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.

The man in the photograph

The young man gazing so steadily into the camera, the mere wisp of a smile on his face, is my father, Clyde Gunnels, a farm boy from Eastland County until he was swept up into the fiery furnace of World War II.

He would be about 26 in the photo, old for a soldier. Most of his buddies were years younger. He wasn’t new to the Army when the photo was taken, as shown by the corporal’s stripes he wears on his sleeve. There’s also a quiet confidence radiating from his eyes. He has the look of someone who knows his job, his place in the world. The look of a guy who already has stormed a hostile beach and lived to tell the tale.

He’s seen terrible things, unimaginable things. And he will see more, much more before the guns are silent and he is able to return to the Texas countryside and marry his sweetheart, my mother, whose photo he carries in a stained and battered case.

His age, as much as anything else, is probably responsible for his stripes. He is not a talker, not a leader of men in the conventional sense. There would be no showy heroics, no “follow me, boys” histrionics from this noncom, who won his third stripe before war’s end. He would have led by quiet example, by doing his job and going on to the next one without waiting for praise or reward.

He was, after all, a farm boy, a youngster who picked cotton to pay for his first gun, a .22-caliber single shot, only to have his gruff, domineering father take it for his own. He was the oldest of three brothers, the one who war took to the other side of the world, the one who crawled ashore four times – in the Aleutians, at Kwajalein, at Leyte in the Philippines and, finally, into the cauldron that was Okinawa.

Miraculously, he emerged unscathed, at least physically. All his scars were on the inside, where he kept them safely hidden. My mother worried about him, concerned at first when he refused to join the VFW or the American Legion, dismissing them as refuges for blowhards and shirkers. That was unfair, of course, but he had a lifelong aversion to talking about his combat experiences. Only occasionally, when fueled by beer and shots of whiskey, would he relate tales of noncombat hijinks during between-invasion rotations in Hawaii.

My father returned from World War II, married, got a job and raised a family. He did so with no fanfare. He expected no parades and heart-pumping speeches, and he received none. He was a patriotic American who flew the flag from our front porch on the Fourth of July and Memorial Day, but acknowledged to me late one night that he hoped and prayed I would never have to go to Vietnam. “I fought in war so you would never have to,” he said, tears streaming down his cheeks. That I faced such a prospect seemed to him an act of betrayal by the country he had defended so well.

Today, I honor the man in the photograph, a stalwart, dues-paying member of the Greatest Generation who died in 1989 at age 71. I honor my father and his comrades, the ordinary men who put down their tools and their plows and their books to save the world from rampaging evil.

In speaking of these men, James Jones, author of From Here to Eternity and a WWII veteran himself, wrote:

“How many times they had heard the old, long-drawn-out, faint field command pass down the long length of vast parade grounds, fading, as the guidons moved out front.

“So slowly it faded, leaving behind it a whole generation of men who would walk into history looking backwards, with their backs to the sun, peering forever over their shoulders behind them, at their own lengthening shadows trailing across the earth. None of them would ever really get over it.”

You’ll be a man, my son

Ethan Gunnels turns 21 today, and I’ve been wondering for some time now how to mark appropriately the occasion of my son’s official entry into adulthood.

My first instinct, of course, is to burst into tears and curl into a fetal ball.

But that would be a disservice to the splendid young man he has become and to the adventures he yearns with quickening pulse to commence.

Ethan always has possessed an independent mind and a contrarian spirit. He’s not a joiner, not a follower, not a hanger-on. He charts his own course and steps boldly to the beat of his own drum.

He is on schedule to graduate from UNT in December, a semester early. He’s eager to get on with his life and whatever it holds. He’s a bit vague about his plans. He talks about getting a job tending bar in a ski resort or going to New York to make films or a dozen other ideas that flit through his mind as he waits for the future to come into sharper focus.

I’ve resisted the impulse to lecture him about starting a career, exploring opportunities and making responsible decisions – all the nonsense fathers are expected to offer their sons at this pivotal moment in their lives.

