The Large Man Chronicles

Coach Artz was a great man.

Coach Artz was the Running Backs coach when I played football in high school. I was not a running back; I was a wide receiver. Well, by official title, I was a wide receiver… that’s what it said in the program they handed out on those wonderful Friday nights that I’ll never forget. I was a practice player, mostly on offence, and mostly in the backfield. Coach Artz was part of my everyday life from those hot muggy days in August through the chill of autumn and into the cold of winter.  

Jim Artz just looked like a football coach. He was a short round man, with a big presence. He smiled a lot. Sometimes he was loud but not intimidating… when he wanted to be intimidating , he was rarely loud. That’s good coaching.

He was an amazing storyteller. Wherever he was, whether it was on the football field or in the classroom, and later in life on the golf course, he always seemed like he was just happy to be there. He also always seemed like he was glad to be with you. Whether it was just a short, “Hello. How you doin’?” and a handshake, or a five-minute conversation about sports or your family, or life in general, his smile never faded, and those twinkling eyes never left contact with you. In almost any interaction, he made you feel like you were the most important person in the entire world.

As a coach, he was a teacher. He taught you how to be smart on the field. As a teacher, he was a coach… a “Life Coach”. He taught a class called ICT… Industrial Cooperative Training. Had it not been for ICT, The Large Man would have likely had to attend summer school to graduate. I did not start my high school career as a motivated student; early on, I failed a few classes and fell behind on the academic credits needed to graduate. Coach Artz’ ICT class gave you 2 credits if you also had a job. When he learned about my academic situation, he told me about his class, and he got me into the class my junior year. So by the skin of my teeth, and one additional academic credit in ICT, I got wear the cap & gown and walk across that stage. That’s not all Coach Artz helped me with.  

When I learned of this beloved man’s passing, I realized that I didn’t realize, how much this good man meant to me, and the real influence he had on my young life. I am SURE that I’m not alone.

*****

August, 1977

August in VA, on a football practice field… sucks. In the dog days of summer, the ground is as hard as concrete, and as hot as asphalt. What little grass there is crackles under your cleats as you walk from the locker room to the practice field, the crackling has almost a “sizzle” sound that is foreshadowing how much you are going to sweat and hurt. It’s the upfront price you pay for those glorious nights in October, but when you’re 17 and you’re in that August afternoon heat, you ain’t thinking about October, you’re thinking about just getting through these next 2-1/2 – 3 hours.

The receivers, running backs, and quarterbacks would go to our section, do warm-up calisthenics and stretching, run a few laps around the field, and then line up for passing and receiving drills. Early in August, it’s not full contact practice yet, so we’re in helmets, shoulder pads, shorts and cleats. It’s full contact with tackling dummies and blocking sleds, we’re just not tackling each other yet. It’s also full contact with that “hard as concrete” ground.

I was slow, our quarterbacks overthrew me a lot, so I had to make a lot of diving catches. I had to do it so often, and I made so many of those catches, it kinda became my thing. Most of the time in sports, and in life for that matter, it’s a good thing to be good at something… anything. I think one exception might be diving to catch footballs on ground that is hard as concrete when you are wearing gym shorts that have about a 6” inseam. It was the 70s, Michael Jordan’s knee length shorts were not a thing yet. Three days into practice my senior year, I had an open wound on the outside of my right thigh that just would not heal.

I could NOT miss any practice. I was the poster boy for the player who was “on the bubble”. I had to be at every practice, and I had to show some type of value, or I would surely be cut, and my dream of one last “Boys of Fall” campaign would ooze away just like the wound on my leg.

Coach Artz was also the team trainer, he patched us up, taped us up, before practice… and iced us up after. 5 days into that first week of practice, he told me I needed to see a doctor about my leg. He told me he thought it might be infected.  After the doctor’s visit the next morning, guess what? It was determined that the wound was infected, and I had blood poisoning. I was put on antibiotics, and I was told not to practice for at least a week to let the wound heal. When I got to practice later that day, because not practicing was not an option for me, I told Coach Artz my situation.

I don’t remember his exact words from almost 50 years ago, but I remember his first sentence:

 “You probably need to call it, son.”

He explained to me with empathy that was not generally part of the high school football culture in 1977, that even if I made the team, I wasn’t likely to play a lot. He told me that this infection could become a lot worse, and something like “You could lose a leg if it got worse”. My memories can be a little dramatic… I’m a storyteller, but Coach Artz was definitely concerned.

