Game Day: Arlington Martin 50, Southlake Carroll 33

ARLINGTON – Even during the entertaining first half – as the Southlake Carroll Dragons and Arlington Martin Warriors traded touchdowns and presented impressive offensive displays to each other, I had the unpleasant feeling that Martin was toying with us.

It was paranoia based on solid evidence.

For instance, the Warriors’ second score came on a 99-yard kickoff return by senior Juma Otoviano, the Warriors’ one-man wrecking crew, who fielded the ball at the 1 and looked like a man among boys as he darted straight for the end zone, leaving dazed Dragons in his wake.

Then, to add insult to injury, the Warriors quickly lined up for a 2-point conversion, and Otoviano, who by the way is also their quarterback, effortlessly plunged forward to give Martin a 15-14 lead.

As it turns out, he was just getting started. And just as he did in Martin’s season opener with Dallas Skyline last week, Otoviano sliced and diced the hapless Dragons and turned the decisive third quarter into a personal recruiting reel.

He ended the night with 182 rushing yards and three TDs, and 160 passing yards and another score. Here’s the backstory: Martin head coach Bob Wager convinced Otoviano in the offseason to switch from running back to QB. And now the punchline: He doesn't particularly like the job.

“I’d still rather be a running back in college, but this is the way I can help my team the most,” Otoviano told The Dallas Morning News’ Randy Jennings after the game. Lordy.

Otoviano wasn’t the Warriors’ only offensive star of the night, dang it. Running back Montrell Smith rolled up 116 yards on 13 carries and scored twice in the second half. Receiver Brayden Willis snagged four receptions for 140 and 1 TD. By the second half, this abundance of riches finally overwhelmed a tiring Dragon defense.

The Warriors trailed 27-22 at half, but by then Dragon fans already knew that narrow lead would not be enough, not nearly enough. And it wasn’t. Martin came roaring out of halftime, scoring 21 unanswered points and limiting Carroll to a paltry single score in the 4^th period.

 The Dragon scoring drought in the 3^rd had radio commentators searching the records for the last time Southlake scored no points in the second half. They came up with a 2013 blowout against Midland Lee in which the Dragons scored 51 points in the first half and coasted in the second.

Southlake’s young defense, which played admirably against Broken Arrow in the season opener, succeeded in putting the brakes on Martin’s high-powered offense in the first half, with the exception of the heroics engineered by the Warriors’ one-man-band.

In addition to the 99-yard kickoff return, Otoviano was part of the Warriors' other big play of the half.

Dragon quarterback Will Powers had capped a 53-yard drive by finding two-way standout R.J. Mickens in the left corner of the end zone. Mickens, a sophomore phenom with an NFL pedigree who already has more than a dozen D1 offers, snagged the missile with a defender draped over him to take back the lead, 21-15.

Otoviano responded immediately. Evading a blitzing Dragon D on the second play of the drive, he flipped a pass to an uncovered Willis, who trotted 80 yards to score.

Things came unglued in the 3rd, propelled in part by a couple of Dragon injuries. When defensive end Jacob Doddridge left the game, perhaps to undergo a concussion protocol, the air seemed to leave Carroll's Big Guys. A shudder went through my part of the stadium when the radio guys announced Doddridge, a junior, had returned from the locker room wearing a T-shirt, finished for the night.

In the ensuing drive, the Warriors smartly marched 68 yards behind the running of Otoviano and Smith, before the quarterback bolted into the end zone from the 7, ending the 3^rd with a 36-27 Martin lead.

The key play for the Dragons came in the opening minutes of the 4^th. Trailing by 9, Carroll had put together a decent drive, with a Powers toss to WR Cade Bell and a couple of solid runs by RB T.J. McDaniel.

The drive, however, stalled near midfield. On a 4^th and 1 at the Dragon 43, Southlake fumbled, ending the drive and its fading hopes for a dramatic comeback.

For the Dragons, it was a bitter lesson in humility. They had never lost to the Warriors in four matchups. Last year, they defeated Martin decisively at Dragon Stadium, 36-14.

But this is a different year and a different team, with problems that need to be solved quickly. Next week, the Dragons host a tough Rockwall squad who upset state champion Highland Park last week only to fall to Rowlett last night.

