Another Haircut
I always wonder if these kinds of posts are worth the bandwidth and space on the screen they consume, my innate sense of insecurity and self-doubt coming to the fore. And then I read something and decide that it’s OK to occasionally talk about little things. It reminds us of living, of from whence we’ve come, which helped shape who we are, which informs where we hope to go, a continuum, if you will.
I got a haircut yesterday. It was my bimonthly shearing (a 4½ on the sides and a 6 on top, blended and tapered); it’s short, not high and tight, but short (geez, the volume of gray hair that fell was disconcerting). My barber and I attended the same school. He graduated 3 years ahead of me and lives in the next town east, about 9 miles. He is also the mayor of that town. I’ve said this before, but if you get the chance, go get a haircut in a small town barbershop and listen to four conversations being carried on at once. They deal with the politics of the day, reminiscences about very large hogs demolishing a house, the barber talking to his daughter through a Bluetooth thingy, while the barber’s wife admonishes him to eat more fruit and veggies and to be more concerned about his heart than his prostate. It’s a cacophony of concern about many things, but no one voice seeks dominance over another. It’s a wonder to behold, all having something to say but not at the expense of the others. And I just realized that this isn’t actually about any of that, and yet, it’s about all of that; all of that being a catalyst to thoughts about competition and mutual respect.
In junior high and high school, I participated in athletics—football, basketball, track, and baseball. Rivalries in athletics are as old as time itself. In my youth, our biggest rival was the town where my barber resides. If we could beat them, we had had a good season, even if we lost every other game. A funny thing about rivalries, they can breed respect and friendship; that’s what this rivalry did. We knew each other and respected each other, even if we wanted to beat the tar out of each other at game time. I think this is best typified by a track meet.
I was pretty fast, not world class by any stretch of the imagination, but not bad for a kid from a small town. I consistently ran the hundred in under 11 seconds; my best being 10.2. In the next town over was a boy as fast, if not slightly faster, than me. We both anchored our relay teams and usually finished either first or second in whatever event we were entered. Somehow, somewhere along the way, we became friends. In between events, we would sit in the infield, our legs outstretched, and talk. We talked about sports, the cute girls in the stands, and hopes for the future. Then, first call would come for the next event we were in. We’d get up and start to stretch and warm up muscles. Second call came, and we would start jogging slowly around the infield. Third call and we were in the starting blocks, ready to outrun each other. At the finish line, we congratulated each other and went back to the infield and resumed our conversation. We were competitors who wished each other well, even when we both wanted to win.
If there is a moral to the story, it’s that competition and respect are not mutually exclusive activities. I’ll leave it to others to decide if another moral resides in the story.
Your observations and insights are well worth setting down for us. You've given me much to consider during my day, which starts pretty soon now. I think it's these kinds of little perceptions and experiences within a life, that observed and reflected on, lead to wisdom... wisdom of the most important type. And you're passing that on. You're passing on the implicit wisdom underlying your daily experience.
You're a bard of another type than Larry. But a bard nonetheless. And thank goodness for these (and other) conversations, talking across one another on blogs, but all sharing the same space for a bit. And thank goodness for the friendships created even in the competition that can rein on a blog thread.
Thank you, dear Festus! Namaste, wise one.
January 5, 2008 9:57 AM | Reply | Permalink
I'm humbled, sincerely. Thank you. No offense is meant (feeling the need to say that reflects the shortcomings of only words on a screen without the added value of facial expression, vocal intonation, and real time interaction), but I honestly don't consider myself wise. I just think and reflect too much :-) Perhaps, wisdom is bred of 2 parts living and 1 part foolishness, which are all parts of the same called life. But I'm straying again into philosophy, which is better left to logical minds. The foolish approaching wisdom breeds hope. :-)
Namaste, my friend.
Glenn
January 5, 2008 10:49 AM | Reply | Permalink
Bandwidth is a small sacrifice for your wisdom and humor. Keep up the good work. We need you, Glenn.
January 5, 2008 10:13 AM | Reply | Permalink
Thanks. And you, too, keep up the good work.
Glenn
January 5, 2008 10:14 AM | Reply | Permalink
Thank you. I'd like to tell a tale of two people I experienced, who were, or became, a true teacher, rather than "gym supervisor."
Other than my junior year, I went to a high school (and associated junior high) where the standard in "physical education" was to divide the class into teams, with the classic "do we have to take Howard". [Note 1] Depending on the season, the teams would then be given footballs, basketballs, and baseballs, and told to go play while the "Coach" chatted with the varsity athletes, in his office.
It was in my sophomore year, IIRC, when the department head was in his last year before retirement. He got pushback from the individual team coaches because he reduced their time with their favorites, but he demanded that physical education instructors spend their time with literally teaching conditioning techniques (isometrics was "in" that year), and periodically measure progress based on the Army's physical conditioning test.
That year, I watched my own strength improve.
Even better, and school policy rather than one "I have nothing to lose" department head, when I got to Towson High School in Maryland, the physical education instructor explained his approach. First, he would do specific conditioning. Second, he said that we would change sports every few weeks, with the goal of finding at least one support at which each student could excel. I found, for example, that I had promise as an archer.
In the conditioning part, we were still using the Army tests, which includes a 600 yard run. He lectured about the strategy of running at that distance, pacing yourself, and various techniques.
When it came time for that particular test, I did everything he had said about running. Rather quickly, I had a strange sensation, and then realize that I was so far ahead of the pack that I was alone.
It was the influence of teaching at Towson that the rest of the class started cheering me by name as I ran. Close to the end, I burned out and started staggering, and one of the varsity runners came in first. As I came in second, he was the first to hold me around the shoulders, and, minutes later, the class lifted me into the air and cheered. Quite a difference between the other school, where if you weren't good at one of the traditional sports (my eye problems interfere with depth perception, especially in baseball), you were a "spaz".
--
Howard
[Note 1] I was marginally acceptable at football, because my depth perception was better with the asymmetrical football, but also because I could hit people.
January 5, 2008 11:09 AM | Reply | Permalink
Howard, I want to say something, but my words would fall flat and not add anything. So, I'll only say thank you. Thank you.
Glenn
January 5, 2008 11:42 AM | Reply | Permalink