almost famous

Tonight, something will happen that almost didn't happen.  At least, it almost didn't happen to include us.  Let me tell you a little story about becoming (almost) famous...

Once upon a time, Mr. Kenobi was a tennis player. A very, very good tennis player.  He played through high school, and then was offered scholarship to play at a couple Division I universities.  He chose the one where we met because of its proximity to premier downhill skiing outstanding athletic and academic programs.  He then set out to meet his future wife become an engineer.

Something few people know about college tennis is that it's a bit unlike other sports, which have one season to compete, and then the pre/off-season training.  At the collegiate level, tennis players compete in the fall, generally as individuals at larger tournaments, and in the spring as a team. Because his program was in the northern Rocky Mountains, they had a lot of travel to play opponents - usually long drives in a crowded, stinky van full of other lanky tennis players. This travel comes at the expense of class time, and requires make-up tests, self-study, and lots of other dedication to academics, even while devoting a lot of time and energy to the sport.

This leads me to a point of pride for my hubby... College athletes, for a variety of reasons, commonly don't finish their degree in four years.  It often takes an extra year to complete the requisite coursework while they balance their obligations to athletics.  It is also a challenge to find a student athlete who graduates in engineering.  I won't speculate (here) why most athletes enroll in other programs, but let's just say that engineering professors aren't used to students like Mr. Kenobi.  Nonetheless, he was a stellar student as well as athlete, and completed his four-year degree in, well, four years.  While unusual, this doesn't make him famous, however.

So nowadays, especially recently, there is a lot of talk about NCAA rules.  If you've read stories like this recent problem at Boise State, you're probably tired of hearing how these programs can't (or don't) seem to abide by their own governing rules.  You may also be tired of the stories of criminal athletes, who are drawing scholarship money, auspiciously to "represent" the university, yet certainly aren't a beacon of inspiring character.  To oversimplify the way the rules work, both a university program (the coaches, athletic department, etc.) and the student-athletes are mutually accountable for following the rules.  If somebody breaks rules, everyone can lose.  When we were part of the college athletic system, NCAA violations didn't seem to make headlines often. I don't know that people were more honest or that the temptations were any less appealing, but there weren't constant news reports on college athletes and programs.  Further, a sport like college tennis rarely makes waves in the world of famous athletic programs at any time.  Yet sometimes, even without fame or tweets or spotlights or espn, there are defining moments in a person's character.

Mr. Kenobi played on the tennis team, and was a leader.  He wasn't the top player, but he always contributed solidly to the team's success.  At the start of his second year, a new coach came into the program.  He was charismatic, athletic, and seemed promising for the team.  He quickly liked Mr. Kenobi and things went well for a time.  Between the second and third year of college, we got engaged and started planning our future.  Things were good.

Unfortunately, Coach began to show cracks in his ethics and NCAA experience.  Coaching college athletics is a dangerous place for those weaknesses, and by midway into Mr. Kenobi's third year of school, there were big problems looming.  Violations, and potential violations, threatened with no apparent accountability in sight, and all of it weighed heavily on Mr. Kenobi.   If things didn't change, both the program and its athletes could face large consequences. He realized it and tried to address things with the coach.  He went directly and privately, and when things didn't change, he went again.  Then, he called together his teammates privately, and together they approached their coach.  And then, when things still weren't changing, he took a big risk.  He went to the athletic director.

Why a risk?  Well, the coach is an authority, and he could choose to cut a player from his team, effectively taking that athlete's chance to compete away (as well as his scholarship money).  The AD is an even higher authority, and could suspend players, even if the coach was at fault.  To keep quiet would have been easier, and Mr. Kenobi realized he was risking his opportunity to play, as well as his scholarship (which paid for an education he couldn't have otherwise afforded). Further, his younger brother played on the team.  Causing waves for himself could hurt his family.  This was a lot for the shoulders of a young man who had always been a tennis player, a guy who simply wanted to become an engineer and begin the next step of his life responsibly.  His identity was wrapped up in being a student athlete.  And in the moments that followed their decision, his world unraveled.

The coach was furious, and suspended him from the team.  An internal investigation of the program ensued.  Mr. Kenobi had to hire an advocate to petition his legal case for scholarship money.  It was unclear if he could remain at the school without winning that appeal, let alone his hopes to continue competing in tennis.  His brother, for reasons that were completely understandable, had to distance himself and try to remain on the team.  The other teammates - his best friends - were effectively cut off from him, and their training limped forward toward a season without their team leader.  Mr. Kenobi enrolled in the spring semester, but wasn't sure he would be able to go to class - his scholarship was not guaranteed and the out of state tuition was too much. It was incredibly stressful and isolating.