I just can’t bring myself to do it. If I’ve learned one thing after more than 40 years of toil in the marketplace, it’s that 21 is too young to abandon your dreams, yoke yourself to a lifetime of responsibilities and toe the line society demands of promising young men with sharp minds and courageous hearts.

Ethan wouldn’t listen anyway, bless him. He’d endure my droning for a while, looking distracted and uncomfortable, and then, at the earliest opportunity, slip quickly away.

Improbably, he’s found himself at UNT. That should be the function of a college education but often isn’t. Instead, college has become the place where society prepares the next crop of innocents for the commercial maw.

His mother and I sent Ethan to Denton with some trepidation, worried he might sink like some Southlake kids into a dazed muddle of partying, dope-smoking and beer-guzzling. He dabbled in some of that – honestly now, what college kid hasn’t? But he shocked both of us last year by making the Dean’s List, deciding on a history major and sacrificing party-going and girl-chasing for a part-time job.

I don’t worry so much about him anymore, at least no more than the normal father, mindful of his own feckless youth and the inevitability of the gene pool.

To be kind, he was a lackluster student at Southlake Carroll High School, where he maintained a gentleman’s C while nurturing a barely concealed contempt for the privilege and glitter around him.

Ethan mostly hung out with Carroll’s more bohemian crowd, offering bitter, often cogent commentary about life in the “Southlake Bubble.” But he remained his own man, maintaining friendships he’d formed in childhood among Carroll’s “cool kids,” including members of its heralded football team.

Once upon a time, he’d been one of them. As a child, Ethan sampled all the sports – soccer, Little League, inline hockey, basketball and the rest. It was only when he showed up on his first flag football field that he found his place. From that moment, he embraced football and played flag and then tackle with a passion and determination that brought tears to my eyes more than once.

I loved every minute he played. And he loved it, too, until a concussion in the 8^th grade, and the medical complications that followed, eventually robbed him of his passion for the game.

So he switched to the rough-and-tumble sport of lacrosse, drawn I suspect to its violence and physicality. That’s when I learned just how tough my quiet, brooding young son really was.

I had hints before that, of course. In the 6th grade, during his last year in peewee football, I arrived at practice one night to see him coming off the field, holding his right arm, his pale face tight with pain.

“It hurt real bad, Dad, but I didn’t cry,” he told me through clinched teeth. He was out three weeks with a hairline wrist fracture, but he returned to his team wearing a Dragon-green cast and played the rest of the season. The refs made him encase his cast in bubble wrap, lest he use it as a club. At season’s end, the Senior Green Dragons won the Dragon Youth Football championship, and Ethan was a big part of it.

In lacrosse, my son, new to the game, lacked the net-handling skills of his teammates, most of whom had played the sport since grade school. But Ethan showed the fearlessness and aggressiveness needed to play goalie. So that’s where he lined up, with only light pads and an oversized netted stick to protect him from the hard rubber balls being hurled his way from every direction.

Southlake Carroll, a premier football school, had a so-so lacrosse program. After one lopsided JV game (22-3) with lacrosse powerhouse Episcopal School of Dallas, I met Ethan coming off the field. He had played a full half in the box, no match for ESD’s swarming attackers.

“Tough game,” I said. “You must have felt like you were in a shooting gallery.”

“Yeah, they were throwing the ball pretty hard,” he admitted, lifting his uniform shorts to reveal a mass of black, blue and green bruises covering the inside of both thighs. “They usually don’t turn this color for a couple of days!”

He’ll need some of that toughness as he travels along life’s road. But Ethan will manage. Turns out, he’s got a good head on his shoulders. I’d like to think I have something to do with that, but it’s probably as much my wife’s contribution as mine.

From me, he gets a low tolerance for ineptitude, malfeasance and mendacity and a generally low opinion of his fellow man. I’m not proud that I’ve made my son a cynic, and I fear that legacy will cause him more pain than joy. But alas, it is what it is.

