Category: Funny Business

When I left Birmingham on Christmas Day, 2006, I thought I might never again call the Magic City home.

I was set to start a new job the following day in Anderson, South Carolina, marking the first time I’d ever worked outside of Alabama. It was exciting to try something new, and I was ready to embrace my unfamiliar surroundings.

And I did.

After six months living in Anderson I moved to Greenville, and fell in love with the city. Downtown is glorious, most things that interest me are conveniently located (Bon Secours Wellness Arena, home of the ECHL Greenville Swamp Rabbits, was exactly one mile from my driveway), and we were 60 miles from Asheville, North Carolina – one of this planet’s most beautiful places.

After spending a quarter of my life (so far) living in the Upstate, there was no compelling reason to leave.

Until there was.

The first five years or so that I lived there, trips back to my hometown were bittersweet. It seemed I remembered the bad times more than the good, and it was like visiting an old friend you’d had a falling out with and didn’t really know anymore.

Every time I left, I couldn’t wait to get home to Greenville.

Then there was a slight shift over the next five years. Going to Birmingham was more enjoyable, marked by memories of good times and the warmth of gatherings with old friends. My farewells were much fonder when I headed east, even though returning to G-Vegas was always welcome.

These last five years, though, have been like a nostalgia trip played on a continuous loop. Every restaurant, park or monument I pass in Birmingham has a story, and the plot has thickened as time goes by – with me as a character.

I think about my first football game with my dad and brother at Legion Field.

I recall my first concert at what was then known as the Birmingham-Jefferson Civic Center Coliseum (Boston, with Sammy Hagar opening).

And I smile when I recount those times when – in an attempt to be suave –  I’d take a date to the observation tower atop the Vulcan statue.

And of course no trip down memory lane would be complete unless I mentioned my college days when I’d walk in the Upside Down Plaza at midnight and then stumble out in daylight.

I found myself wanting to stay a little longer, and feeling a real sense of sadness when I left.

Over the last few months Mary and I talked about eventually moving back, but there was no timetable and no sense of urgency; it would happen when it happened. In a span of just a few days, however, a couple decided they wanted to buy our house, and we discovered a condo for sale in Vestavia Hills, which is a suburb of Birmingham that sits atop Shades Mountain.

Next thing you knew, my hometown became the town I call home once again.

Don’t get me wrong … these last 15 years have been wonderful. I learned that after three decades in the newspaper business – covering everything from the NFL to Olympic soccer to the Masters – my favorite thing was telling stories from Division II athletics (thank you, Anderson Trojans).

Later I discovered that writing for fun instead of profit is the most rewarding kind of writing, even if there’s no money in it.

And I realized that home is where your heart is, and Greenville, South Carolina, certainly had mine.

I’ll always treasure those years in one of my very favorite towns.

But on Friday I began a new chapter in my old city – excited about reconnecting with friends and family and reestablishing my roots. And since sports has always been an important part of my ongoing journey around the sun, I found a sweet landing spot.

The distance from Bartow Arena, home of the UAB basketball Blazers, is 6.8 miles from my front door. Protective Stadium, where UAB will play football, is also less than seven miles away. The Birmingham Barons AA baseball team at Regions Field (6.8 miles), UAB and Birmingham Legion soccer at BBVA Field (6.6 miles), G League basketball at Legacy Arena (7.4 miles), Birmingham Bulls hockey at the Pelham Civic Complex (10.2 miles) – I couldn’t ask for a more perfect pinpoint on the map.

It’s a homecoming that feels real and joyous, and one long overdue after being gone for a decade and a half. The fit is snug and comfortable.

Turns out that even though I left Birmingham, Birmingham never really left me.

Last Saturday morning I was walking through our neighborhood and thanks to the summer-like weather, it was buzzing with activity. Aside from the normal sight of people mowing lawns and trimming hedges, there were young children with baskets trundling through their respective yards.