I cried. I cried as hard as I can remember crying. I tried to explain to him through my tears that this was it for me. I would never be able to put on the pads and suit up again. He comforted me as best he could, and he told me that he would do his best to help me, “… after I talk to your parents”.

Well… shit! Yeah, that was gonna be a problem. When my dad dropped me off at practice after taking me to the doctor that morning, he thought I was going in to clean out my locker and let the coaches know I was done.

My father never wanted me to play football. He wanted me to play Bluegrass music… and I probably should have taken that route, but Peter Frampton, Fleetwood Mac, The Eagles, and Lynn Swann and the mighty Pittsburgh Steelers were my influencers in 1977. I wanted to play football and avoid banjo music at all costs.

Coach Artz and our head coach talked to my dad. Shockingly, my father was convinced, and I would be allowed to play if I took the next few days off, and slowly worked my way back in to practice. I would go with the team to camp, and if you went to the camp, in God forsaken Fort Picket in Blackstone, VA, you most likely wouldn’t get cut. I went to camp, I didn’t get cut. Coach Artz advocated for me, even though I most likely would not be a contributor to his team’s success, he helped to keep me on that team. I never asked him why he did that. I wish I had.

I got to be on the football roster at Gar-Field High School in my senior year. I got to be on the roster of a team that lost a heartbreaker in the VA state championship. I got to have one last Boys of Fall season, and all the memories that go with it, because of Coach Artz. During that awful week at Fort Picket, Coach taped my nasty, smelly leg with the same care that he gave to his first team, All District, running backs. I’m sure our head coach walked by the training room a time or two and wondered why his running backs coach and trainer was wasting all this tape (and it was a LOT of tape!!) on a guy that probably wasn’t going to play anyway. But that’s who Jim Artz was. He gave the same care to everyone… the all stars and the scrubs were treated with dignity and care. If you were lucky, he’d tell you a story while he was doing it.

A lasting memory that’s funny… at least now it’s funny:

Coach Artz constructed a special pad that went over my wound. He would apply an antibiotic salve called Strawberry Ointment to the wound, cover it with the special pad, and then tape it all in place. Then when the regular football pants went on, the wound stayed protected.

During a morning practice at camp, we were just in shorts and tee shirts again, after I was taped up, I was told, in no uncertain terms, that I was not to dive for a football, and mess up Coach’s masterful tape job. He did not want to do it twice.

That lasted about :30 minutes. I dove, the tape slid off, and as fate would have it, it was right in front of the man who told me not to. AND… I didn’t even catch the ball.

That was an ass chewing that I will never forget. This gentle spirited, jolly man was angry… no, he was pissed! He called me names, some of them I didn’t even understand, he told me I could tape my own wounds from now on, or something like that. Then he sent me on a jog that lasted the rest of the practice. As I trotted away, I could see him walking away, shaking his head in disgust, or disappointment, probably a lot of both. I was crushed!

And then, before the afternoon practice, he called me over to the training table, looked at me with those twinkling smiling eyes, and said, “Get on the table. You’re an idiot. Catch the ball next time!”, and then he just shook his head and laughed. And then he taped me up.

I’m just one person who has a story about how this great man went out of his way to help them. There are literally hundreds of people who have similar tales. Coach Artz was a gentleman, a loving husband and father, and he was a teacher.

Coach Artz was a great man.

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Someone recently wrote a ‘Large Man Chronicle’ about a wedding. I’m pretty sure it was me.

Since that wedding, I have ministered another one, and it was amazing as well. And now I think I’m addicted. Hello, my name is The Large Man, and I’m a joy junkie.

This is a new condition for me. Instead of focusing on joy, most of my life has been about grudges, bitterness, and animosity. Those emotional reactions take MUCH less time than consideration, forgiveness and understanding. I can become angry and bitter in a matter of micro-seconds… and I can hold on to those emotions for years. It’s AWESOME! But kindness and understanding can take me a couple of minutes to germinate and grow… and then those feelings become quite fleeting. They usually escape me by the next time I see Peyton Manning in a commercial.

Love, joy, and general celebration are things I’m going to seek out on a more regular basis. I’m even considering being a participant in random acts of kindness and being more considerate of people going through personal hardships.  I’m having thoughts about leaning towards forgiveness and understanding and away from grudges, bitterness, and animosity. It’s going to be a struggle for me, but I feel like the Universe is pushing me in that direction.