Around his mother and me, Ethan mostly is reserved, even somber. If he has a silly side, and I devoutly hope he does, he saves it for his friends and, on rare occasions, for his sister. Rachel delights in calling herself the “Perfect Child” in her brother’s presence, and he generally regards her with irritable distain, except for when he seeks out her advice on girls and other topics he judges too sensitive for his so-square parents.

He and his mother share a special bond. He came after two miscarriages, and Marice always has considered Ethan to be her miracle baby, special beyond compare to a mom who has only sisters and whose closest cousins are female, too.

She understands him better than I do, and she has endless patience for her youngest child, even when he displays appalling judgment and engages in questionable decision-making. Her baby can do no wrong.

I look at my son and often wonder what’s going on behind those guarded brown eyes. I don’t worry about his character. He’s a good person with a kind and giving heart, and he keeps his commitments. Even as a child, he felt compelled to defend weaker kids from schoolyard bullies. He didn’t have to be taught that. The instinct to protect the victimized and confront their tormentors always has been strong.

But I’m not sure I completely understand him. And perhaps he doesn’t fully understand himself. God knows I was a cipher at his age – to my parents, many of my friends and myself.

I came late to parenthood, goaded into it by my patient and loving wife. But I have never enjoyed anything more than being the father of Rachel and Ethan. I’ve watched, with a mixture of soaring joy and profound sadness, as they successfully negotiated the transition from child to grownup.

Family and friends know I’m a sentimental man. I still cling to memories of when my children looked to me for security and guidance, when I stood much taller in their lives than I do now.

 So I still cherish the nightly ritual my son and I perform on the rare nights when we sleep under the same roof. It’s one we’ve shared since he was 3.

 “Good night, Son. Love you.”

“Good night, Dad. Love you, too. Don’t let the bed bugs bite!”

A battle with an inevitable end

I’m no longer a newspaperman. But since I spent the better part of my adult life in one newsroom or another, I guess I still qualify as one of King Donald’s Enemies of the American People. Like my former colleagues, I wear his scornful label like a medal.

 Of course, it makes no sense for Trump to declare full-scale war on the press. I can only assume our President-who-wishes-he-were-Czar has never heard of the old saying that you should never pick a fight with someone who buys ink by the barrel.

Perhaps he thinks that admonition only applies to the nobodies of the world, not to a big shot like him. He revels in the financial difficulties his tormentors in the news media have suffered of late. He delights in referring to the “failing New York Times” or the “failing Washington Post.” He’d like you to believe CNN’s ratings are dropping like a rock. Alas, Donald dear, they aren’t. They in fact are rising, thanks mostly to you, as are digital subscribers to both the Times and Post.

The truth can be so inconvenient at times, wouldn’t you say?

In fact, there’s a real strategy at work here. King Donald is not blindly lashing out at the news media in a fit of pique. By discrediting the news media – by repeating over and over and over that they produce only “fake news,” that their practitioners are disloyal traitors, that they are despicable human beings –he is laying the groundwork for the day when the house of cards tumbles and he is driven from the office he already has disgraced. And those cards will fall. Of that, there is little doubt.

Consider this. Who sits atop Trump’s enemies list? The American news media and the intelligence community – the two entities that can bring him to his knees if accusations are true that his representatives colluded with the Russians to throw the presidential election to him.

There hasn’t been such a news frenzy to uncover wrongdoing at the top levels of government since the heady days of Watergate. The Times and Post, traditional rivals, are locked in a fierce competition to break things wide open. Don’t bet against them, either. They’ve done this before.

As for the spooks, they have the tape recordings, if they exist, that can prove the accusations and send some of Trump’s lackeys to the slammer, where they belong. And the CIA and its confederates in the shadow world of espionage loathe the preening narcissist who has attacked their patriotism and demeaned their competency. I suspect they’re only waiting for the right time to drop the hammer on Agent Orange.

Add to this volatile mixture a White House that is leaking like a sieve, with Trumpites falling over themselves to detail the dysfunctionality of this carnival act masquerading as an administration.