Turns out the yards were covered in colorful plastic eggs, and as I smiled and waved at a neighbor, she informed me that her kids were enjoying an Easter egg hunt.

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So I watched for a minute, and basically what I saw were cute little girls and cute little boys just randomly picking up faux eggs and placing them in their baskets.

The process didn’t take long because – again – the eggs were in plain sight. There’s no way the kids could’ve missed them.

I like to think of myself as a good neighbor and a nice person, so I didn’t say anything. But I’m telling you, this was not a hunt of any kind. This wasn’t even a “fish in a barrel” situation. It was more like, “Hey kids … try not to step on an egg when you’re picking up another egg here in this field of copious eggs.”

According to the dictionary, the first definition of “hunt” is to “pursue or kill for sport or food” and the second is “search determinedly for someone or something.”

OK, maybe in the technical sense these kids were pursuing plastic eggs for sport and searching determinedly for them so they were, in fact “hunting” eggs. But to my mind a real, working definition of “hunt” requires at least a rudimentary level of difficulty.

So let’s return to those thrilling days of yesteryear when I was a small, bespectacled child adorned in a Nehru shirt, polyester shorts and Keds.

We had actual, sure enough Easter egg hunts because the Easter eggs were hidden. And I don’t mean they were placed atop a clump of grass or situated by a column on a front porch – they were carefully tucked away in hard to reach, hard to find spots.

In fact, when it was time to hunt Easter eggs, I was never asked, “Do you want to hunt Easter eggs?” I was told by my mother, “I’m going to hide eggs.” (It was implied that since they were hidden, they should subsequently be hunted).

The entire ritual took place over a 24-hour period. First mother would boil actual eggs (I’m not condoning the use of real eggs, I’m just telling you this was my experience) and once they cooled, she would dye them. I remember other kids would have brightly colored eggs and some even had designs because their parents used coloring kits.

Not mom.

Her eggs were usually what I would call either “crime scene red” or “brutal bleeding blue.” They were also splotchy, so they had a bit of a Jackson Pollock vibe, even though I had no idea who Jackson Pollock was at the time.

As for the hiding, I’m sure much of that job was farmed out to my brother, who was 12 years older than me. He would hide them in trees, under manholes, inside mailboxes – I think he even buried a few with the aid of a trowel.

But mom – who had a bit of a mean streak – wasn’t totally uninvolved with the cloaking of the eggs. I can never prove it, of course, but I’m pretty sure she once flung one into the open window of a moving automobile.

By the end of the day many eggs went unclaimed (the one in the car possibly even wound up in another state), but those I found were like gold to me because I had earned them. And there was nothing quite so satisfying as peeling those little suckers and eating them. A boiled egg that has been unrefrigerated, exposed to the elements for a full day and then devoured tastes like victory.

Now, far be it from me to tell anyone how to raise their children. And if having kids stomp through a yard full of plastic eggs randomly tossed on the ground is your idea of a “hunt,” I won’t argue with you. But the old ways are sometimes the best ways. And if you happen to find an egg in your mailbox this weekend – or notice one in the backseat of your car – then you’ll know a real Easter egg hunt is afoot.

In the movie “Rocky Balboa,” trainer Duke Evers explains to the title character what it’ll take for him to have a puncher’s chance against a much younger, much faster boxer.

“You know all there is to know about fighting, so there’s no sense us going down that same old road again,” Evers says. “To beat this guy, you need speed – you don’t have it. And your knees can’t take the pounding, so hard running is out. And you got arthritis in your neck, and you’ve got calcium deposits on most of your joints, so sparring is out. So, what we’ll be calling on is good, ol’ fashioned, blunt-force trauma.”

I can relate because I, too, am an older athlete. And by “older athlete” I mean I wear T-shirts with sports logos and have an ESPN+ subscription.

