Optimism in a dangerous and uncertain time

As the sun set in a cloudless western sky, I sat on my back patio late this afternoon, smoked a cigar and watched a flock of ducks circle over the small pond that borders our neighborhood and a small pocket park that is but a short hike down the hill from Gunnels Manse.

The ducks, for reasons known only to them, winter each year in the pond, and early each evening they take wing before settling down for the night.

I counted 14 today. There may be more, but I’ve never bothered to take an exact count. The number isn’t really important. It’s their circuits around Pickering Park that bring each day in Trail Lake Estates to a calm and peaceful close. I have come to consider them part of the family.

Sometimes they travel in pairs, sometimes in groups of four or six. Then the entire flock will flap in large, swooping circuits that take them briefly out of sight. But they always reappear, as regular as the ticks on a clock.

 I watch them and feel the stresses of the day slowly, steadily dissolve.

It has been an especially good holiday for the Gunnels family. My kids surprised me yesterday and made brief appearances. I hadn’t expected to see them on Christmas Day, but they made a special effort to come by, probably at the gentle urging of my wife, who knows what a sentimental mush I am at heart.

I don’t know what the future holds for all of us. These are, after all, dangerous and uncertain times. But as I sat today and watched our ducks make their graceful evening transits overhead, I was filled with an optimism that everything is going to turn out all right.

Regional semi-final dogfight: Southlake Carroll 30, Arlington Martin 26

 

Quinn Ewers in action against the Warriors

He’s back!

(Information has been added to this account that wasn't available when it originally was posted.)

The secrecy surrounding the health and playing status of Quinn Ewers, the most coveted high school junior quarterback in the nation, was lifted yesterday when the youngster led the Southlake Carroll Dragons onto the field at Globe Life Park in Arlington.

Ewers had been out since Oct. 30 when he suffered a sports hernia injury during the Keller game. Only people within the program were aware that he underwent surgery to repair the damage. The nuclear launch codes were better known than his condition and the date at which he might return.

But return he did and what a homecoming. His performance last night against the potent Arlington Martin Warriors helped propel the Dragons into the Regional Final Round of the playoffs for the fourth straight year. It’s the eighth time in the last decade they have reached the fourth round, a fact supplied by The Dallas Morning News’ Joseph Hoyt in his excellent game story.

       Admittedly, Ewers exhibited a few flecks of rust and a certain fragility against the Warriors. After all, a 55 percent pass completion rate is a little low for the five-star phenom. And there was that awkward slide on one of the few attempts he made to run. That said, Ewers’ 20 of 36 for 251 yards and three touchdowns demonstrated he’s ready to pick up where he left off two months ago.

Pick your poison

And just in time, too. The Dragon 30-26 victory over the Warriors means they face the winner of today’s match between the Allen Eagles and the Euless Trinity Trojans. My money is on the Eagles in that one, but the Trojans are having a stellar year, so who knows? For Carroll, it’s pick your poison.

After all, nothing is easy in the fourth round. Although, frankly, it wasn’t exactly a snap to survive yesterday’s regional semi-finals yesterday.

Landon Samson evades a Warrior.

Ewers started hot last night, completing 6 of his first 8 passes. He threw a 26-yard TD pass to Landon Samson (10 catches for 169 yards, 2 TDs) and followed it later with a 8-yard toss to Brady Boyd (9-78, 1 TD), providing the Dragons a thin first-quarter cushion that would prove necessary.

Because despite Ewers’ heroics, the Dragons had their hands full with the Warriors, whose powerful running game, led by RB Javian Toviano (12 carries for 107 yards and 1 TD), damned near carried the day.

Last moment

The Carroll win wasn’t secure until the last 10 seconds of the game. That’s when Warrior quarterback Zach Mundell, facing a desperate 4^th and 7 at the Dragon 20, lofted a pass to a receiver at the goal line. At the last possible moment, Dragon defensive back Logan Anderson, a sophomore, slapped the ball away. The Carroll sideline erupted in pandemonium.

Penalties played a role in the Dragon victory. Martin saw several promising drives slowed and sometimes stopped altogether by the rain of yellow flags that cost the Warriors 168 hard-fought yards.

Truthfully, the refs could have thrown a lot more -- and probably should have. The Warriors, while immensely talented, showed a wild lack of discipline and no class in defeat. You can lay most of the blame for that at head coach Bob Wager's feet. 

The Martin teams he has sent against the Dragons in the past always have been mouthy and played dirty. Last night was no exception, particularly in the second half, when the Dragons choked off Warrior comeback efforts.

Late hits and post-play chatter don't win games, however. Not when you face a stubborn Dragon defense that stopped the Warriors when it mattered. It stepped up big in the decisive 2^nd half, when Martin directed immense pressure on Ewers and bottled up hard-charging Owen Allen, who was limited to only 70 rushing yards. Senior Parker Schnieders broke up a certain Warrior touchdown when he batted away a Mundell pass in the end zone.

Head coach Riley Dodge, who has guided his team into the quarterfinals every year since he was hired, praised his defensive squad.

“We started this season with 11 new starters from the year before that took us to the state quarterfinals,” Dodge told DMN’s Hoyt. “And now we’re back in the quarterfinals … They’ve gotten better each week, and I’m super proud of the way they responded at the end of the game.”

Punch for punch

The two teams traded punch for punch in the second half. After Martin senior Lenard Lemons returned a kickoff 102 yards for a touchdown, giving the Warriors a 26-20 lead, the Dragons responded immediately. One play later, Ewers threw a TD pass to Samson, the receiver’s second of the night.

Samson reaches for a TD pass.

The Dragons clung to that razor-thin 27-26 lead until kicker Joe McFadden booted a three-pointer, his 3^rd of the night, midway through the 4^th.

It's worth noting, now that Ewers is back, that Carroll enjoyed the luxury of waiting until their superstar quarterback healed. His backup, the worthy Hunter Holden, performed exceedingly well in his caretaker role. He kept the Southlake offense operating smoothly and has contributed greatly to Dragon success during this strange, COVID-impacted season.