Powers, who ended the night 12 of 16 for 168 yards and 2 TDs, had a respectable game. But he must protect the ball better, and he needs to master the long ball. His third interception of the season came on a long floater along the right sideline that had time to spread alarm throughout the Southlake section of Maverick Stadium before it landed in a Warrior defender’s arms.

Southlake’s defense is talented, but young, peppered throughout with sophomores. It has the potential to develop into something special as the season progresses, although the injury bug bit deeply last night. A serious injury to Doddridge would be near catastrophic.

On the bright side, the Dragons have found a running back, and he’s a good ’un. McDaniel carried 25 times for 221 yards and accounted for three Carroll scores. A Coppell transfer, he’s got the speed and he’s got the moves to make a lot of noise as Southlake dives into district play in two weeks.

Likewise, senior Cade Bell continues to develop into the Dragons’ premier receiver. He caught 6 Bowers passes for 69 yards against Martin. It wasn’t the attention-getting performance he gave in Oklahoma, which earned him the nickname “Big Game,” but it was good enough to spark hopes of more Bowers-Bell connections to come.

The Dragons aren’t used to having 50 points hung on them. For that matter, they’re not used to getting beat. The defeat at the hands of Otoviano and the Warriors stings like the dickens.

That’s good enough motivation for a productive week of practice to gain redemption next Friday against Rockwall in the welcoming confines of Dragon Stadium.

Go Dragons!

Game Day – Southlake Carroll 21, Broken Arrow (Okla.) 14

Football sages opine that a win is a win, but the victory salvaged by the Southlake Carroll Dragons in their season opener in Broken Arrow, Okla., last night leaves a bitter aftertaste.

The Dragons turned what should have been a drubbing of their Oklahoma foes into a white-knuckle battle they only managed to survive with some last-minute heroics by junior running back T. J. McDaniel.

Were it not for the four – count ’em, four – turnovers in the game, the Dragons could have enjoyed the ride home basking in the satisfaction that their defense performed admirably against the Tigers and their offense – helmed by junior quarterback Will Bowers – piled up more than twice as many total yards as their overmatched opponents.

But the turnovers – two of which, good lord, occurred in the red zone – kept the Dragons scrambling all night, even as they dominated the statistics, from rushing yards to first downs.

Bowers, who was responsible for three of the turnovers, kept his composure and ended the night with some impressive numbers. He completed 20 of 26 passes for 256 yards and 1 TD, rushing for another 40.

But the miscues marred his first outing as starting helmsman, and they could prolong, at least for a while, the quarterback questions that have hung over the Dragons since the talented Mason Holmes graduated last year.

Bowers got off to a promising start, engineering a second-quarter drive that ended with a 34-yard pass to his favorite receiver of the night, senior Cade Bell, (8 catches for 152 yards, 1 TD). But the problems started on the next possession when a Bowers pass was picked off, thwarting Dragon designs to widened their lead.

The Tigers, however, couldn’t capitalize on their good fortune, thanks to the gutty play of the Dragon defense, who kept them at bay for most of the game. Facing a 4^th and 10 on their 32, Broken Arrow made the ill-considered decision to go for it.

Instead, it lost 18 yards and was forced to turn the ball over on the 14 to a hungry Southlake offense. The Dragon appetite soon was quashed. The hardy Southlake fans who braved the trip north to Broken Arrow’s Memorial Stadium instead watched in horror as Bowers coughed up the ball again.

Quick-thinking Tiger defender Zach Marcheselli snatched it up and darted 84 yards through the shocked Dragon secondary to tie the game.

Carroll continued its domination, and its frustration, into the second half. It opened the 3^rd quarter with a brisk drive in which Bowers completed five straight passes. But the momentum rolled to a stop deep in Broken Arrow territory.

The Tigers then put together their only effective drive of the night, which ended in a 1-yard TD run by quarterback Lafayette Wright to put them ahead 14-7.

Carroll responded to the threat quickly, driving to the Tiger 17, where Bowers was picked off for the second time.

Thanks to the Southlake defense, that turnover and yet another fumble in the fourth had no impact on the game, other than to raise the blood pressure of Dragon fans there and listening to the game on the radio at home.

In the decisive 4^th quarter, T.J. McDaniel, who ran hard all night, compiling 106 yards on 31 carries, came to the forefront.

A Tiger fumble set the stage for an efficient 34-yard drive that ended with McDaniel bullying into the end zone on a 5-yard carry, tying the game at 14-14. A few minutes later, another sustained 8-play, 60-yard drive sent the Dragons ahead for good.

