Atlanta 1996

Sometimes the decisions you don't make are as defining as the ones you do.

For 15 minutes, on Friday July 27, 1996, I sat on a bench just outside Centennial Olympic Park. A friend and I debated the merits of following a throng of visitors entering the park. There was a positive vibe that night in Atlanta '96. 

Ultimately, we decided to skip it. The night was already late and we had to be up early to attend Saturday events. So we bade the revilers farewell and off we went.

A few minutes later, as we rode MARTA back to our Air BNB, a bomb exploded in the park. It killed two and injured more than 100 others. We just missed being there.

Sometimes, the decisions you don't make...

Monday was the 30th anniversary of the bombing. As I read the recap from Atlanta media, all the sights and sounds of that weekend came rushing back.

Things started innocently enough. I bought two batches of tickets to the games and I traded the surplus for lodging. 

I traveled with a friend and fellow Phuds softball teammate to check out the first two days of action. Then, the plan was to come home and, then, Lisa and I would go back for another round of events.

My friend and I arrived on Friday and went to the men's basketball game between the U.S. and China. The Dream Team won that game in a landslide by the score of 133-70. I still remember Charles Barkley leading the crowd of U.S. fans in a stunning rendition of YMCA.

As fans exited the Georgia Dome, there was a positive buzz in the air. As we discussed the basketball clinic just witnessed, we watched hundreds of international visitors filing into the park. Full of excitement, the fans were enjoying a sultry summer night in Georgia. 

"Unity through sport," I read it described. So true.

Once we completed our debate and departed to our lodging, we didn't check out any media. We got to the place. Showered. Chatted. Sacked out.

Saturday morning dawned gray and rainy. 

Riding the subway, I kept hearing curious words among the travelers and even saw a few newspaper headlines that hinted at the tragedy. Security lines were tight as we arrived at our first venue. 

As the gentle rain fell, I saw more newspapers. People used them as makeshift umbrellas to shield their heads from the precipitation. The message was clear. We missed being present for the Olympic Park Bombing by a whisker.

As soon as I could find a payphone (pre-cellphone days) I phoned home to assure everyone we were safe.

The details of Saturday are more sketchy. I'm sure that is because my thoughts turned mostly to the victims rather than the venues. After attending a couple more competitions, we left on Sunday to make the short drive home. 

Lisa and I did go back early the next week and enjoyed a memorable day at the games of Atlanta 1996.

Our agenda included watching Michael Johnson win the 400M gold medal while wearing his golden shoes. We also saw a baseball game between Australia and the Netherlands. I'm awfully glad we did it. 

There's a nice exhibit at the Atlanta History Center that pays tribute to the 30th anniversary of the Centennial Olympic Games. It features exhibits and artifacts from the Games. It is an enjoyable and comprehensive look back.

And it's fun to remember the fun and excitement of the Games.

But, in spite of all the fun and pageantry we experienced, when I think of the events of that summer, my thoughts first go to the Friday night and the sad experience I barely missed because of the decision I didn't make.

JG

Question of the Day: Did you attend the 1996 Summer Olympics in Atlanta? If so, what are your memories from the games?

Dem Innernashnul Ruse

 On Friday night, The Braves beat the Orioles in 10 innings by the score of 7-6.

Then, on Sunday, the two clubs played another tight game. The Braves won it in 11 innings 3-2.

When the last out of the ninth inning of Friday's game was recorded–and the game headed into extra innings–I said to the ones watching with me "you know what that means?"

Dem innernashnul ruse.

Before you come to the conclusion that my fingers were off-key when typing that last line...some background.

During COVID, Major League Baseball took some measures to protect players. One of those was meant to speed up the game and limit exposure risk. They adopted the rule of adding a designated runner–or ghost runner–to second base when a game went into extra innings. The goal was to limit some of the super-long extra inning games of the past by placing a runner on base in scoring position, thus making a score easier.

Post-COVID, MLB kept the rule in place to help limit the length of games. By definition, the ghost runner is usually the batter who made the out to end the previous inning.

At home, we refer to this as "international rules" (with an East Tennessee brogue) dating to the days when the Concord Choppers roamed the diamond.

In tournament play, if a game went into extra innings, the umpires would often declare "we're going to international rules." Or, in the case of one of our umps, he'd say "dem innernashnul ruse" (barely hitting that last "L" in rules so it sounded like he was saying "ruse").

No one ever explained why the umpires used this phrase. So indeed, it was a bit of a ruse.

So, when the aforementioned Friday Braves game went to the 10th inning, my daughter Holly asked the question, "Why did they call it international rules?" And, the idea for today's post was born!

