Third, I thought gas prices were insanely high and should be documented for posterity.

Ultimately it was a bad morning, and I felt the need to record it to make a rosier time later on seem that much more gilded.

But of course its purpose now is to emphasize how naive I was about gas prices, naive to not realize we had it so good. I thought the apocalypse was nigh because gas dared to go over a buck-fitty. Gas prices are insane, agreed. But I found my peace recently and I wanted to share it with you.

I was shopping at Hannaford the other day and purchased a gallon of Snapple for $3.59.

A gallon of gas costs on average (for me) $3.29. For this gallon of gas to get into my Jeep’s belly, it must first be pumped out of the desert (a full 20,000 miles from me), then be piped for hundreds of miles to a port, where it’s loaded onto a tanker and shipped around the horn of Africa and across the mighty Atlantic to New Jersey. At this juncture it is then refined — not a short or safe process — into usable gasoline. Once cooled, it can be loaded onto trucks and delivered to fuel companies with names we know and trust like Mobil, BP and Exxon, then pumped again into tanks below the ground where it waits to be pumped into our various vehicles.

A series of amazing events, from Ahmed in the deserts of the Rub Al Qali to Tonya at the Jiffy Mart, and it costs me the grand total of $3.29 per gallon to power a six-cylinder Detroit engine over hill and dale for almost 20 miles.

Snapple? Some chick in Atlanta scooped some sugar into a vat and sprayed the hose over it for a few minutes.

I found my peace.

I bought the gas and the Snapple.

From the “Real Conversations I Have Had” Archive

05/22/2007, 2:00 pm -- by Job Tate | No Comments

“Don’t misunderstand me, they’re both definitely dogs. It’s just that Pluto is more of a dog…”

“WHAT?? They’re both equally canine! How can you say that one is more dog than the other?”

“Well Goofy is just…less…of a dog. He’s kinda humanoid. He has human emotions. Drive and ambition. He’s not as, as, as dogish.”

“You kidding me?! You’re just being uppity. You’re saying that because Pluto is owned by a mouse, it makes him more of a dog…”

“See there? You just proved my point, son. He is owned. That makes him all dog. No one has to let Goofy out. No one has to roll up a newspaper and paddle him when he drags his rear along the carpet. Don’t roll your eyes at me! Goofy pees standing up! When you ask Goofy to speak he doesn’t bark twice and expect a biscuit; Goofy clears his throat and gives nothing short of a dissertation on any range of subjects!! He – is – less – of – a – dog!”

“NO!! A dingo is less of a dog than a cocker spaniel, granted. But it’s possible Goofy and Pluto are the same species! They could even have the same floppy-eared mother!!! Goofy has just climbed the social ladder with greater speed and efficiency than Pluto. Goofy has been a ‘good boy.’ What I think you fail to see here is that Goofy isn’t less than a dog…he has just also become more. He has evolved into something that is, at the same time, all dog and mostly man.”

“No, my friend. He may not be a planet anymore, but Pluto is all dog.”

Bweinh! Goes to Boot Camp

05/19/2007, 7:30 pm -- by Job Tate | 6 Comments

Navy For the months of June and July, Bweinh.com will be running a live 9-part series on life in Navy Boot Camp. These essays will be written from the US Navy’s Recruit Training Command as training progresses, and will focus on the practical and trivial aspects, while also highlighting the trials and joys of being salt and light — a Christian serving in our nation’s military.

So be sure to tune in and enjoy my struggles with me!

My Worst Teacher

05/15/2007, 2:45 pm -- by Job Tate | 1 Comment

Whether holding my hand over the fire pit of his analogies or examining broken twigs on the trail of his meandering reasons, never track his logic could I.

I always felt like I was a few days behind him, pressing through the dark forest of my instruction — trusting, hoping that his point lay just ahead, around the bend. I never enjoyed the chase and it’s a thin line between being challenged and harassed. I came to a particular point in my trek when I determined that when a point is that well-hidden and obscure… when it requires that much angst to merely understand it… only a fool spends his time rotting in the woods trying to catch it. The best in life is easily understood and truth despises fog.

My worst teacher.