As for Ewers, he’s back and eager for the road ahead. In a Tweet after the game, he said the crushing pressure Martin directed at him in the second half, which resulted in at least one roughing the passer call, only added “fuel to the fire, baby.”

He told The DMN: “Being back just feels amazing, and it feels so good to be back on this field with pads and a helmet and a football in my hand.”

On to the regional finals!

Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 20, the last

No room at the top

I now come to the end of this sentimental and self-indulgent holiday reminiscence with a look at the tippy-top of The Beast.

I promised my wife when she finally surrendered to my entreaties to put up a Christmas tree that it would be a secular celebration of family, not a religious one. And I have kept that promise, mostly.

Thus, no star and no angel adorn the apex of our tree.

As you can plainly see, even without such a commitment, there’s simply no room for a tree-topper. The Beast barely clears the ceiling now, and that’s only because I did some lumberjacking on the top section during its first installation.

I began this sappy stroll down Gunnels memory lane with the observation that this would be the last year of The Beast. At the time, I believed its time had come to an end, a victim of my aging joints and diminished muscle mass.

Now I’m having second thoughts. I always have second thoughts. Marice accuses me, justifiably, of always over-thinking things. Why should the ultimate fate of The Beast be any different?

You see, we’ve come to some decisions at Gunnels Manse that could affect the future of our problematic Christmas tree. Last week, we contracted with master-of-all-trades Gary Cramer to build a shed in our backyard to house our myriad bins, boxes and bags of Halloween, Thanksgiving and Christmas decorations.

Such an out-building no longer will require me to risk life and fragile limb in ascending a 10-foot ladder to bring down our voluminous décor from the garage attic. It also may help me avoid a hernia from rearranging the southeast corner of said garage to retrieve The Beast from storage.

So a reprieve for The Beast may be in order. When I think about it, if we got rid of everything that is frustrating, time-consuming, difficult to manage and generally a pain in the ass, Marice would have kicked me to the curb long ago.

We may call it the Holiday Hut. Or perhaps the Beast’s Lair. That has a certain ring to it, don’t you think?

 At this, the end of my Christmas-tree tales, I’ve come to a new appreciation of our holiday centerpiece.

When I luxuriate in its cheerful, soul-soothing aura, I see a bundle of contradictions. It changes every year, never looking exactly the same. New ornaments are added, others get broken and sorrowfully are cast aside. And yet, it also never changes. It’s made up of the cherished touchstones of our family and of our past.

It offers comfort and a sense of grace to all who encounter its lights and brightly colored tokens. It comes and, when the holidays pass, it goes. Yet, it’s always there – at the right time, at the time we need it most.

I see in its branches a reflection of the inner struggle many of us confront daily – to remain vital and relevant, while also embracing the cord that connects where we’ve been to where we are to what awaits us in an uncertain future.

Later today, our children and their significant others will arrive, and we’ll open the presents that now rest, wrapped to the best of my limited ability, under the sturdy, stalwart Beast. It will be a time of family, a time of joy, a time to recognize with gratitude that we have weathered a most difficult period.

Alas, we won’t see Rachel and Ethan on Christmas Day – for the first time since they were born. The thought makes me melancholy, but things are as they should be. My children have responsibilities that now extend beyond the tight embrace of their parents.

To be sure, 2020 has been the most dreadful of years, the worst in my lifetime and one of the worst in our nation’s history. But the Gunnels and Richter families have much to be grateful for. We come from hardy stock, and we have fared better than many during this time of death and national strife.

Still, I struggle, as do many of you, with a deepening concern at the anger, hatred and distrust that dominate the daily headlines. I sometimes despair, but I am also comforted by an abiding faith that, in the words of Faulkner, we not only will endure, we will prevail.

Such is my wish for all of you. In the end, family and friends are all that stand between us and the abyss. During times of trouble and travail, they are our final bulwarks against disaster.

Thank you, most sincerely, for your patience and for your kind and generous response to these holiday posts. May peace, love and contentment surround you. Happy holidays! 

Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 19

 One of the first

This is one of the first ornaments we purchased when we started putting up a Christmas tree many years ago.

It is part of a box of simple silver balls we got at Pier 1 or Target or some damned place I’ve long ago forgotten.

When they were new, I would distribute the bright and shiny balls evenly throughout the tree, positioning them so they would gleam in the reflected glow of the mini-lights that surrounded them. They always gave the tree an elegant, dignified look.

Over the years, we’ve lost several to accident and old age. The survivors, like this one, now look drab and shabby, their silver metallic paint worn off and tarnished. As newer and more elaborate decorations have been added to our collection, these stalwart reminders of Christmases past have moved farther and farther out of sight.

Today, they mostly populate the back branches of The Beast, no longer front and center but still performing a useful purpose in providing balance and perspective. Hmm, that’s an observation that (ahem) a recent retiree might want to consider.

Someday, I suppose I’ll have to get rid of them for good. But I’m not ready to give them up just yet. I’m a sentimental fool, and I associate these silver orbs with the days when my kids would ooh and aah when we finished decorating the tree and the glee with which they descended on it on Christmas morning to glory in Santa’s bounty.

In a way, I guess I identify our silver ornaments with the tale of “The Velveteen Rabbit.” It’s about a stuffed rabbit who becomes a young boy’s favorite toy and grows tattered and worn in the process. Eventually cast aside, it magically becomes real through the boy’s love and happily joins real rabbits in the forest.

It’s a lovely story, sad and sweet and spirit-boosting. Published in 1922, it was authored by Margery Williams and is considered one of the best children’s books ever written. Once upon a time, “The Velveteen Rabbit” was particularly popular at Christmas. After all, it is the story of a child’s toy.

These days, it’s considered too old-fashioned, too cloying, too mawkish. Too bad. I remember loving it and confess I shed a tear or two the first time I read it, although I hid that shameful fact from everyone.

Our silver ornaments are like the velveteen rabbit. They’ve been loved almost to the point of their own destruction. Inevitably, the day will come when I finally must consign them to the realm of our memories.

But that won’t be this year. And it probably won’t be next year, either. Even when that sad day arrives, I’ll still hang one or two as keepsakes and as reminders of those early family Christmases when they were new, shiny and bright.

Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 18

 The moose and the buffalo of Wyoming

My wife and I have friends who own a second home in Jackson Hole, Wyo.

Actually, they’re more like Marice’s friends, but we come as a package deal so I’m included, whether they like it or not.

They’re great people, kind and generous, and we have a standing invitation to visit them when they’re escaping the Texas heat in the far north.

Marice has joined them in Wyoming several times in recent years, including side trips to Yellowstone National Park. She always brings me back a little gift to remind me of all the fun I missed, including these tree ornaments of a moose and a buffalo.

She loves Wyoming, with its clear, mountain air, glorious views and invigorating hiking trails. She always bugs me to tag along, but so far, I’ve resisted the temptation.

 For one thing, I’m a nervous flyer, even in pre-COVID times. I’m a lot like a friend of mine, who professes to believe that only his constant stream of prayers directed heavenward keep aloft the airliners in which he’s a passenger. Don’t try to engage in cabin conversations with this guy. He’s got more important things to do that idle chitchat.

For another thing, I’m afraid I’ll like Wyoming a little too much.

I’m a third-generation Texan, a proud descendant of hardy souls who fled other parts of the country to seek opportunity and a good tan in the state’s wide-open spaces.

Not until recent years have I contemplated a life outside the state. But Texas has broken my heart of late for reasons I won’t go into here. It’s the holiday season, after all.

When I worked for the Dallas Times Herald in the late 1970s, several senior editors came from Detroit. Whenever a son or daughter of Texas did something silly or stupid or dangerously deranged, they gleefully declared: “Now that’s a TEXAS story!” and immediately assigned a reporter to document it. Sometimes that reporter was me.

At the time, their enthusiasm for the weird and grotesque was only a minor irritation. I chalked it up to their Yankee prejudices and general lack of knowledge about the wonders of my home state.

But as I’ve gotten older, the toxic antics of our state leaders and the increasingly bellicose nature of human discourse in our state has made me think perhaps it’s time for a change.

I’ll never leave, of course. For financial, family and other reasons, I’m probably a Texas lifer.

Even if I decided to pull up my extensive Texas roots and high-tail it somewhere else, Wyoming probably wouldn’t be my first choice. It’s too much like Texas, only colder and with better scenery. Oh, yeah, and bears.

But Marice sings its praises with gusto so I’m pretty sure I’d like what I see – and add fuel to the fire of my disenchantment with home.

 In the past when Marice got the itch to head for the high country, I always used work as an excuse to stay home. Now that I’m retired, I’ll probably relent and let her drag me off to paradise.

When I do, I’ll be on the lookout for a buffalo like the one depicted in the lower ornament shown here. It’s not surprising that buffaloes are associated in the public mind with Wyoming. But the vast bison herds that roamed that state and the rest of the western plains – until they were hunted almost to extinction – ranged as far south as Texas.

At one point, there were only 300 bison left in America from the tens of millions that existed before folks in the east discovered buffalo hides made great winter coats.

That’s when legendary Texas cattleman Charlie Goodnight stepped in. Prompted by his wife Mary, he saved the buffalo from disappearing altogether by fiercely protecting the private herd he maintained on his Panhandle ranch. Bulls produced from the breeding program he began with that herd helped restock Yellowstone’s few survivors of the plains slaughter.

And that, folks, is a REAL Texas story.

Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 17

 

A job for a storyteller

When I went to work at the UNT Health Science Center in 2013, my boss, the legendary Tim Doke, introduced me to the HSC president as his “storyteller.”

I was surprised at the title since I had been hired at what was essentially a public relations job. But I embraced it with considerable enthusiasm.

I had spent a long six-months looking for a job after being laid off at The Dallas Morning News before Doke plucked me out of the dustbin and put me in charge of publications at UT Southwestern Medical Center, where he was senior vice president of the communications, marketing and public affairs division.

I followed him when he grew tired of the hidebound bureaucracy of UT Southwestern and moved west to HSC in Fort Worth.

At HSC, Doke gave me a free hand in building a communication team that eschewed a traditional promotional approach and embraced the idea that storytelling was the best way to build HSC’s reputation and heighten its profile in a community that had no idea what it was or what it did.

When I hang these HSC ornaments on the Gunnels Christmas tree, they fill me anew with the sense of pride and accomplishment I felt during my years at HSC, where I learned a valuable lesson: Left unchallenged, the assumptions of a lifetime can be just plain wrong.

Like most journalists, I harbored an abiding distrust and disrespect for the PR profession. I loftily distained the work of company “flacks,” considering them at best incompetent and at worst paid liars.

Some were, of course. But not all. Given the opportunity to do the right thing, most PR types can be extremely helpful to harried journalists, particularly in this dismal time of newsroom layoffs and dwindling resources.

Perhaps I’m delusional, but I’d like to think I was one of the good ones.

This I know. With Doke’s unwavering support, I hired a group of former journalists committed to telling the HSC story – its dedicated faculty and staff, its remarkable students and the exemplary work they all were doing to improve community health, train the next generation of health providers and extend the frontiers of medical research.

Together, we completely transformed HSC’s main promotional publication – the moribund Solutions magazine – updating its design and filling it with well-written stories and exciting photographs.

We also launched an aggressive media relations effort that succeeded in convincing local, regional and even national news organizations to take note of the work being done on our campus.

We did it without vapid marketing slogans and the exaggerated institutional boilerplate that undermines credibility and effectiveness.

And we did it without sacrificing truth and accuracy. By telling and selling compelling stories, we convinced media professionals and the public at large to trust us. That’s no small thing.

I preached, at every opportunity, the doctrine of good PR: Never lie, never try to hide bad news (the truth wins out, always) and never fall back on the cowardly “no comment.”

“No comment,” I told my bosses repeatedly, “is interpreted by reporters – and the public – as ‘We did it.’”

For as long as it lasted, it was glorious.

Eventually, Doke moved on and other – less enlightened – executives took his place. When my department was handed over to a former political appointee of Trump’s U.S. Department of Health and Human Services, I knew the end was nigh.

It came last July, in the middle of a pandemic-plagued summer, when I finally was handed my walking papers. One of my last acts was ushering into print the final issue of Solutions magazine, yet another victim of COVID budget cuts.