Unfortunately, circumstances conspired to dim the usual luster of Friday night lights in Broken Arrow. Because of the flooding disaster along the coast, Southlake was unable to charter enough buses for its huge student contingent to travel to the game. That means the band, Emerald Belles, Crew and cheerleaders were left behind. Only the team made the trip.

That's lousy for the kids and for the fans, in my considered view. What's Friday night football without the pomp and circumstance that goes with it? I say put an end to this current trend of hunting for worthy opponents north of the Red River. After all, the best high school football in the country is played right here in North Texas. Am I right?

Back to the matter at hand.There was a lot to like about the Dragons’ first outing in 2017. The defense, which usually is a work in progress at this point in the season, seems ahead of schedule in its development.

Its first real test comes next Friday, when the Dragons face Arlington Martin in Maverick Stadium. Martin and its double-threat quarterback, Juma Otoviano, took apart Skyline last night, 57-26.

It also was nice to see a Dragon running back post a 100-yard game at the beginning of the season. Will McDaniel, a transfer from hated Coppell, become a worthy rushing successor to the remarkable Audie Gaines, Southlake’s stellar running back last year? Only time will tell. But maybe. Just maybe.

On another offensive front, several Carroll receivers made connections last night, led by Bell. A reliable stable of fleet-footed, sure-handed receivers is a key to Southlake’s offensive strategy. Last year, injury decimated the Dragon receiving corps, putting more pressure on the running game. A balanced attack this season could be the key to a deep run into the playoffs.

Meanwhile, Bowers survived his trial by fire and still came away with a win. I think it’s safe to say ball security will be a focus of practice in the next week. And while it’s possible that backup Clayton Webb might see some action next week, I doubt it.

The Dragons have a tough predistrict schedule this year, facing Martin next Friday and Rockwall the week after. I predict the cautious and crafty Hal Wasson, who begins his 11^th year as Southlake head coach this year, will stick with Bowers, who has game-time experience and has worked the most with the offensive starters.

Dragon Nation has measured expectations for its team this season. We’re just getting to know these young men and just beginning to assess their potential. At present, they still largely are cyphers to us all.

But my experience with this program is that it produces remarkable young men who understand they have a tradition of excellence, achievement and hard work to live up to.  Remarkably, they almost always do.

Go Dragons!

A mournful peal of doom

The dismantlement of the Dallas Morning News newsroom has begun as it prepares to shift operations from its home at 508 Young St. to the old Dallas Public Library, which has sat empty and abandoned on the other side of downtown for almost four decades.

The move will breathe new life into an historic Dallas landmark, but alas it also will be another mournful peal of doom for newspapers in general, the DMN in particular.

The News, of course, is depicting the fateful omen in flowery language and disguising the disaster with positive, optimistic prose. I’ve seen these performances before – the earnest gazes, the calm-voiced assurances that nothing is wrong, all is well – and I sadly predict there will be no happy endings here.

My friends and family know I derive no pleasure from such gloomy predictions. I spent a quarter of a century working at 508 Young, sharing the newsroom with some of the finest journalists this country has produced.

Some of my happiest days – and some of my saddest – occurred in that building with the proud, imposing – and more than a little pompous and overblown – façade:

“Build the news upon the rock of truth and righteousness. Conduct it always upon the lines of fairness and integrity. Acknowledge the right of the people to get from the newspaper both sides of every question.”

And when the last computer terminal has been packed, the last telephone console taken away, the work cubicles disassembled and stacked, I will mourn.

That’s what you do when proud institutions fade away and disappear into the dustbin of history. And despite the fact that the DMN kicked me to the curb in 2011 during one of its many rounds of layoffs, I’ll shed a tear or two when the doors are finally shuttered later this year.

DMN executives say the move will provide the newspaper with an opportunity to create a true digitally focused newsroom, as if that was a good thing. Trouble is, the “digital first” philosophy heralded by Editor Mike Wilson has done nothing but damage the print edition – the enterprise’s only cash cow worth mentioning – and steepened the death glide the DMN has been in since the early 2000s.

Readers continue to rush for the exits, as do advertisers. The rise in digital revenues trumpeted with such fanfare each quarter are no match for the plummeting revenues everywhere else.