Doing a little internet sleuthing, I came across this detail. This tournament tiebreaker rule comes from the World Baseball Softball Confederation (WBSC) and was later adopted by youth organizations, such as USSSA, to manage tournament play. If you have a finite number of hours to finish a tournament during a weekend, you have to limit extra innings to keep things moving.

Otherwise, you have late night Sunday championship games with folks heading back to work and school on Monday. That's a scenario no one wants to face.

There is a lengthy discussion thread about the practice on umpire-empire.com.

To me, as a "word person," and a former youth baseball coach, it's interesting that the term became a given in our world. No one explained "designated runner" or "ghost runner." It was just "international rules" and you were just supposed to know what that meant. There was no glossary of terms or an owner's manual or tournament dictionary.

You learned on the fly.

And for the record, even though the Choppers enjoyed success and won more than their share of games overall,  they didn't fare well under "international rules." In fact, I don't ever remember them winning one of these games. I want to say their "international rules" record was 0-3.

Really, that's on me as a coach. We never prepared for that scenario. It would have been easy enough to simulate extra innings and give our pitchers and batters a feel for what they might encounter in a close game in tournament play. But, alas, we didn't do that. 

So the 0-3 record under "international rules" stands. It is really a footnote to our history.

Just a fluke, really, and not a commentary. But, on a late night Friday, it was fun to explore the term and open up a few pleasant memories.

JG

My First QSO

In the ham radio world. first contacts are very important.

It's like a first job. A first car. Or a first date. Or many other notable firsts you can think about. You'll never forget them.

For me: Rax Roast Beef. 1966 Ford Mustang. And, well, two out of three aren't bad. (Smile).

Regarding first contacts, from time to time, members of the Straight Key Century Club (SKCC) will send an email to the group listing the operator's first QSO (ham lingo for contact) within the group.

The notion of a First QSO sent me on a bit of a ham shack scavenger hunt recently. It was not a long one. I found my first logbook from the mid 1970s within minutes. In the book, I found the first listing and scribbled down the operator's name and callsign. 

It was John from Missouri. I went to look him up on QRZ.com. 

Many hams will include an email address on their bio page but, unfortunately, he did not.  I had hoped to drop him a quick email and ask if he would be interested in doing a second contact on the air some 50 years later. But without an email address, my options were limited.

So, I went old school and drafted a quick one page letter. Told him:

• Who I am. 
• Why I was writing. 
• And I included some details of that first contact. 

I included my email address in the note. I dropped the letter in the mail and didn't think much about it.

Then, last week, I got an email from John. He was happy to hear from me. 

Like me, he had taken a break from radio. For years, he had been very involved and reached a point where he was just tired. So, he took a break.

He didn't rule out the possibility that he might dust off the rig at some point and get back into the game. And if he does, he'd said he would be sure to drop me a line so we could consider doing that on-air reunion. 

Truly, a TN to MO QSO is like a lay-up. So, if we agree on a date and time, I am sure it would happen.

In addition to hearing from him by email, the other cool aspect of his email was that he had gone to his files and found the QSL card I sent him back in the 70s after our contact. It was so early during my ham radio days that I hadn't already received my permanent printed QSL card. I adapted a 1970s era postcard to confirm our contact.

Talk about stepping into a time machine. To see a bit of your handwriting from 50 years ago. That is pretty amazing. In my case, it was early teenage boy scribble. 

But still pretty cool.

What's more, I went to my files and found the card John sent to me. I emailed back attachments featuring the front and back of his card.

I hope it is as meaningful to him as mine was to me.

JG

Your Ballplayin' Days

When my family moved into our new neighborhood in the 1970s, the first person who greeted me was the boy across the street. His name was Dana. 

I guess word had spread through the grapevine there was a new kid in town; a new kid in Hidden Valley.

During our childhood years, we were frequently together. He was my Halloween trick-or-treat partner; he and I would often play with our Hot Wheels cars or GI Joes.

And as we grew up a little bit, we always played whatever sport was in-season. Basketball in his folks' driveway; football or baseball in his family's vacant lot. 

Then, when we got older, one of the guys really got a hold of a pitch, launched that baseball and one-hopped the house across the street. Dana's dad made the slow walk out to the pitcher's mound and told us, "Boys, your ballplayin' days are over." 

It was the right call.

Yesterday, I went to a Celebration of Life event for my friend. Dana passed away, suddenly, (too early) last month. 

Those words: "...your ballplayin' days are over..." were ringing in my ears. 

Going to the celebration was also the right call. 

Throughout our childhood, Dana was my rainy day buddy and, later, my wingman when I drove us to school during my senior year (his junior year).

He was also willing to don a tuxedo and stand up for me as one of the groomsmen at our wedding.

Here we are, together (sans tux) at the rehearsal.