This new Large Man revelation is born from the fact that I haven’t attended a lot of weddings in the last several years, so attending, and helping with the ceremony, sorta augments and personalizes all the accompanying goodness of the event.  However, in the last several years, I have had a lot of arguments and confrontations, been a victim of crime, watched a lot of ‘Yellowstone’, been called bad names, gotten some speeding tickets… and have been generally pissed off… a lot. Furthermore, although there haven’t been many weddings, I have been to quite a few funerals and “Celebrations of Life”. It’s a bad ratio.

I’ve written about this before, but yeah, that ratio needs to change… the weddings a person attends should outnumber funerals they attend by at least three to one. That should be some kind of federal law. Nobody dances at funerals. In moments of anger, a lot of people say, “I will dance at their funeral!”, but I’ve never seen anybody actually do it.

I’ve never seen anybody dance at a Celebration of Life, either. Probably because it’s awkward, and usually the people at the celebration are old; bad hips, bad knees, messed up or missing teeth, bad breath, incontinence, and all that other stuff that affect us once we hit 35. Old people don’t dance very well. I know I don’t. But still… if you think about it, if it’s called a “Celebration”, we should ignore all our physical maladies, and we should probably dance. I went to one of those a few months ago, and I know for a FACT, that the person we were celebrating would have loved it if we danced.

I’m giving all my Large Man Chronicle fans permission, today, RIGHT NOW; when I am a heap of ashes in a faded blue Adidas shoebox, or a rusty old Maxwell House coffee can, if you happen to be in the vicinity of whatever Mrs. Large Man and the Large Kids decide to do, I want you to dance. No matter what it’s called: a funeral, a Bon Voyage, a Good Riddance Event, or a Celebration of Life… please dance. Turns out, dancing is fun! Somehow, I’ve forgotten about that.

At my death event, I want someone to play ‘Let’s Get it On’ by Marvin Gaye, followed up by ‘Dim All the Lights’ by Donna Summer. That will start y’all out nice and slow to warm up those joints, but then you’ll finish strong with a nice & easy, but still butt shaking fast song. I want you to put those walkers and canes in the corner and get friggin’ jiggy!! Metaphorically speaking, all of my lights will have been dimmed, so Donna Summers’ greatest tune will be apropos.

What songs would you want played at your Celebration? Please reply in the comment section, because I want to build a set list.

I think one of the things about dancing is that it creates joy by a kind of osmosis. Even if you’re not dancing, watching other people dance makes one happy… or at least it should. I didn’t dance at the last two weddings I attended (except for the slow jams), because of old football injuries and my shitty outlook on life and humanity at the time. (Like I said earlier, though, I’m making some changes). But even with sore joints and a bad attitude, I still truly enjoyed watching my wife and all the other moms out there shaking their grove thang to AC/DC, Def Leppard, Shania and all the “rump shakers” of their youth.

The kids (“young adults” is more respectful and a better descriptor, but they’re always gonna be kids to me) all danced to their current, more hip hop leaning jams, and once that started, they stayed on the floor all night… both weddings. It was cool. The energy, fun and the laughter and the JOY… and the CELEBRATION was as infectious as the Ebola virus with almost none of those troublesome and annoying internal bleeding symptoms and fatalities. It’s been too long since I’ve been in a gaggle of that much positive and joyful energy. I can’t even remember the last time… had to be during the Johnson administration.

To be honest, I never really liked dancing, even when I was young, handsome, and flexible… or at least when I was young. Back then, I danced a lot. My friends and I hung out at dance clubs in those days because that was the best way to meet girls, and even though I did not particularly care for dancing, I liked meeting girls, so I made the sacrifice.

Dancing back then was a mating ritual, as pure in nature (although much less graceful) as the dancing that swans do during mating season. I’m pretty sure swans mate for life, so I wonder if like after the fifth or sixth year, they dance a little less passionately. The (new) romantic in me hopes that’s not the case, and now, the new dancer in me will be looking for it! If I see the swans slacking off, I’m gonna put on some AC/DC, ‘Shook Me All Night Long’ and inspire them to seek out the joy of their spring ritual… to celebrate life, and their love, and just dance, dance, dance!!

Happy Thanksgiving to all of you Large Man readers! I’m thankful that you give me a voice.

Big Love & See you next year!

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A little over a year ago, two of my favorite people got engaged. A little less than a year ago, those two engaged & favorite people dialed me up on a Facetime call and asked me to perform their wedding ceremony. Of course, I said, “Of course!” An exclamation point at the end of my quoted reply does not properly describe my enthusiasm. I was overjoyed, I was deeply touched, and I was honored that these two amazing young people would want me to be even a small part of their story. Steffen Blair, and Bailey (Dilks) Blair asked me to be the Officiant for:

The Blair Hitch Project.

