If I was president (and what historian wouldn't want to sit behind the Resolute desk?), this current state of pandemic would be catnip. I would be Churchillian in my oration, telling people the full truth of what's happening and then stirring them to band together and work as a nation to defeat this monumental threat. This is "finest hour" time, the stuff politicians use to elevate the national resolve and ensure their legacy as great leaders. Throughout history, great leaders have used times like these to rise above the petty distractions of normal politics and lead by calm example.
But if I was president I wouldn't be pushing a shopping cart full of beer through Pavilions yesterday. As Chardonnay March has given way to IPA April (with Martini May soon to come), and with it the announcement that high school sports have been shut down for spring and very likely will alter the shape of fall athletics, it felt incumbent upon me to host some of my fellow coaches. The plan was one of responsibility, sitting ten feet apart in my backyard, talking coaching.
Which is why I was pushing a shopping cart laden with a 30-pack of Bud Light, two twelve packs of Stone Delicious, a bottle of Ferrari-Carano, and a 20-pound bag of party ice through the grocery store shortly after noon. The beer aisles are stocked to overflowing, leaving me to believe they can't get it into stores quickly enough. There was no actual food in my cart, so I was somewhat relieved at the total lack of judgment when I got to the check-out aisle. Nonetheless, I explained about the coaches meeting. The cashier (do we still use that word?) has a daughter who throws the shot, so we knew each other from track. It felt like I was sharing news from freedom fighters who survived the apocalypse and are gathering in secret to organize the resistance. She was intrigued.
I did the same at Ballpark Pizza, where I stopped to get a large pepperoni and large cheese. If nothing else has been drilled into my head by three decades of marriage, it's that you need to serve food when guests come over. That college thing of a keg and red cups won't suffice. Jim, the owner, liked the idea of our get-together so much that he even loaned me glass schooners in case someone wanted their familiar old Ballpark experience.
On paper, the meeting looked like an afternoon drinking beer and talking track. A most unusual Wednesday. In fact, it became a support group. These aren't normal times and just the simple act of sitting down with friends in person was a cause for joy. We kept it responsible. No one broke out the beer pong, but after a couple hours we got down to the real stuff: missing the athletes, paying the mortgage, and battling the overall feeling of uncertainty. We plan on doing it again next week — and hopefully every week until this ends — unless some public shamer alerts the sheriff. Coaches err towards individualism. Most of us don't even know each other's first name, preferring to simply address one and all as "Coach." But in times like these, it's nice to talk with friends. Made me feel stronger.
Callie and I returned the schooners to Jim this morning. The first thing he asked about was the coaches meeting. I told him, and then invited him for next week. Right afterward, when Calene and I went in to purchase actual food, Cathy the checker at Pavilions smiled from behind her face mask: "How was the coaches meeting?"
The commonplace has become novelty. The Stockdale Paradox is real. As Tom Petty once sang, "The weak grow strong; the strong carry on."