I’ve spent my entire career as a storyteller, both inside and outside journalism. I consider it a noble calling.

When I cleaned out my HSC office last summer, one of the final things I packed up was a framed quotation from the late Brian Doyle, who did the same job I did – only better – at the University of Portland.

“I am a storycatcher, charged with finding stories that matter, stories about who we are at our best, who we might still be, because without stories, we are only mammals with weapons.”

Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 16

 

A journeyman journalist

Those of you who know how I left the newspaper business may think it strange that I hang Dallas Morning News ornaments on the Gunnels Christmas tree.

It’s really not that weird. When I’m in a magnanimous mood, which alas isn’t often, I thank my lucky stars that I got laid off by The News when I did.

At the time, of course, September 2011, I was devastated – angry, terrified and mournful all rolled up into one messy train wreck of emotions. I was 60 years old – with a mortgage, one kid in college and another one on the threshold – and suddenly I was booted to the curb by the profession I had wanted to be a part of since I was a teenager.

It was a bummer – big time.

As it turns out, I did get another job – just not in newspapers. I was smart enough to realize that was a losing proposition so I limited my job search to PR and was lucky enough – and that’s what it was, pure, unadulterated luck – to find one.

I worked for the state in higher education for eight years. As a result, my retirement is augmented by the Texas Retirement System pension I earned during that period.

I’m better off, financially at least, than I would have been if I had stayed in newspapers until the retirement bell rang. So the DMN suits who handed me my walking papers actually did me a favor. The bastards.

Emotionally, the sting still burns. While the terror and sadness have faded away, the anger is still very real and reveals itself in strange, unexpected ways. That said, I do experience a strong sense of satisfaction each month when my TRS check shows up.

That’s one reason why I hang these DMN Christmas ornaments every year. More importantly, however, they help remind me of who I really am. I look at them and understand anew that the way I view the world and how I relate to the people was shaped by the years I spend in newspaper newsrooms, including the 26 years I worked at the DMN.

The simple fact is that in my heart and soul, I’ll always be a newspaper man.

I spent almost four decades in the news business, almost all of it at Texas newspapers. I worked at metro papers in three of the state’s major metropolitan areas – Dallas, Fort Worth and Austin. I was lucky enough – there’s that word again – to be part of a team that won the Pulitzer Prize.

I battled deadlines with some of the finest reporters and editors this country has produced, and I never missed a deadline. As a reporter, I once wrote a story that prevented a group of poor senior citizens in East Austin from losing their Meals on Wheels route. I covered tornadoes and homeless camps and jail breakouts and a thousand other events that touched people’s lives.

I was never a great reporter. I didn’t have the taste for blood and aggressive mindset that the really good ones have. I didn’t like long, complicated stories that required dozens of interviews and hours of pouring over documents. I preferred people features – quick-hit looks at the way people lived and loved and created.

I was a better editor. I prided myself on being a reporter’s advocate, someone who understood the challenges they faced and who was willing to push deadlines to the breaking point to give them every last second to hone and polish their stories. Sometimes, it cost me because, after all, the DMN was an editor’s newspaper.

But I don’t kid myself. When all was said and done, I was nothing more than a journeyman journalist – competent, dependable and versatile. I was no Ben Bradlee. No Seymour Hersh. No Bob Woodward.

What I will say – with some pride and humility – is that I always pulled my weight. That’s what a journeyman is expected to do. That’s what I was and that’s what I did.

Area playoff champs: Southland Carroll 38, Odessa Permian 7

 On to Round Three!

Mojo is a no-show once mo’

The Odessa Permian Panthers, whose rabid fan base believes the Mighty Mojo is a whole lot better than it really is, left Abilene last night in a very foul mood.

They had watched in growing frustration as their beloved Panthers were whipped soundly by the hard-charging Southlake Carroll Dragons. And they had sat slack-jawed as Permian committed a series of costly mistakes that stymied promising Panther drives and cleared the way for the Dragons to build a comfortable lead before the first quarter ended.

If the noise coming from their section of Abilene Christian University’s Wildcat Stadium is any indication, they no doubt will blame the drubbing on the 117 yards in penalties assessed by the Waco officiating crew against the Mojo.

Of course, they’ll have to ignore the uncomfortable fact that the refs also walked off 117 yards against the victorious Dragons. And they’ll have to overlook the brilliant performance by senior quarterback Hunter Holden, who passed for 257 yards and 4 touchdowns.

And even if the referees were a little heavy flag-happy last night – which they were – it still doesn’t explain why the Panthers’ sleight-of-hand option offense couldn’t put any points on the board until the last 2 minutes of the 3^rd quarter. Unless, of course, you consider the Carroll defense, a disruptive force that played perhaps its best game of the season.

Truth be told, both teams played a pretty sloppy game. The Dragons just had enough offensive clout to survive them.

 That was demonstrated vividly in a sequence in the second quarter, after Carroll had built a insurmountable 24-0 lead over a stumbling Permian.

Wiped out

It started when Dragon Josh Spaeth intercepted a pass by Panther quarterback Harper Terry (6-15, 85, passing; 92 rushing), then sped 91 yards to the end zone, ending the first promising drive by Mojo. But an illegal block in the back wiped out his achievement and the Dragons eventually had to punt.

Panther Hayden Bays erupted through the line and leaped for the ball as it came off Joe McFadden’s foot. It sailed through his outstretched fingers and he crashed instead into McFadden. A roughing the kicker call keep the ball in Dragon hands, but not for long.

Mojo defender Joaquim Hernandez intercepted a deflected Holden pass. The ensuing Permian drive ran aground at the Dragon 20, where the Panthers failed to convert on a 4^th and 12.

Given a second chance, Carroll managed to put points on the board 34 seconds before halftime.

So let the West Texans yelp all they want. It doesn’t change the fact that the Dragons advance to the third-round of the playoffs, and the Panthers took a miserable bus ride back to the oil patch.

Carroll meets the 10-0 Arlington Martin Warriors in the Regional Round on Christmas Eve in Global Life Park. The Warriors have won 10 straight and sent a resounding message through 6A’s Division I when they demolished the Lewisville Farmers yesterday, 68-0.