Actually I do try to stay physically fit. I walk a minimum of five miles per day (I usually average seven) and work out with (tiny) weights three times a week. I also do 25 push-ups each morning. They aren’t the cool, one-armed push-ups like Rocky does … they’re more of the strained, butt-sticking-high-in-the-air kind. Still, not bad for guy born with 20 days remaining in the Eisenhower Administration.

However, I’m far removed from my youthful heyday as a right winger in soccer, cross-country runner and 220 sprinter. That being said, this pandemic has made me want to get more active once the world begins anew and I’m able to have maskless interactions with other humanoids. I’d like to take up a sport, but it has to be one that I can enjoy and at least have the illusion of being competitive.

Right off the bat I can tell you that sport will not be boxing. Outside of high school gym class I’ve never done it, and my record for after-school parking lot fights is 0-1.

I don’t want to get beat up or beat down, likely scenarios if I stepped into the squared circle.

Golf is also out. I “played” it for decades, but have finally reached the conclusion that I simply don’t enjoy it. I’m no good at it, I’ve never been good at it, and I’ll never be good at it.

Once I T-boned another golf cart to avoid driving into a water hazard, and that’s my most memorable moment.

When a vehicular accident is your top golf memory, your golf memories suck.

I love tennis and played quite a bit back in the day, but I just don’t think my joints could handle it anymore. I was aggressive and liked to cover a lot of court, but now I’d have to stick to a baseline game which is a style I never particularly liked.

I’d also need to buy a racket, because I can’t find the one I last used back in 1992.

Swimming is out. Sure, I like putting on goggles, swim fins and water wings while frolicking in a kiddie pool – who doesn’t? – but all that Michael Phelps nonsense is just too much work.

And riding bicycles is fun but I don’t want to do it for sport. Once I was racing a friend and crashed, getting a rather substantial boo-boo on my left knee. That was a long time ago (I was 11) but I still don’t really like talking about it.

Even softball is a risk. While there’s a fair amount of burping, scratching and standing around, I might still find myself trying to beat out a single and therefore pull a hammy.

So after deep thought and careful consideration, I’ve come to the conclusion that my best path forward is through badminton.

If you’re a member of the Badminton World Federation (which includes 176 nations and five continental federations), please understand that I’m not making fun of the game or belittling it in any way.

Quite the contrary.

To play it at a high level requires great skill, and all the Olympic badminton matches I’ve watched over the years have been top quality and highly entertaining.

But the beauty of the sport is that it can be played on a recreational level by duffers like me. And if I can just get to the point where I think I’m good – even though I’m not – that’ll be enough.

Badminton is a draw for me because there’s a certain familiarity to tennis, although I won’t be required to cover as much ground or do any significant running.

Even better, it’s not played with a ball or puck, but a shuttlecock. While the name sounds like a rooster that drives you to the airport, it’s actually a truly unique piece of sports equipment and an aerodynamic wonder.

Best of all, badminton seems ubiquitous in my neighborhood.

During this pandemic I’ve passed several nets while out for my early morning walk, and occasionally I’ll see little kids playing with their parents.

I’m not sure about mom and dad, but I like my chances against the young ‘uns. There are a couple of toddlers who basically just waddle around and swing aimlessly, so I’d beat them easily.

What I hope to do, though, is find opponents my own age and older and challenge them to badminton matches.

There is a diminutive man on my walking route – probably mid to late 70s – who resembles Bernie Sanders. I don’t know his actual name so I call him “Homunculus B” (not to his face … that would be horrible) and he seems like someone who would enjoy losing to me in badminton.

I’ve already envisioned destroying him with a series of overhead smashes.

There’s also a woman I used to see watering her grass that would be an easy “W.” She’s 90 if she’s a day.

Then again it’s been a few weeks since I caught her outside, so she might be on the PUP list (Permanently Unable to Perform).

Regardless, once the world gets back to normal I’m thinking badminton will be my new sports jam. I might have to resort to some “good, old-fashioned blunt force trauma” against my outmatched foes, but hey – older athletes like me have to be crafty.