Almost as an aside, DMN suits acknowledge that another impetus for the move is a financial one. By renting office space in the renovated Library building across town, the newspaper can save $1 million in annual operating expenses at 508 Young.

So read the move for what it really is – another desperate cost-cutting measure by an organization fighting a losing battle for its very existence. All too soon, this cost-saving effort will be followed by other cuts – almost certainly from the ranks of dedicated men and women who toil in an increasingly demanding sweatshop lashed daily with exhortations to “do more with less.”

I haven’t been back to the newsroom since the day I left six years ago, accompanied by two old friends on the long, lonely walk down the hall to the back dock. Life is good in my second career, and I have no desire to return to the place where my 37-year journalism career ended in embarrassment and heartbreak. At least not in person.

Because I have vivid memories of the newsroom that I left for the last time shortly after noon on Sept. 6, 2011.

I remember the first time I entered it in the summer of 1985, amazed at the size of it and energized – as I was on a daily basis – by the hustle and bustle of a newspaper on deadline.

I can see the row of clocks I sat under during my decade and a half on the foreign desk, their faces showing the time in capitals across the globe. Who cares what time it is in London unless you have a correspondent for whom you are responsible living and working there?

I see, as if it were yesterday, the corner of the room where I sat in 1989 when the call came summoning me to West Texas to see my father one last time (my mother telling me bleakly, “And bring your suit.”).

A year and a half later, I watched the TV set above the same desk as the ABC Evening News cut to a live shot from Baghdad. U.S. bombs were falling, and we were at war. In a planning meeting 20 minutes later, I remember the look of horror on News Editor Walt Stallings’ face when he was told we were adding a 10-page section to the first edition, whose deadline was only an hour away. We busted deadline, but the special section made all editions.

I can see Mary Carter, surrounded by dozens of colleagues, sitting at a terminal scrolling the AP wire as we all waited for the bulletin we already knew would officially announce we had won the 1994 Pulitzer Prize for International Reporting. One of the advantages of having your publisher on the Pulitzer board is the champagne can be chilling on ice for the celebration.

Over there is my cubicle on the metro desk where I picked up the phone one summer day in 2005 and heard an excited Dave Levinthal tell me FBI agents had descended on City Hall and were carrying boxes of documents out of Mayor Pro Tem Don Hill’s office. Four years later, Hill would go to prison for bribery.

And I can remember the overwhelming despair that swept over me as I sat in my cubicle by the western windows of the newsroom and stared at the ringing phone I knew would be a call from HR, informing me my days as a newspaperman were over.

Yes, I’ve been to the DMN newsroom many times since I left, and I suspect I’ll be back more times still. I left too much of my heart and soul there – and whatever talent I had – for it to be otherwise.

The DMN owners are still trying to figure out what to do with the five-story structure at 508 Young. They’d like to sell it, but so far have found no takers.

Anywhere else, it already would be designated an historic landmark. Opened in 1949, it was designed by architect George Dahl, who also designed Fair Park’s art deco buildings and, coincidentally, the Public Library building that will be the DMN’s next home.

Then there is the three-story “Rock of Truth” façade, which everyone agrees ought to be saved, if only they can figure out how to do it without bankrupting Croesus.

But the land upon which it sits just may be too valuable. The city covets it in order to create an entertainment district adjacent to the Convention Center and the Omni Hotel. Renovating the 68-year-old DMN building for such a purpose probably doesn’t fit into any financial equation.

Remember, too, this is Dallas, where historic preservation is a joke, so don’t be surprised if it eventually falls prey to the wrecking ball. And perhaps that is best.

Any new owners of the building might be discomforted by the ghosts that almost certainly will haunt the place. It’ll be a raucous crowd, noisy and profane and prone to practical jokes, most in very poor taste.

The new tenants will find it strange as each day throughout the late afternoon and early evening, the atmosphere of the building is seized by a growing sense of urgency, a rising level of stress and tension, followed shortly after 7 p.m. by a sudden whoosh of relief. A sense of calm then will fall over the building, as it and its ghostly inhabitants celebrate another successful sprint to the first-edition deadline.

The meaning of it all

I started my car this morning and from the radio came the distinctive opening guitar riff of “Old Man” by Neil Young.

It’s a favorite of mine, a reminder that youth is fleeting and that happiness doesn’t depend on fame and success, but instead is rooted in love and connection.