Sadly, after the wedding, we lost touch. There wasn't any sort of falling out. We just moved in different directions. I remember running into him in restaurants, twice, in the past 20 years.  Our greetings were always warm and cordial 

Like our time on the sandlot, our active time as friends had passed–even though he is one of the special people who helped weave the fabric of those early years. I will always think of him that way. And whenever we re-connected, it was just like old times. 

I told you a lot about how the Summer of '78 was the year I became immersed in modern rock and pop music. Dana helped guide the way. And after I graduated from college and moved home in preparation for a first job and our wedding later that spring, he and I picked up like it was '78 all over again. 

Or our ballplayin' days. 

I thought a lot about those times–and regaled others with stories of our childhood antics–at the Celebration. Building a snow fort. Sharing and swapping our Halloween loot. His impression of Igor, saying "Walk dees way..." that never failed to crack me up.

Most of the people there represented later years. Friends of his daughter. His co-workers. His brother and sister-in-law.

But I was there to represent the boys of Hidden Valley; Lewis and Larry. Bobby and Mike. Joe and Steve. Those were the boys who watched in amazement as the baseball took flight that day.

In some ways, it feels like the ball never landed. Or maybe it just did.

JG

Malaprops

Yesterday, I had to stop by the post office to drop off a package. 

I almost said to myself "I am going to the postING office." That was something my dad used to say. 

Posting office instead of Post Office. Said for no other reason than to entertain himself. Harmless humor. Family lore.

In the months since my dad passed away, I've thought about his use of malaprops from time to time. It was his nerdy-engineer sense of humor coming out.

For instance:

• Instead of a turkey sandwich, he'd fix himself a TURN-KEY sandwich
• In springtime, he referred to the local celebration as the Dogwood SMARTS Festival instead of ARTS
• When he was grilling, he'd tell us he was grilling some SNAKES rather than STEAKS

Harmless humor

I never practiced the art of malapropism, personally, but it is time-honored device played for humor in the arts and entertainment. 

Stand-up comedian Norm Crosby was noted for using malaprops as his signature. Barney Fife, of Mayberry fame, often used the wrong phrase when he was trying to impress people. And in Shakespeare's "A Midsummer Night's Dream," the venerable character, Bottom, is the author's comedic relief with his frequent misuse of language. 

Not that Nick (my dad) was referencing any of those individuals when he intentionally misspoke. But, he did enjoy some good wordplay.

For instance, vehicles: He described his Ford F-250 "camper special" as the "pick-me-up truck" (or alternately, the pick'm-up truck). His vintage 1966 Ford Mustang was often called "the horsestang."

And in the world of retail and restaurants, his beloved Sears and Roebuck–where he worked as a college student and later, frequently shopped–became "Sears Bucks." The old K-Mart store was known was "Kentucky Mart." And if you wanted to get a quick burger, you might stop by the "Golden Starches" (instead of Golden Arches). His computer was not a Dell, but a Dull.

These sorts of unique personality quirks add breadth and depth to a cherished person. They add a touch of humanity.

You may have someone in your life who does something unique. An uncle who whistles while he works. A friend who occasionally skips. Or an ex-partner who was pleasantly forgetful. I once had a date with a woman who referred to a turn indicator as a "clicker" and windshield wipers as "swishers."

Clickers and swishers. That always makes me smile, too.

I don't think of Nick's tick as one of his main traits but I do, occasionally, recall one of those malaprops as colorful side notes of his personality.

For example, when I was at the "posting office" yesterday, I walked right by the self-service K'eye Osk (kiosk). And I smiled.

JG

Trends

Where it comes to my sports rooting interests, you might say I am a traditionalist. 

And whereas I am a fan of some of the improvements MLB has made in the game recently, I am not one of these fans who jumps on the wave of a trendy new fan activity - especially not when I'm attending a game.

• I don't know that I've ever sung "Day-O" in a call and response.
• I don't feel the need to "clap my hands" when I'm told "everybody clap your hands."
• And I never, well, jump on the wave...of The Wave.

These trends remind me a bit, of, what we used to call "forced fun" in the world of work. Like the time I went on a business trip and, despite the fact I had a serious head cold, was told everyone in the group: "Is going out bowling, tonight, and you will enjoy it."

Forced fun.

I am also not likely to jump on the wave of the latest fan trend that seems to be sweeping the ballparks of our nation - "Tarps Off." I'm not sure I would describe it as "forced fun" as in the other examples, but, still, it still doesn't feel like something I'd ever want to do.

If you haven't seen this in action, I'll briefly describe "Tarps Off." A group of young men sitting in the upper deck cheap seats–usually left field or right field–take their shirts off and wave them in a circular fashion. There was a small but festive group at a recent game I attended.