All we want for Christmas...

It was a thoroughly humiliating beatdown for the proud Farmers. Martin scored on the opening play of the game, then completed discombobulated Lewisville with a series of deceptive special-team plays. By the end of the 1^st quarter, the Warriors held a stunning 44-0 lead.

In Martin, the Dragons will face their biggest challenge of the year. Word is that the Warriors are fast and efficient on offense (I guess!) and sturdy on defense.

But the Dragons aren’t the Farmers, who have been drilled in the playoffs the last two years. Under the steady leadership of Holden, who started his sixth straight game last night for injured superstar Quinn Ewers, Carroll has an explosive offense in the air and on the ground, where sophomore phenom Owen Allen continues to bulldoze defenders. Against Permian, young Allen rolled to 178 yards on 15 carries and made a TD along the way.

Offensive star

But Holden was the offensive star of the night. While Dragon Nation wonders when Ewers will return to the field, Holden has proved to be much more than adequate in filling the cleats of his fallen teammate. Cool in the pocket and a smart, opportunistic runner, he’s deadly in the air and dangerous on the ground.

Last night, he engineered a 5-play, 68-yard drive to open scoring for the Dragons. He nailed a 47-yard pass to Landon Samson to move the Dragons to the Panther 21, then zipped his 16^th passing TD of the year to RJ Maryland. He would loft three more to his favorite receiver, the remarkable Brady Boyd.

Trouble for the Panthers began early on their first drive, when a 27-yard run was wiped out by a holding call. Five plays later, Dragon defender Cade Parks sacked Terry and forced a punt.

It took the Dragons exactly two plays to score. Starting from his own 15, Allen plowed 31 yards to the 46, then Holden sent a zinger to Boyd (5-143), who took it 54 yards for his first touchdown of the night.

Permian fared no better on its next drive. First, it had a 29-yard gain wiped out by a chop-block penalty, then Terry was downed behind the line of scrimmage on a 3^rd and 16.

The Panther punter, shocked to see a mob of Dragons closing in, attempted to outrun them but was buried well short of the first down.

When the Dragons took over, Allen ran to the 3, but the drive stalled and the Dragons had to settle for a 33-yard field goal by Joe McFadden.

Boyd would score twice more before the half. He snagged a 34-yard pass in the end zone early in the 2^nd . And after Allen darted 43 yards down the right sideline to the Permian 4, Boyd grabbed another missile and fought his way across the goal line.

Ending with a flourish

Allen ended scoring for the Dragons in spectacular fashion mid-way through the 3^rd .

When a 28-yard Panther field goal failed, Carroll took over at its own10.

Holden moved the Dragons into Panther territory with a 46-yard toss to Boyd. Allen then scooted through the middle of the Permian line and bolted 46 yards to the end zone.

After that excitement, the Panthers managed to put together a lengthy drive that slogged its way the length of the field before Lucas Salazar put the Mojo on the board with less than 2 minutes left in the 3^rd.

Unfortunately, the frustrations of the Odessa crowd – angry at the refs, angry at the Mojo misfires, just plain angry – also seemed to infect players on the field. Unsportsmanlike-conduct calls flew around, and at one point, Dragons and Panthers had to be pulled off each other by officials and coaches. It’s a reminder to fans that their impact on the game can be both positive and negative.

You can’t say enough about the Dragons defense, which is coming together at just the right time. Facing their first real tests in the playoffs, they have jelled into a smart, stubborn crew. They held Permian’s offense to 85 yards in the first half.

Avyonne Jones was just superb – he always is – as was Cade Parks, who sacked Terry twice and was in his face all evening.

The defense will have to play lights out against the Warriors to extend the Dragon season into the Fourth Round for the third straight year. It can be done, but it won’t be easy.

Not normal times

In normal times, this would be the championship weekend of the playoffs. In fact, Argyle put a cap on a perfect season by winning the 4A, Division I championship yesterday.

But a COVID-delayed beginning to the season for 5A and 6A teams means their playoffs will extend into the new year. A crucial game on Christmas Eve? That makes it pretty rough on families already reeling from the hardships forced on them by the pandemic upsurge.

Much as I’d like to see the Martin game, I’ll spend the day with my family instead. I hope it’s an early kickoff although Dragon Radio was talking about an evening start. If that’s the case, perhaps I can sneak off for a few minutes from opening gifts to catch the score.

I could say that all I want for Christmas is a win against Martin. But that’s a little extreme, don’t you think? (Uh, Santa, if you’re listening …)

Go Dragons!

Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 15:

 

Austin's iconic symbol

By the time I moved to Austin as a reporter in 1981, growth already had robbed it of much of its quirky charm and iconoclastic college-town vibe.

On the day I got into town, the Armadillo World Headquarters, a legendary music venue that launched the cosmic cowboy scene and helped establish Austin as a music mecca, closed down.

It was demolished within days to prevent any attempts by music fans and preservationists to save it as a cultural landmark. Plans called for a bank to be built on the site, thus adding insult to injury. But the land remained bleak and empty for the entire four years I lived there.

Austinites mourned the loss of the Armadillo as if it were a cherished member of their family, which, I guess, in a way it was. Even now, when you mention the Armadillo, long-time Austin residents nod sadly and a shadow passes over their faces.

I never covered Texas state government, as this elaborate ornament might suggest. But I covered everything else for the Austin American-Statesman: the byzantine fuckery taking place at the University of Texas, the occasional cop shop shift, the business beat and features – lots and lots of features. CLFs (cute little features) were my specialty.

No, this ornament, which depicts the front of the Texas Capitol, an Austin icon, gets a special place on our Christmas tree because it represents a very happy time in my life.

I had loved Austin since the first time I visited there as a college student in the early 1970s, so I jumped at the chance to trade the tension-filled, high-pressure newsroom of the Dallas Times Herald for the more laid-back environs of the American-Statesman. Almost all my newspaper colleagues thought I was nuts.

But to Austin I went to join the lotus-eaters, pot-heads and eccentric artists and clowns who I envisioned filled its streets.