It was written by Young at the zenith of his fame, and the version I heard this morning was an early recording, with Young’s voice as clear as a ringing bell on the high notes. It made me sad and happy and introspective all at once in the way that great music does.

Young says the inspiration for the song was the caretaker of his California ranch, a simple, unassuming man who loved the land and his family and was content with his modest place in the universe.

Funny how your perspective changes. When I first heard the song in the 1970s, I identified with Young, “Old man, look at my life, 24 and there’s so much more.” This morning, I found myself contemplating things from the old man’s point of view.

Once upon a time, I thought “Old Man” was a love song, assuming Young viewed the old man as a cautionary tale, a warning about the consequences of not embracing life and love.

Old man take a look at my life
I'm a lot like you
I need someone to love me
the whole day through
Ah, one look in my eyes
and you can tell that's true.

And perhaps it is. But like most great songs, “Old Man” has layered meanings that reveal themselves only as we grow in experience, buffeted by age and regret and bolstered by knowledge and insight.

Now I understand what drew Young to the gray-haired handyman who tended things on the property purchased by the famous young rock balladeer’s music royalties and tour wages.

He didn’t feel sorry for his old friend. Quite the opposite, in fact. With the insight of an artist, he sang about a connection across generations, an appreciation that money, sex and rock ’n’ roll can’t make you happy, can’t fill the void inside you, can’t bring you peace in the wee hours of the morning as dawn and another damned day beckons.

I've been first and last
Look at how the time goes past.
But I'm all alone at last.
Rolling home to you.

Young looked at the old man and understood – even at his young age – the things that can offer us grace and a restful soul – an appreciation for the small things in life, an acknowledgement that we need other people to make our life complete. When he peered into the eyes of his caretaker, he saw peace and happiness. When he sings, “Old man look at my life. I’m a lot like you were,” it’s with a yearning – an earnest hope – that he can find that same peace and contentment.

As I drove to work this morning, I envisioned Young sitting on the porch of his California ranch house all those years ago, thinking deep thoughts for such a young man. And I envied his wisdom. It took me decades to get to the same place.

Next week, I go under the knife to remove a cancerous prostate. Perhaps it’s only natural, under such circumstances, to ponder the mysteries of life and muse about the real meaning of it all.

Our children's herculean task

When historians look back at this particular period of American history, I wonder what their judgment will be?

They won’t be kind, I suspect. Our country has slipped into such a state of malaise, selfishness and hatred that I scarcely recognize it. And it happened on my generation’s watch, which makes it all the more painful and all the more tragic.

We grew up in an era of peace and prosperity. Our parents pampered us and spoiled us in a way their parents were unable to do for them. Unlike our parents, most of us went to college, and our diplomas did not come packaged in bone-crushing debt. We demonstrated against and ended an unjust war, contributed our brains and brawn to the civil rights struggle, created the environmental and the women’s rights movements, and dreamed the dream of making a better world.

Tragically, it will be left to my children’s generation, the much-maligned Millennials, to clean up the mess that we Baby Boomers have left, and what a sorry mess it is.

The state of our democracy has never been more imperiled. The bloody, hard-fought progress we have made in racial, gender and LGBT relations is seriously threatened. The United States, once the light of a troubled world, has become a laughingstock before the brotherhood of nations.

At a time when environmental catastrophe looms ever larger, our leaders are retreating into the murk of superstition and false gods. And a large percentage of our countrymen feel so isolated from the world and so disenfranchised that they turned over, in their anger, frustration and fear, the reins of power to men governed only by nihilism, narcissism and greed.

Yes, I know. These are strange thoughts to have on the Fourth, normally a time of pride and celebration. But these are not normal times and this is not a normal holiday. I have a sickness of heart and an oppression of spirit so heavy that sometimes I can hardly draw a breath.

So amid the flag-waving and fireworks that normally mark this day, I humbly suggest we say a quiet prayer for happier times and for God to guide the hands of our children, who have inherited the herculean task of preserving our democracy and leading our country out of the wilderness into which we led it.

I believe they are up to the task. Our children -- the greatest gift we could ever give to this sad, troubled world.

A parable about letting go

For parents who have successfully shepherded their children into adulthood and believed the home stretch was in sight, a parable:

On a recent morning, your 21-year-old son informs you he is making a short trip to Austin to visit friends.