What can Trump and his brownshirts do to prevent the end of their hopes and dreams? They must do everything in their power to discredit the media and the CIA and anyone else who asks too many questions or who knows too many answers.

So they strive to convince their hard core supporters that it’s All Lies. Lies, lies, lies. “Our enemies are liars,” they say over and over. “Don’t believe the leakers in the intelligence community. Don’t believe the lying media. WE are the only people you can trust. WE are your Only Salvation.”

I believe they will fail – and badly. I think there is an inevitable end to this sad, sad tale, and I believe the truth will prevail sooner or later. And it will be much-maligned members of the news media who will uncover that truth and send it into every corner of the country.

I have faith in my former colleagues, who have suffered for more than 10 years through layoffs and cutbacks and ever increasing workloads. This is the kind of story they live for. It is the kind of story that may yet demonstrate the essential nature of a free and vigorous news media.

Several days ago, in response to a Facebook post I wrote in praise of journalist Dan Rather’s social media commentary, my friend Michael Precker imagined the Times and Post as sailing frigates firing cannon broadsides at “Trump’s pirate ship.” Michael knows I’m a fan of Patrick O’Brian’s famous series of historical novels about the era of fighting sail during the Napoleonic wars.

Inspired, I engaged in a little exercise of my own. I reproduce it here, mostly for my amusement and perhaps for yours:

“A la O'Brian, here's another analogy. Trump's White House is the French navy. To outward appearances, it puts on a pretty show, brass gleaming, sails snowy white and lines taut and shipshape. But it serves the whims of a brooding tyrant, petty and egotistical, with ambitions to enslave the world. And in battle, it is all bark and no bite. Its tactics are flawed, its execution sloppy and inconsistent and its gunnery shoddy and slow. The Times and Post are capital ships of the British navy. And although their sails may be a bit tattered from prolonged combat, their hulls pockmarked and patched from past cannon strikes, their crews are highly motivated and supremely disciplined, their gunners dead-eyed marksmen whose crews work like well-oiled machines to pound the enemy ships again and again until they are shattered, burning wrecks.”

Area Round: DeSoto 48, Southlake Carroll 30

For a half, it looked like last night’s meeting of Southlake Carroll and DeSoto might be a replay of their thrilling 2012 playoff battle, a hard-fought, well-played game in which the Eagles successfully defended their tight 49-45 lead with a classic goal-line defense as the clock wound down.

Throughout the first half last night, the two teams jockeyed for advantage, the lead changing with each possession. But there were signs of the stormy seas ahead for Carroll for those who chose to see them.

On its first possession, Carroll moved effectively to the DeSoto 4, thanks to a 66-yard toss by senior quarterback Mason Holmes to junior receiver Jacob Doddridge. But the stingy Eagle defense broke up two pass plays and kept star running back Audie Gaines corralled, forcing Carroll to settle for a 21-yard Kole Ramage field goal to seize the first lead of the game.

Later, trailing 7-3, Holmes found senior receiver Clayton Keyes on a 23-yard pass that brought the Dragons to the Eagle 21. Two plays later, Holmes connected with senior receiver Jackson Davis in the end zone, but the TD was negated by a procedural call. Once again, the Dragons had to settle for a Ramage field goal, this time a 38-yarder into a stiff north wind. Later, he boomed a 47-yarder.

That series was unsettling on several fronts. First, silly mistakes that cost you TDs can be fatal against a determined and talented team like DeSoto, as can trading field goals for TDs. Finally, the pass to Keyes, while a beautiful play, was costly. Keyes, one of the few remaining playmakers in the Dragon receiving corps, injured his shoulder and never came back.

Injuries are part of the game, of course. But this seemed like a particularly bad harbinger for what was to come. The Dragons have been plagued by injuries all season, particularly among their receivers. Keyes was only the latest on a casualty list that included junior Cade Bell and the Dragons’ true superstar, senior Robert Barnes.

Premonitions aside, there was plenty to like in that first half.