I was mostly wrong about all that. But I still fell under Austin’s seductive spell and surrendered to its siren call. If I’m honest, I have to say I didn’t do my best work at the Statesman, never giving it the attention and devotion it deserved.

I was too busy having a good time. I lived at the edge of trendy Barton Hills, in a small apartment perched on a cliff directly above peerless Barton Springs Pool in Zilker Park.

In the summer, I could open my sliding-glass door and hear the merry chittering of the crowds at the spring-fed pool and the squeals of shock when swimmers jumped into its ice-cold water.

Lake Austin was a short walk away, and across the river, the rooftops of downtown could just be seen from the parking lot of my complex. I was close to almost everything.

I discovered the oak-shaded patio at Scholz Beer Garden, the sunset deck of the Oasis on Lake Travis, fajitas at Cisco’s, chicken-fried steaks at Broken Spoke, live-music clubs like Antone’s, the Continental Club and Hut’s Hamburgers. That’s right, a hamburger joint that also featured live music – that’s the Austin I fell in thrall with.

And when you tired of the city’s charms, all you had to do is jump in your car and in minutes be in the Texas Hill Country, the very best part of Texas.

But the REAL reason Austin will forever have a place in my heart and this nostalgia-imbued ornament a place on my tree is that it’s where I met Marice – song of my heart, mother of my children, and the most patient woman on earth, a fact she proves every day she stays married to me. Thank God for that.

I met Marice the first day she arrived in the Statesman newsroom, a beautiful, fresh-faced girl-next-door with a ready smile and a confident attitude.

I wasted no time in making my way to her desk. Newsroom lore insists that I stayed there a loooong time, a scurrilous allegation I deny. Over the next few days, however, I did drop by regularly to chat.

Eventually, Marice got tired of my distractions and agreed to a date. The rest is history.

We left Austin together a year or so later, made a short-lived detour to Missouri, and eventually returned to Texas, where we both got jobs at The Dallas Morning News. When Marice decided it was time – about damned time – to get married, Austin was the logical place to do it.

We called our friends Jim and Karen Pinkerton and asked to borrow the backyard of their South Austin home for the ceremony. We spent our wedding night at the Driskill, partied the next afternoon with friends and drove back to Dallas in time for work on Monday. Some honeymoon.

From time to time over the years, Marice and I have discussed moving back to Austin. But the talk never leads anywhere. For better or worse, we’ve made our lives in the suburbs of Dallas and Fort Worth, cities neither of us particularly like but where our careers led us.

In our memories, Austin remains – rightfully – as a time and place when the world was young and so were we.

Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 14

 

Memories of an unexpected gift

This little ornament doesn’t really fit in with the rest of the decorations on The Beast, the Gunnels family Christmas tree.

It’s a little too cloying and precious for my taste. I can be sappy, too, sometimes (guilty pleasure: Hallmark Christmas movies; I know), but this one is just a little TOO cute, a tad TOO cuddly.

Regardless, I keep hanging it up each year because of a gift my sister got from Santa Claus when she was 3 or 4.

Santa Claus was a big deal at our house when I was a kid. The family opened wrapped gifts on Christmas Eve in order to clear the decks for Santa’s overnight toy dump.

Since we didn’t have a fireplace, my sister Kathy and I were always a little worried about how the Fat Man would gain entrance to Castle Gunnels since my mother made sure every door and window was locked tight before retiring for the night.

She always herded us off to bed early. As a parent, I now know why. Toy assembly at 3 a.m. can be a real drag, particularly when you do it in an open garage on a frigid December night in order not to wake the young’uns.

We always slept fitfully, our hearts beating wildly at the prospects of what awaited us Christmas morning. By 5 a.m. we usually were already sneaking down the hall for peek at what awaited us under the tree.

On this particular Christmas morn, we made our usual haul, my gifts arranged carefully on one side of the tree, Kathy’s on the other. (Santa sure was a neat old cuss!) Joyful pandemonium ensued until Mom could herd us away from toy central to gulp down breakfast.

As Kathy worked her way through her bounty, she came to a pink plush pixie doll with a soft rubber face, cherub cheeks and round, soulful eyes. She examined it carefully, then got up and walked into the kitchen, where she deposited the doll in the trash bin and returned to the living room.

“I didn’t ask for that,” she said in explanation.

Horrified, my mother retrieved the doll before it could be permanently stained by cranberry juice or turkey gizzards. She brought it back to my sister and attempted to convince a skeptical Kathy that it was beautiful and soft and that Santa had wanted to surprise her with an unexpected present.

“Well, OK,” she said dismissively and tossed the doll aside.

The story has become part of Gunnels family lore. I still enjoy telling it. The funny thing is, the pink plush pixie eventually became my sister’s favorite doll, the one she took to bed with her every night until she became too old for such things. By that time, the bedraggled pixie had been loved almost to extinction.

When I look at this ornament of two kids – brother and sister? – wrapped in a wreath, I see that sweet little unloved pixie doll. I imagine a similarity in the face of the pixie and that of the girl in the wreath. It’s hard to explain, but that’s the way memory works sometimes.

Don’t get the wrong idea about my sister. She’s a wonderful person, generous to a fault and always thinking of others. She’s the loving mother of two beautiful daughters, the eldest of which has never believed in Santa Claus a day in her life, thus robbing Kathy of one of the delights of Christmas. I sometimes wonder: Is that fate’s punishment for her unappreciative treatment of Santa’s gift?

She and her husband moved to the lake near Corsicana not too long ago and built their dream home. It’s on a peaceful cove just off the main shore of the lake. I like to sit on their back patio in the late afternoon and watch the ducks and a family of beavers slowly paddle the length of the inlet. It is a welcome haven in a crazy world.

At Christmastime, I’m always a little apprehensive about buying my sister a gift. I frequently chicken out and just give her a gift card. That way, she can buy something she wants and needs. There’s another reason, too. Who throws a gift card in the trashcan?

Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 13

 A magical time

Behold the most modest, unassuming ornament on our tree. My son made in one of his playschools, no doubt with the help of one of his teachers. Arts and crafts never were his strong suit.

I’m fond of it because he made it, of course. But more than that, it looks homemade, like something fashioned out of salt and flour, then baked and painted. And because it does, it reminds me of a magical Christmas season more than 45 years ago when I was a cub reporter in Denton.