There have only been a handful of times I've watched tears form in Mr. Kenobi's eyes.  I remember those days, feeling truly helpless, seeing anger and grief and confusion wrap around his heart, threatening a stranglehold.  I also remember realizing that his entire identity was crashing.  This was a guy who was somebody on the tennis court, on the team, at the campus.  Now, he appeared to be losing it all.  Without athletics, he wasn't sure how to define himself.

Perhaps you can relate.
What happens when that thing that is part of your "definition of me" disappears or changes?
What does it mean when you lose your job, your career, your marriage, your dream, or...?
What is it to realize something you believed to be true and wonderful is fallible?

I'd love to tell you the rest of his personal story, but that is Mr. Kenobi's to share - ask him sometime if you know him.  Suffice it to say that he claims the enormous loss and incredible uncertainty of that time was one of the biggest blessings he's ever encountered.  And I, the beloved bystander, am eternally grateful for how things changed for him.

See, I don't care too much that he won his appeal on the scholarship, although I'm grateful we were able to keep him enrolled and complete his degree.  I'm also grateful we were not saddled with enormous debt from the process.  I was always proud of his athletic achievements, but it didn't change my life when he was reinstated on the team.  I was relieved when the coach left, and the university held to a high standard of ethics, especially because it opened an opportunity for our dear friend to assume the head coaching role.  In the perspective of an outsider, everything came back into place nearly as quickly as it all unraveled.  And yet, none of it was as monumental as the change that took place in those weeks and months of uncertainty.  My husband never returned to the student-athlete he was before things fell apart.  Instead, he became the man he is today, having weathered the storm and embracing a truer identity.

The following year, with a solid man of integrity coaching, Mr. Kenobi was team captain.  They trained, they studied, and they accomplished a lot of goals together.  He, together with his brother and teammates, did something especially remarkable that spring.  Something that had never been done - an accomplishment unmatched and worthy of some small measure of fame: they won the title of Big Sky Conference Champions.  It had never been done in the years of MSU tennis.  It is worthy of recognition, and tonight my husband, his brother, and all of those men who played that day will be inducted into the Montana State Hall of Fame.

"Where's the hall?" our boys have asked.  "The Hall of Fame - can we walk through it and see Daddy's picture or something?"

It's not a hallway.  There might be a picture, but mostly it's simply a recognition.  An award.  A congratulations and "thank you" from their school.  That's all.  Nothing more, nothing less.

In the recent weeks, I've seen Mr. Kenobi's world rocked in new ways.  I've seen tears pool in his eyes. He doesn't know how everything will turn out in the future, and there's a lot resting in the hands of a higher authority.  Meanwhile, his friends and family face their own upheaval.  Community scattered, marriages struggling, new and old lives facing fragile health and uncertain times.  I've wished for a team of best friends to rally around him, but they can't.  I've wished he and his brother were strong teammates in these struggles, the way they excelled and dominated opponents on the courts, but life isn't a tennis match.

So tonight, some - but not all - of that team from once upon a time will assemble at a football game in Montana.  They will receive the cheers of people, many of whom likely haven't heard of college tennis and most of whom have never heard of my husband.  They will be photographed, filmed, and properly celebrated.  I hope that each gets a moment to soak in the deserved pride and achievement of their days on the team at MSU.  I hope each has family to congratulate them, friends to offer high-fives, and somebody who is genuinely impressed, at least for that moment.

Meanwhile, back on the homestead, Mr. Kenobi will come home from his engineering job.  He will walk into our house, hopefully greeted with a few small smiles and running, leaping hugs.  He won't be in Montana.  After weighing the costs of travel required for our family (including newborn), he decided he didn't want to make the trip.  While he's still a member of that team and awarded into the Hall of Fame, he will not stand in the middle of that football stadium.  He will not be photographed.  If not for a few people who may read this or know it from other sources, he might not be congratulated.

That could make me sad for him.  I do wish we were in Montana tonight, but I can't argue with his logic in the decision.  He's not a guy who tries to get noticed, but he's a leader, through and through.  The world needs more people like him, and that makes me thankful we have three boys who can grow up in his influence.  I'm so proud of him.

I'm also grateful.  For somewhere in that experience of college athletics, Mr. Kenobi realized who he was.  His identity has very little to do with what he accomplishes, what he is paid, and who's in charge of his potential claims to fame.  He's truly the "team captain" around here - and like a solid doubles team, we are helping each other tackle each moment like a well-placed serve, yet also keeping one another's focus on the big picture.  When the band stops playing and the stadium lights dim, he's a man worth a bit of celebration.  He's somebody to remember, even if he's not quite famous.

do it yourself

My grandpa, always known to me as "Bampa," was a hard-working, do-it-yourself sort of guy.   After growing up on a farm in the early part of the 20th century, there was little he couldn't figure out or do for himself.  As a young entreprenuer and later a very successful businessman, he knew how to work with others to get his ideas accomplished.