A man who bristled at the notion that you might think differently than him, he sent you his own copious notes before class and asked that you not take any others. They distracted him. If a question endeavored to stampede the discussion away from his notes, the energy he’d employ to corral us back into line was almost pornographic. Bullying, effacing and no-kid-gloves sophistry were never below him. Sadly, these tactics were never below me either, and we butted heads to such a degree that he eventually asked me to drop the class. Success in his class was conformity to his thinking, a convincing imitation of it, or the old B- silence — none of which seemed a workable solution to me. My parents had taught me to speak my mind and to be aware and wary of socialist thinking. To him I was ruined.

While he had earned tenure, a doctorate in sociology, and ample respect from his colleagues, in turn he asked his students to simply piggyback on his experiences, judgment and morality. To just trust him. Our own conclusions were not encouraged, but headed-off.

But perhaps in being the worst teacher of my life, he is slowly morphing more readily into the best. He is the one who taught me that when it comes to faith, love and logic, I will only embrace them when I am tracking the truth — not, alone, someone else’s version of it.

I love you, Mom

05/8/2007, 1:30 pm -- by Job Tate | 4 Comments

I was a T-ball kid. Weren’t most of us?

But I was different, see? I was stoic enough to play third, I never had a temper tantrum, I addressed coach as “sir,” and me? Well, my glove was autographed by Cal Ripken.

I was never outstanding, but I was solid. I fielded cleanly and had ample oomph to get the ball to first in time, consistently, for an out. I batted well too; always a little bigger than kids my age, I’d make those looping hits to center and had an affinity for doubles.

T-Ball was a Saturday thing, a day when my older siblings rebelled against being dragged anywhere, leaving my dad to tend them while Mom brought me to the games. She’d dutifully (and enduringly) watch. While she knew little about the game, she was wise enough to know when I’d done something good and made sure, dang it, that her voice rose above anyone else’s so I could hear her as I reached second or attempted nonchalance after throwing someone out at first.

But we were just children, and as such, prone to childish fits of rage or shame. The slightest injury resulted in a deluge of tears. Mothers descending onto the diamond to collect a sobbing or fuming kid was as common as the first pitch.

When we played the T-ball team from hell, I figured the only injury I would receive would be to my pride. These kids were huge Virginians, bruising, fast, strong and overwhelming. When they didn’t hit a home run, they’d make anyone on the base paths a victim. They murdered us. Mothers entered the field more often than the coach. A kid shoved into the dirt, knee bleeding. Another kid threw a punch. It was awful. My team had been reduced to infants, crying for their mother’s arms — a score much more telling than the one on the Pepsi grandstand.

When their captain came to bat near the end of the game, I relaxed some. He’d been going deep right all game and I had long ago entered McDonald’s mode when he altered his swing a little and sent that ball, blistering, straight down the left field line and directly into my brown eye.

I crumpled like a sack of potatoes. I was stunned more at first — not yet realizing that it hurt, and a lot. I sprung to my feet quickly, my face beginning its magma flow of embarrassment. Wait. Wait for it….

Tears.

Pain, shock, such thorough shame — and I wept. I crossed my arms, planted my feet in my played position and cried bitterly, angrily towards the ground. The gasps from the audience expired, the murmurings peppered off and I waited for my mother to come and get me. Take me to the cooler, apply some ice, and let me cry my hot tears into her blouse. But time seemed to be going by so slowly, everyone staring at me — and then I heard steps drawing near.

“You okay, son?”

It was the umpire, his face painted with concern. I never paused.

“Yes, sir.” But he waited; I had been drilled. I held out my glove and pounded it twice, in practiced perfection, for good measure. He stood in front of the bleachers, and over his shoulder I could see my mom. She was pale, she had moved from her seat . . . but then had reseated herself. She had decided, in her motherly wisdom, not to come and get me.

“You sure?,” the ump asked softly, just between us.

“Yes, sir,” I responded, tears in full retreat. And satisfied, he walked back to home plate, leaving me unmoved from my position.

That was the first time I ever had a crowd of people clap for me. And Mom made sure, dang it, that her claps were heard above everyone else’s.

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