When Holmes connected with senior receiver Jackson Davis (2-84, 2 TDs) on a 60-yard touchdown catch and run with about 2 minutes left, it looked like the Dragons would take a 23-21 lead into halftime.

That’s when DeSoto’s peerless senior quarterback, the remarkable Shawn Robinson, staged a textbook 75-yard touchdown march that shifted momentum permanently to the Eagles and sank the spirits of shivering Dragon fans, who sensed in their hearts that DeSoto was finally asserting itself once and for all.

That smoothly operating drive threatened to sputter at the Dragon 34 when Carroll’s never-say-die defense sacked Robinson with 11 second left.  Even then, more than a few of us were thinking: Here It Comes.

On the next play, Robinson calmly dropped back and tossed the ball to his favorite target, receiver KD Nixon (11 receptions for 163 yards), who loped into the end zone. Robinson then added insult to injury by slipping through the Carroll D-line for a 2-point conversion. The Eagles took a 29-23 lead into the locker room and never looked back.

The tale of the tape in the decisive third quarter was brutal. DeSoto outgained Carroll 174-16, scoring on three of its first four possessions and holding the Dragons scoreless until the final seconds of the fourth quarter, long, long after the end had been determined.

It was a thorough beatdown for a proud team like Carroll. But in keeping with the traditions of the program, the kids never stopped fighting.

Holmes (6-20-1 INT, 158), denied most of his best receivers, kept scrambling, pursued by DeSoto’s swarming defense, trying to find someone to throw to. Audie Gaines (22 carries for 104 yards, 1 TD) kept trying, mostly in vain, to pierce the Eagle D-line, settling instead for more modest gains, if any.

Dragon defenders didn’t quit either, but they had no answer for Robinson, who dismantled Carroll’s D for the second year in a row. Last year, he guided Denton Guyer to a similar dominating performance against the Dragons in the second round. He followed his parents, who are both coaches, to DeSoto, where he encountered the welcoming embrace of coaches and players alike.

DeSoto has struggled to escape the second round of the playoffs for the past two years, falling in 2014 and 2015 to the Allen Eagles. Robinson and realignment allowed it to avoid Allen AND an early exit this year. It is well poised to make a deep plunge.

In DeSoto green and gold, Robinson was magnificent, leading the Eagles to 621 total yards. Of that, he accounted for an astounding 454, completing 18 of 30 throws for 245 yards and a touchdown, and rushing for 209 more and three scores. You can’t get much better than that.

As I’ve stated before, the goal of the Dragon football program is to play until Thanksgiving. In other words, to make it into at least the fourth round of the playoffs each year. That’s a tall order in Texas, where there are no easy routes to a state championship. But goals should be aspirational and difficult, or else what’s the point.

Alas, Dragon players won’t be distracted from their Thanksgiving dinners by a Turkey Day practice – another unshakeable Dragon tradition when Carroll makes a deep playoff run. Given the choice, I’m pretty sure the Dragons, to a man, would prefer the chilly practice field to the delights of a family holiday meal.

Disappointment reigns today in the toney confines of the Southlake Bubble, but it should be tempered with an appreciation of what this team has accomplished. It started the season with a desultory performance against Oklahoma powerhouse Tulsa Union, a performance shaped, it is fair to say, by the somber fact that eight starters were sidelined with injuries.

Carroll coaches overcame that, however, by moving their best player, the inestimable Barnes, from the defensive secondary, where he could play any position with skill and grace, to wide receiver. That was just the spark needed to energize the offense, and Carroll began a 10-game winning streak and a triumphant march through District 5-6A.

Injuries and more injuries continued to define the season, however, culminating in Barnes breaking his right leg last month in the Bryon Nelson game. Still, the Dragons surmounted the disruptions and continued to win.

With much of their receiving corps on crutches or in arm slings, coaches were forced to shift the focus of their offense from Carroll’s heralded vertical attack to a ground game centered around three talented runners.

The lead dog, as it were, clearly was Gaines, a Mansfield Timberview transfer who found his place and made his name in playing for Southlake.