*****

A little history…

I met Bailey Dilks in the summer of 2008, she was ten or eleven years old, and lived in the house across the street from where my family had just moved. We lived there for twelve years. Bailey’s father became one of my best friends, our families became very close…and for whatever reason, Bailey and I developed a very special & kindred relationship. I wasn’t really “Uncle” Large Man, but it was something like that. As Bailey became an adult, her crude humor, her deep passion for her cares and interests, and her joy for life, strengthened that connection.

Steffen came into the picture a little bit later. Steffen is an artist. He thinks like an artist, he speaks like an artist, he behaves like a romantic… he’s a quiet, purposeful, renaissance man. Even though he’s young enough to be my third cousin, whenever I spend time with him, I always feel like learn something. Most of all, when I see Steffen, I see his kindness.

As kids, Steffen & Bailey got into a little trouble when they were caught having a smooch in the hallway in middle school. Who knew that that was (sorta) the beginning of something so beautiful? Years later, I was privileged to watch this special relationship bud, and then grow into a heartwarming little love story. I got to witness it from across the street, and I was able to hear about it from proud parents, and that’s how I got the privilege of performing the inevitable wedding ceremony.

*****

So, plans were made, scripts were written, and then re-written, and then massaged. Vows were written, dresses of dusty sage & suits of steel blue were acquired. I would be adorned in a contrasting but complimenting golden flax 3-piece linen suit, with a floral tie that accented both the bridal party and the groomsmen’s colors. Seating arrangements, music, processionals, recessionals, DJ’s, flowers, plans, plans, and then MORE plans! And then, like we knew it would, the third weekend in August finally arrived, and it was GO TIME for The Blair Hitch Project.

A little foreshadowing…

This is no secret, but I’m an emotional guy. When I feel things, I feel them deeply… both bad and good. I hold grudges for life, without parole. But thankfully, I remember acts of kindness, humanity, and love forever as well. I don’t think this level of emotional depth is healthy in any way. There are so many times I look back at incidents, situations, and even simple conversations where I wish I was better able to contain & control my feelings. It’s almost always a struggle for me, emotions will get the best of me, at least once a week. It ain’t easy being me, but one must learn to accept who and what they are.

As the plans, plans, and more plans were in process, the subject of The Large Man being able to hold it together, was brought up more than a few times. This was fair.  But I assured Steffen and Bailey that I would be okay, because I knew with everyone else’s wedding day emotions flying around, that someone was going to need to be the rock that the two of them could stand on. It was my job to be that rock, and I took the job very seriously. I told them both, straight to their faces, in a planning meeting in the kitchen of their recently purchased, and future marital home, that they, “…didn’t need to worry”, and that I would be “okay”.

Each word of that assurance left my lips in slow motion because I knew each word was its own individual lie. The words joined together and created a huge lie. Because I’m me.

I cried when Charlie Sheen’s character, Wild Thing, walked to the mound in the climax scene in ‘Major League’. So now, I’m gonna be expected to hold it together while I watch Bailey walk down the aisle?

This whole idea was completely irresponsible.

Let’s unpack this a little. Shall we?

The music is gonna start, and Bailey will begin her journey down the aisle, and I will look at Steffen looking at her, and he’s gonna glaze up a little, and I’m going to reflect on the boy I first met, and the man that’s standing in front of me now. Then I’ll look back down the aisle towards Bailey, and there will be her parents, two of my most cherished friends, and I’ll see the joy, the pride, the love, in their eyes, and in 5 seconds I’ll relive every emotional moment we’ve ever had together. All of this will be happening in front of my wife and my children who will be looking at me with such pride, appreciation, and love, and then I’ll wish my mom could have seen this too. And then…as if all that’s not enough… AND THEN … I’ll shift my eyes to Bailey, and she’ll look at me and she’ll smile that smile that always greets me with love, friendship, (a little mischief) and joy… that smile that is more vibrantly layered and textured and a million times more valuable than a $1,000 bottle of Pinot. AND THEN… I’ll be “the rock” they can all stand on.

No, I won’t.

On Seinfeld, the George Costanza character famously quoted, “Just remember, it’s not a lie, if you believe it.” I was going to have to be like George. I was going to have to believe the lie. I had to make that lie my truth… and be the rock.

I was overjoyed that my grown ass kids were going to be at the wedding as well. We rendezvoused at Casa de Large Man on Friday morning, and made the journey to our former hometown, the place where my babies grew up. It had been a few years since we moved away, and we hadn’t been back as a team since the move was made.