I returned to Denton in the summer of 1974 after a miserable seven-month sojourn at the Lubbock Avalanche-Journal, my first job out of North Texas State, now UNT. Frank Kelley, managing editor of the Denton Record-Chronicle, had taken pity on me after I had written a letter beseeching him to get me out of Lubbock. I must have sounded pretty desperate because he hired me over the phone to cover Denton City Hall.

The reporter who me showed around on my first day was a fellow with the grandiose name of Roy Appleton III. I had seen his byline in some back issues of the Record-Chronicle I had come across in Lubbock, and I had taken an instant, long-distance disliking of him.

My irrational response was based on the knowledge that the general manager and vice president of the Record-Chronicle was one Roy Appleton Jr. In my knee-jerk evaluation, that meant Roy III obviously was the boss's dissolute son pretending to be a journalist until he was elevated to upper management. To the manor born and all that. I hated him.

Until I met him. Roy was a bushy-haired frat boy from UT-Austin. He also was smart, funny, irreverent and talented. His stories were well-written and thoroughly researched, full of detail and nuance. He was by far the best reporter on the paper and bristled at any suggestion he was riding on his father’s coattails and coasting on the Appleton name.

We became, of course, great friends. We’ve remained so for more than four decades.

In those years, Roy was married to Angela, a striking, fiery-haired woman he had met in the R-C newsroom. They were living in an old farmhouse east of town on family property just off Mingo-Fishtrap Road. The land once had been the Denton County’s debtor jail, where the destitute worked the fields. It was known by all as the Poor Farm.

In 1974, the farmhouse was sagging and weather-beaten. But it was water-tight and snug in the winter, and Roy and Angela loved it.

As did I. I was a frequent guest at the Poor Farm. We’d sit on the comfy porch, drink beer, smoke an occasional joint and watch the trains pass on the tracks located a long stone’s throw from the house. When the weather was warm, we’d sit in the front yard and watch the stars shine clear and bright above us.

As Christmas approached that year, it was decided that we would travel to the Fannin County farm of Angela’s parents, located southeast of Sherman, where we would cut down a Christmas tree for the Poor Farm.

Fortified by booze and other stimulants, we searched the property until we found a well-shaped cedar that fit in perfectly with the Poor Farm ambiance.

With some difficulty, we felled the tree and slogged it back to the car, fighting a bitter wind and a dusting of snow. It was, as I recall, quite an adventure.

Once back at the Poor Farm, we decorated the tree with homemade ornaments made earlier by Angela and a friend. The final touch was stringing the branches with garlands of popcorn and cranberries. We laughed a lot, we drank a lot, we ate a lot. We even danced. Like I say, it was a magical time.

The humble ornament pictured here looks a bit like those homemade ornaments we dangled from that tree so many years ago. Close enough to bring back fond memories of the Poor Farm. It’s probably long gone by now, replaced by housing developments and strip retail centers.

When Roy and I reminisce about our Denton years, we both agree that they were the very best of times. We were young and idealistic and believed we were making the world a better place. Our enthusiasm irritated some old-timers at the R-C. One accused us once of “playing journalism.”

Instead of resenting the remark as the insult she had intended, Roy and I embraced it. It became a catch phrase from that day forward. Separately or together, whenever we accomplish something significant, something worthwhile, something we are proud of, we raise a glass and say, “Here’s to playing journalism!”

Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 12

 Simple but complicated

Shirley Richter not only was my wife’s mother, she also was Marice's best friend.

Marice talked on the phone with her mom every day, sometimes for more than an hour.  They shared everything with each other, and whenever Marice had a problem, her mother was the first person she consulted.

When Marice was pregnant with our second child, we went in for an amniocentesis. After the OB/GYN at Big Baylor in Dallas completed the procedure, which she had performed with the help of a powerful sonogram machine, she asked us if we wanted to know the sex of the baby.

Since the amnio results would provide that anyway, we said yes.

“Well,” she said, maneuvering the sonar wand around Marice’s abdomen, “it’s definitely a boy.”

“What?” said a shocked Marice, who had been convinced she was carrying another girl.

“Oh, sure,” the doctor replied confidently. “See, there’s his penis.”

Marice cried all the way home. All her siblings were female, as were her closest cousins. She knew nothing about raising a son. Neither did her mother, the child-raising expert. How, my wife despaired, do you potty train boys? I remained silent, acutely aware that you handle pregnant women delicately even under the best of circumstances.

When we got home, Marice fled upstairs and slammed the bedroom door. A few minutes later, Shirley called to see how the exam had gone.

“How’s Marice?” she asked. She’s upstairs crying, I replied.

“What’s wrong? What happened?” Shirley asked, alarmed.

“We’re having a little boy,” I said.

“Oh, I understand. Let me talk to Marice,” said Shirley, all business now, ready to provide aid and comfort.

Mother and daughter weathered the crisis, and Ethan turned out fine. In case you’re wondering, he was potty trained in the regular way – stand here, aim there.

Shirley, the youngest of four children, was the unplanned offspring of her Russian immigrant parents. Her big brothers spoiled her and her parents doted on their baby girl.

In high school, she was popular and – in the vernacular of the day – a dish. There’s a family photograph of her as a cheerleader, her smile bright as sunshine and her hair cropped short and sassy. It’s easy to see why she never lacked for suitors.

She ran her household with an iron fist clothed in a proper white glove. Her husband adored her, her daughters revered her and her large extended family recognized her as the glue that held them all together.

During Passover, she always prepared two Seder dinners on successive nights. Each could seat as many as 30 guests. Shirley believed that no one should be alone on the holidays, and there was always a place at her table for such “orphans.”

She met her future husband, a besmitten Fred Richter, in community college. And while she never got her degree, Shirley was well-read and had a quick mind. For years, she served as the bookkeeper of her brother’s carpet firm. She had strong opinions about almost everything.

Shirley would have liked this ornament. It’s a lot like her. Simple, but complicated. Delicate, but an object of substance, created to withstand the dings and dents of time. It’s as beautiful today as it was on the day we bought it. And it absolutely commands the space on the tree where I place it each year.