Gaines ends the season with 1,523 rushing yards and 21 touchdowns. He rushed for 100 or more yards in nine games and scored a touchdown in every game. I’m not certain yet where he goes next year, but it’s a safe bet he’ll find a college playing home somewhere.

Filling out the Dragon running trio were seniors Tre Sledge, who ended up with 501 yards and four TDs, and Jack Johansson, who gained 436 and eight TDs.

Barnes, who has spent the last four games on the Dragon sideline in crutches, had successful surgery on his broken leg and will next be seen playing in Norman with the Sooners.

As for the future, sophomore quarterback Will Bowers, Holmes’ heir apparent, got valuable playing time in each of the last two playoff games. Last night, he guided a 90-yard TD drive in the closing minutes of the game, culminated by a 23-yard pass to Davis.

Bell, the junior receiver, will be back to form the core of the receiving unit, as will junior Hudson Shrum.

Two stalwarts on the Dragons' worthy O-line, juniors Matthew Leehan and Jackson Kimble, will be back. And on defense, freshman corner R.J. Mickens, who was called upon to step into Barnes’ very big shoes when he went down, played far above expectations, snagging multiple interceptions and shutting off passing routes like no other 15-year-old you’re likely to see. It’ll be fun to see how he develops in the next three years.

Meanwhile, the DeSoto Eagles travel to Wichita Falls next week to meet birds of another feather, the Abilene Eagles, in the Regional Round. Abilene dismantled El Paso Americas 55-0 last night, but it will face an opponent playing an entirely different game when it lines up against DeSoto.

West Texas teams once boasted about the hard-nosed brand of football they played, but the high school game has largely passed them by. They don’t fare well once they leave the dusty stadiums of the West. Next week, my money’s riding on Shawn Robinson and his shattering offensive line.

The state championships are back in Jerry’s World the weekend before Christmas. Perhaps I’ll see you there. Until next year, Go Dragons!

Area Round Preview: Southlake Carroll vs. DeSoto

Talk about a bargain. I bought tickets today for the Southlake Carroll-DeSoto playoff game on Friday. They were $6 apiece.

For that pittance, I’ll get to experience some of the best high school football in Texas, which is to say in the nation. The Dragons-Eagles matchup at Murphy’s Kimbrough Stadium will be the showcase game of the second round of this year’s football playoffs.

Mighty DeSoto, rated by The Associated Press as No. 2 in Texas, is undefeated this season, thanks to an explosive offense and stingy defense. Carroll, ranked No. 8, has lost only one game, its first, and roared into the post-season last week with a convincing win against Wylie.

 The Dragons normally potent air attack has been hampered by injuries to their receiving corps. But operating behind a quick-footed, muscular offensive line, a trio of bruising rushers, led by senior Audie Gaines, has picked up the slack admirably. Meanwhile, the Carroll defense has effectively smothered offenses and kept opposing quarterbacks scrambling.

The Dragon D will have all it can handle against the Eagles, who are led by well-traveled senior quarterback Shawn Robinson. That name is a familiar one for Carroll fans. Last year, Robinson, playing for Denton Guyer, dismantled the Dragons in the second round of the playoffs.

In the off season, both of Robinson’s parents were hired as coaches at DeSoto. By UIL rules, their son was immediately eligible to play for the Eagles. He’s a genuine double-threat, speedy and agile on his feet with a rifle for an arm. DeSoto is the third high school for whom he’s played, and he’s been a superstar at each one.

So for the second year in a row, the Dragons must figure out how to stop Robinson in order to escape the second round. It’s hard to imagine them being able to corral him with any degree of success. He will get his yardage – on the ground or in the air, or both.

The key to a Dragon victory will be whether it can match the Eagles in scoring. So far, no one has been able to stop the Dragon runners, but DeSoto certainly will try. Can the injury-plagued Carroll receiving corps rise to the challenge and mount a good-enough vertical attack to open up the run? Only time will tell.

All I can say is that for six bucks, it will be quite a show. Go Dragons!