As we were loading up the car, my son asked me if I was nervous. I replied with this impromptu & earnest speech:

“Son, let me tell you something about your ol’ man, I don’t get nervous. I don’t let moments or events become bigger than me. Is this an unbelievable honor? You bet. Am I excited? Absolutely! But Bailey & Steffen need me to keep this thing on track, this is a huge moment for them, and I need to be invisible. It can’t look like it’s too big for me. I can’t be nervous… I can’t be emotional… for them. I’ll be fine.”

When I finished that little soliloquy, I thought to myself, Damn! That was Good! I thought, there’s my mantra for the next 48 hours, maybe not the whole freaking speech, but the “invisible” part, hell yeah!

So, with that resolution in place, I closed the hatch on our SUV, we were loaded up & heading north! The rehearsal dinner was at 5:00, we would get there about 3 hours early, connect with friends, and nothing was going to shake this Large Man, this rock.

We gathered at the wedding venue; the backyard of Steffen’s grandparent’s home. The grounds were a lush green, the bridesmaids and groomsmen were milling about… the chatter and laughter of friends and family filled the warm summer air. It was a total “joy vibe”.

There were sound guys working, there was a musician going over the timing and starts and stops. Mrs. Large Man was the tournament director, she would put people in their respective places, get the ushers to ush, and have the bridesmaids maid. She would make sure they all walked in proper sequence. It all came together as one would hope, and once we had the choreography worked out, we ran through our first full rehearsal of the processional.

It went GREAT… well, for the most part. Everyone got to their proper spots, and Steff & Bai were in front of me, all smiles. We were using a proximity microphone, so it would pick up the sound of my voice and the bride and groom respectively. To get things set, I was asked to start with the beginning of our wedding script.

“Ladies and gentlemen, welcome! Welcome to the wedding of …Ste…welc…hmmmm” and then I broke. I could not finish the first f-ing sentence of the ceremony script before I choked up and could not speak. Looking back at it, I’m reminded of the Allan Iverson rant about practice:

We’re not talking about the wedding! We’re talkin’ about practice! Not the WEDDING! NOT THE WEDDING! We’re talking about REHEARSAL, MAN! We’re talkin’ about PRACTICE! AND I CAN’T DO IT! PRACTICE, MAN! THIS IS JUST PRACTICE!

Oh, it gets better.

Kelsey, the awesomely amazing younger sister of Bailey, and the Maid of Honor, obviously right next to me, sees my seizure, and says, “Oh no! Shit! Really? Are you gonna be able to do this?”

Did I mention the proximity mic? Yeah, the microphone picked that up too. And all I heard was, “Shit! Really?” echoing off the other houses in the neighborhood (and the church next door!!) “SHIT Shit shit …..”

I gathered myself. I wiped a single tear and I soldiered on. It was just practice.

Then Kelsey lost it in the next run through. Then a few bridesmaids were overcome… and a few parents. The emotions shifted from love and joy, to laughter, and then back again. It was the best! It is the Large Man’s opinion that tears of joy or laughter are some of life’s most precious gifts. I don’t know of anything more genuine or pure. It was sweet, it was funny, and it was lovely. And it was just practice!

Frankly, I’m not sure I want to be at a wedding (or a practice) that goes off without a hitch, and I damn well KNOW I don’t want to be part of a wedding where everyone can keep their emotions in check. Those emotions should be too big to contain.

After four run throughs, and some adjustments, the rehearsal was called complete. We had a wonderful dinner. We laughed about the day. We were ready. (Not really)

Saturday came. The music played. We all made that journey down the aisle. And, proudly, with only a few choked up moments, we made it through the ceremony. There was a LOT of misty eye action, but nobody broke. When Steff & Bai exchanged the vows they had written for each other, was the hardest part for me. The two people in front of me were not the little kids I had met so many years ago. These were 2 grown up best friends who could not imagine a life without each other. This was a man and a woman who loved each other as purely and as deeply as possible, and that love radiated right in front of me.

That moment was definitely bigger than me. And yet, I get to keep that moment and hold it in my heart for the rest of my life.

And then they kissed. And now, they will live happily ever after.

So, there you have it! The Large Man performed a wedding. It all happened on August 20th, 2022… The Blair Hitch Project. Steffen Blair & Bailey Dilks became Mr. & Mrs. Steffen & Baily Blair, and I was the first person to officially (and tearfully…a little) introduce them! And then, as if all that wasn’t enough, we got to dance! Dancing is fun.

Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed it as much as I loved telling the tale. I miss this!

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