He’s living at home this summer to save money for the two international trips he has planned during his break in classes at UNT. Last month, he spent a week in Switzerland and Germany with two buddies and made it home without getting blown up by terrorists. In a few days, he and his sister will journey to Israel on a Birthright trip both have anticipated for years. You’re already fretting about that little adventure because your 15 years on the DMN’s International Desk taught you a few things about the world and none of them are reassuring.

College has matured your son. He’s no longer the muddle-headed flibbertigibbit you sent to Denton three years ago, fearful of the dangerous lures a college town can have on an aimless spirit. He’s become a thoughtful, responsible young man and a good student. Last semester, he made the Dean’s List for the second year in a row.

So when you hear about the Austin trip, you aren’t alarmed – until you hear the details. He’ll drive to Austin on Wednesday afternoon and, for reasons that make sense only to him, he and a UNT pal will spent one day in the capital and start home sometime after midnight on Thursday.

Negotiating I-35 in the wee hours after an evening of bar-crawling on Sixth Street sounds like an appalling idea. But you swallow your reservations – mindful of the promise you made to yourself to give the young adult living under your roof some space – and wish him good luck and God’s speed.

On Thursday night, you go to bed at the regular time and manage to drift into a troubled sleep. But at 2 a.m. your eyes pop open and you know any further sleep will be impossible until you hear his key in the front door.

You lay there, your mind swimming with every wayward traveler’s story you covered during a long newspaper career. You remember the grieving parents you’ve interviewed, only now – in your mind’s eye – it is you who is answering the questions and struggling with the loss.

Then, at 4:45 a.m. you hear the sound you’ve been praying for. The scrape of his key, his shoulder muscling the sticky front door open. Home, at last! A dozen things flash through your head. You want to scold him for not calling to give you an ETA, to lecture him about the dangers of highway travel at night, to deliver a lesson in responsibility and consideration for those who love him.

But you don’t do any of that. Instead, you ask if he had any trouble on the road and wish him a good night. As he trudges tiredly upstairs to fall into a blissful sleep, you lie back exhausted, thankful that inexorable fate has spared you again by passing your door without stopping. And as you, too, slip into dreamless slumber, only three words are on your mind, “Thank you, God.”

The sun shines once again

On a rainy afternoon last week, I sat down with my urologist and talked about cancer.

My cancer.

It was a pleasant enough conversation. He talked, I mostly listened. There was no drama and little outward emotion from either of us. The two boxes of tissues in the consultation room went unused.

All things considered, it appears that I’m a pretty lucky guy.

My cancer is located in my prostate, hasn’t metastasized elsewhere and is highly treatable with radiation and/or surgery. My chances of a cure – not a term used loosely by those in the medical trade – are good.

In the two months that I’ve lived with the possibility of having cancer, a succession of nightmarish scenarios played havoc with my peace of mind. For the first time in my 65 years on earth, I was forced to confront my own mortality.

As death shifted from being a vague concept into a very real possibility, a certain clarity of mind ensued. In the last few weeks, I’ve conducted an accounting of my life and what I have and haven’t accomplished.

The results of that assessment were sobering, but not altogether unpleasant. I’m a man of many faults and deep regrets. But I’m not a complete reprobate. I have had my moments, as they say. That said, I’m grateful I apparently still have time to chart new courses, right a few wrongs and work on being a better me.

The biggest problem with being as old as I am is not the aches and pains of an aging, disintegrating body, but the sadness of seeing family, old friends and acquaintances succumb to disease and debilitating illnesses.

Even as I celebrate – quietly, out of a fear of bringing kharma down upon me – my own positive prognosis, I have friends who face a cloudier, more uncertain future. Clicking my heels at my good fortune – even if I could accomplish such a feat without permanent damage – seems too churlish by half.  

A couple of former newspaper colleagues are waging much stiffer battles with the Big C than I am and are brilliantly documenting their journeys on social media. They are talented and brave, and their posts – which they hope will help others facing similar struggles – demonstrate vividly the depth of their character. I am proud to call them friends, and my prayers are with them and their families.

My own experience is more prosaic and less instructive. I’ll keep it largely to myself, not out of a concern for privacy, but out of an embarrassment for the good fortune I feel.

Later this summer, I’ll go under the knife to have my prostate removed. If necessary, I’ll undergo some follow-up radiation treatment to make sure all the cancer cells are destroyed. And after that?

Who knows? Of one thing I’m sure. The clouds eventually part, and the sun shines once again.