At the end of her life, Shirley waged a courageous battle with cancer with her typical grace and generosity, thinking almost always of her family first. As in everything else in her life, she met the end in her own way.

When the time came, she left the hospital and went home. There, surrounded by her three daughters, she died, a woman of dignity and compassion and fortitude.

Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 11

 

Da Bears!

What, you may well ask, is a Chicago Bears ornament doing on the Christmas tree of a guy who was raised watching the Dallas Cowboys?

The answer is simple enough. Marice’s father, my father-in-law, was a lifelong Bears season-ticket holder. Even in the depths of winter, he’d bundle up as only Chicagoans know how and trudge off to Soldier’s Field to watch his beloved Bears battle in the ice and snow.

Fred Richter was a good man, loving father and devoted husband. He also was a deeply committed Jew even though he was raised in a secular household and came to Judaism late in life.

As a prominent member of his synagogue, Fred was one of the Jewish leaders who went to court in 1977 to stop the Nazis from marching through his northern Chicago suburb of Skokie, then home to the largest number of Holocaust survivors outside of Israel.

Their lengthy legal battle and the constitutional issues it raised ultimately convinced Nazi organizers to abandon their scheme to march in Skokie, where they knew the impact and the anguish would grab bigger headlines, and to shift to Chicago instead.

On the day of the march in the summer of 1978, only about 20 knuckle-draggers showed up. When they were met with the jeers and catcalls of 20,000 protesters lining the streets of Chicago, they fled the scene after about 10 minutes.

Fred’s teenage daughter, Marice’s younger sister Marla, was among those anti-Nazi protesters. She can be seen in a video taken that day shouting obscenities at the strutting thugs. I strongly suspect Fred secretly applauded her visceral, if crude, reaction to the strutting morons.

In his younger years, Fred had played football, so his love of the game later in life came naturally. Marice has a couple of photos of her father playing in high school.

In one, he is listening closely to a coach lecture on the field. In the other, he’s trying desperately to catch a pass. His efforts are being hampered by his helmet, which has slipped so low on his forehead that it’s obstructing his view of the ball.

 Sadly, Fred never saw my son play. Alzheimer’s disease robbed him of his memories too soon for that. But I’m sure he would have been a very proud grandpa and, knowing Fred, would have insisted on instructing his grandson in the finer points of the game.

Marice and I framed those photos of her father on the gridiron and gave them to Ethan. They are among his most treasured keepsakes.

When I look at them, I see a serious, good-looking kid, determined to get the job done, a kid who grew into a man I respected and admired. Richter family history doesn’t record it, but I’m willing to bet he caught that damned ball.

Christmas tree, O Christmas tree: Part 10

 

A nutcracker stands guard.

Nutcrackers are the most ubiquitous Christmas decorations in Gunnels Manse.

When our children were young, Marice discovered a love of nutcrackers, perhaps for reasons I’ll explain in a bit. As a result, nutcrackers abound throughout our Grapevine home at Christmastime.

A giant nutcracker stands in our entryway. Two large nutcrackers guard either side of our fireplace. Smaller nutcrackers fight for attention from shelves, tabletops and consoles.

And more than 20 nutcrackers of all types hang from the branches of The Beast, our Christmas tree.

Here’s a favorite, one of a set of five that Marice discovered on a shopping trip long ago. They are inspired by the artwork of 19^th-century political cartoonist Thomas Nast, who created the modern image of Santa Claus.

These nutcrackers are the heaviest ornaments on The Beast. Placing them is difficult since the strongest branches that can take their weight are not the most visible. But I make an effort because they are beautiful and give the tree a vintage look I love.

Why nutcrackers? Well, why not? The original story on which “The Nutcracker” is based is quite wonderful, the ballet is awesome and Tchaikovsky’s music divine. I’d say that’s inspiration enough.

But there’s another, more personal, reason why Marice and I find nutcrackers irresistible.

When our daughter was young, Marice enrolled her in the Grapevine Dance Academy. There Rachel learned the rudiments of ballet and other dance forms. She loved it and demonstrated real potential.

Each December, Grapevine Dance staged a production of “The Nutcracker” to demonstrate the talents of its students. The older, high school-aged girls danced the featured roles, and the younger ones were cast in minor parts, depending on their age and experience.

Rachel performed in two Nutcrackers, the first as a mouse and the second as a dancing nutcracker. From a parent’s point of view, the programs were magical. The kids worked hard and danced their hearts out. I get a little choked up just thinking about them.

At about the same time, nutcrackers began to come home with Marice from her shopping trips. A coincidence? Hmm, I think not.

The dance academy always struggled to find male dancers for its Nutcrackers. Male ballet students are a little rare in Northeast Tarrant. In Rachel’s last production, the academy director convinced a couple of members of Grapevine High’s football team to help out.

These guys were a far cry from Baryshnikov. Mostly, they just stood stoically on stage while the girls twirled and swooped around them. Occasionally, they were called upon to lift the dancers above their heads, which they managed to do with a modicum of grace and without dropping the girls on their keisters.

That year, the Grapevine Mustangs made the state football playoffs, and the team was scheduled to play out of town on the day of the Saturday performance. It was an afternoon game, and everyone knew the guys were going to be cutting it close to make it back in time.

As curtain time neared, anxiety levels were peaking when a car squealed into the parking lot, and the guys jumped out and ran to don their costumes. Everyone, including members of the audience who knew what was happening, breathed a sigh of relief.

The performance went swimmingly, and the Mustangs in the cast did themselves proud. Afterward, the kids, faces aglow, mingled with the audience in the theater lobby. Our gridiron heroes, their muscled thighs squeezed into tights, stood awkwardly to the side, obviously wishing mightily they were somewhere else.

 I approached and shook their hands, congratulating them for not pulling a muscle on stage that night.

“By the way,” I added mischievously, “I know why you’re doing this. You’re here for the girls.” (To be sure, the featured dancers would have set any high school boy’s heart aflutter.)

The two young men glanced uneasily at each other and said nothing. Satisfied, I grinned and walked away.

In case you’re wondering, the Mustangs won that playoff game. They went on to win state later that month.