As I grew up, Bampa would often hire a young guy from the local high school to work with him on his farm.  By that point, Bampa was in his 70's, but slowing down wasn't his style.  The teenagers' parents talked about the great benefits of hard work on their sons.  Those boys would learn from Bampa, helping in the things that were too labor-intensive for him to take care of alone.  My older cousins had all done stints in that "intern" job, and it turns out Bampa was pretty infamous for his work ethic.  As one cousin said, "there's two ways to do a job: the wrong way, and Bampa's way."  

My mom was also a frequent laborer for Bampa.  One summer, around the time Bampa was 80 years old, he and my mom (with a little help from my brothers) laid concrete pieces along the shore of the creek and Missouri river that adjoined Bampa's land.  It was literally hundreds of yards of shore, many feet deep, and Bampa had a particular style of rip-rapping: each piece of concrete was hand laid, just so, until it fit like a giant tetris game.  

The result still stands as a wonderful feat of "DIY" engineering; the shore no longer erodes into the river, silt doesn't collect and cause flooding issues at the end of the creek, and the current property owners enjoy a view of the river without losing their lawn.

I tell all of this because I know my grandpa and my husband always got along.  I just wish Mr. Kenobi would have had more time with Bampa, because they are two peas in a pod.  Yesterday, Mr. Kenobi decided it was time to do our "project" of breaking up a long stretch of unused driveway.  We plan to plant grass and some planter beds in the new area, to increase play area and green space in our backyard. 

The concrete was 4-6 inches thick, but he rented a jackhammer and chiseled away at it.  It turns out, that was the easy part.  He then had to lift the pieces out, load them and place them on the other side of the house to form a new path along our property.  I tried to help, but he had a real system to his project.  Each piece was chosen carefully, loaded into a wheelbarrow, and placed along the path line in an intricate puzzle.  Then, loads of smaller gravel and dirt were hauled and scooped into the path, filling in the spaces until it was sturdy and stable.  Finally, the whole path was hosed down and brushed with a broom until it was clear and even.  I eventually got to help a bit (once I'd heard and seen exactly how he wanted it done).  

It is beautiful.  That path will last a very long time, just like that bank of the Missouri back at Bampa's farm.  It was also amazingly hard, labor-intensive work, and my husband is particular about how such work is done.  There is a wrong way, and a Mr. Kenobi way, to do things.  Sort of reminds me of another great man...

            

the dancer in me

I really, really enjoyed my Christmas present.  Mr. Kenobi got us tickets to see Riverdance, giving us both time together and an experience that matched me well.   You see, Mr. Kenobi married a dancer, and he found the perfect present for his bride.

Maybe you know I'm a dancer.  More likely, you do not.  I seem to be many other things these days, but dancer is far from most descriptions.  The truth is, I grew up dancing, and I've never really stopped.  Oh, I've stopped wearing leotards & pointe shoes, but I've never stopped dancing.  A dancer never ceases.

My first steps were probably taken in a ballet studio, where I spent most of my first 20 years.  I trained, performed, and even taught a bit in college.  This art was never simply an interest or activity, it was part of my genetic makeup - my heritage.  My grandmother danced. My mother danced.  They both taught and inspired countless students to use their bodies as instruments.  As the third generation in this line, it seemed my destiny to teach to the next generation of dancing Dakotans.  

It was not meant to be.  I never pursued the extensive training or accolades of my mother.  While neighbors and students assumed the studio and leadership would pass along to me, I knew otherwise.  Possibly, I knew it wasn't my calling, and I loosed my heart from that dream.  I planned to move off to the big city - at the time, I pictured myself an architect in New York - with little to do with tiny slippers and tutus.  While that picture has changed, I'm certainly a long ways from the music of that studio.

Yet, as Mr. Kenobi and I sat in the Opera House, and the lights washed the stage, my heart kept time with the music.  I wasn't simply a spectator in a cushioned seat.  No matter that I can't jump or twist to keep up with the principal's nimble footwork.  My mind melted, and those around me faded from peripheral vision.  I was in the performance - my feet moved in tension and rhythm, my torso stood straight & tall, and I spun and soared with those dancers.  When the young, Irish lads competed with the street-smart tappers, I felt the tension.  When the girls leaped with ease, I was with them.

This is the beauty of art.  This is the power of knowing the discipline and appreciating the performance.  Perhaps everyone feels this way when they go to a live show. Perhaps everyone returns home to dreams of quick steps and effortless pirouettes.

Perhaps. 

They don't share my entire experience, though.  Questions float through my dreams: What would it be like to have gone that direction?  What would my life look like, if I were training young artists?  What would I do with that studio?  What would my kids know of living in the music?  What would I look like in a leotard? (okay, maybe I don't really want to know that!)

It's not regret I feel, but it is wonder.  

When wonder is let loose from the stranglehold of regret, it becomes imagination.  

When imagination becomes an experience, it's art.  

And when art is set to music, it is dance.

"Let them praise His name with dancing..."