Depending on which version of the practice you read about, the trend either started in St. Louis or in college football last season. 

In any case, it happens at many ballparks now.  A bunch of young guys--usually thin college-aged chaps, although some do look younger--gather at the appointed spot and partake in the activity. The group may start off small but adds members as the game progresses.

They seem to be featured at least a couple times on a team's telecast.

I guess this craze is one way to market seats that might normally be low-sellers. And, if I were a young college student, I could definitely see the appeal. Maybe you don't have enough money for a lower bowl seat and an adult beverage? But, if you buy the cheap seats, you might still have enough cash left over for a frosty libation. Or two.

Looks like they are having fun. But it's not for me.

I used to always cringe when the P.E. teacher divided up the boys between "shirts and skins" for an organized/pick-up basketball game in class. I hoped like anything to be a part of the shirts squad. Alas, I'd say my record–like many coin tosses–was about 50/50. 

Take it off!

Nothing like being a teenage boy, pouring the sweat with nothing to soak it up as you run up and down the court beside your cohorts for an hour.

At least, in this case, there is no running involved. Or shouldn't be. But, I would imagine the "Tarps Off" crowd could get a bit sweaty on a sultery summer night. Or day. 

Alas. This too shall pass. Like past crazes such as Turn Back the Clock night. Or Free Ball night. Or 10 Cent Beer night. Or, my goodness, Disco Demolition night. 

Compared to some of those events, maybe some shirtless college kids doesn't sound so bad, after all.

JG

My Dad's First Ham Shack

When you visit the bio pages for modern day amateur radio operators posted on QRZ.com, you often see vintage pix of hams and their shacks from their childhood or teenage years.

Alas, about the time I was getting INTO the hobby, my dad was transitioning OUT of it. So, to my knowledge, he never photographed our set-up. I've never seen any photos of the equipment we used for all those years when I was first exploring and then falling in love with the hobby of ham radio.

I always thought it was a shame that he was disinterested in our radios about the time I "caught the bug." It was a missed opportunity for some father-son bonding time. And, moreover, I'd love to have a photo of the shared K4KYN/WA4ZJW ham shack now.

My parents' old house was one of those 1970s "split-level" homes. The downstairs floor was mostly underground. And part of the underground was a garage. My dad's rig sat in the southwest corner of the house.

After a few years, he built an exterior garage/workshop and turned the old garage into a family room with an adjacent laundry room. The ham shack stayed in the southwest corner of the room.  I operated from that little corner for years - summer days and late nights. Whenever I had some free time, I was on the radio.

When he installed a central heat and air system, the ductwork emanated from a small control room he located just across the way from the radios. I always thought it was cool when I'd pick up a little radio reverb from the HVAC.

Later, he converted that area into a photography dark room and moved the ham shack one room over to a small utility room in the center of the lower level of the home.

To my knowledge, there are also no photos of the second set-up.

But last week, when we were cleaning out my late father's bedroom closet (more about that project to come in a future edition), we unearthed a cache of old family photos. And in the stack of pictures was one from February 1960. On the back of it, in my dad's very precise penmanship, is the inscription "where I spend many hours."

It's a photo of my dad's first "ham shack."

First off, apart from the radio gear, I love the fact this shot preserves a bit of mid-century America (mid-mod) furnishings. The curtains. The dresser. The hardwood floors. Even the clock.

It's how homes looked when I was growing up. So, to me, the photo is very nostalgic. The black and white format leans into the mid-mod vibe.

If memory serves, dad set up his first ham shack in his bedroom. He connected to the world with a wire antenna strung out the window into a near-by tree. He told me, once, about talking to an English operator (via voice rather than morse code) with very low power, just after midnight one night. He felt proud of that achievement.

In the 1960s, your entry level license was called "novice" and it was temporary. You had to, then, study and progress up the ladder of license classifications in order to continue operating. Dad got his novice license in 1959, just after coming back from serving in the U. S. Army while still living at his parents' home in West Tennessee. You might recall, I mentioned previously, he was a radio telegraph operator for his unit.

His first licensed address was, indeed, the family farm just north of Memphis. I think I told you about this, recently, when I wrote about The Callbook. Anyway, that's the backstory.

By February 1960, he had been hired for a job in East Tennessee, moved to Knoxville, rented a house, upgraded his license to the "General" classification, and set up shop as you see in the picture.

I can't really identify the equipment he was using in 1960. By the time I remember his earliest operating, it was a much more robust set-up. But, clearly, what he has here was enough to whet his appetite and get on the air. 

Anyway, it's a real treat to have come across this picture. 

And who knows, maybe we'll get lucky and find some other undiscovered photos when we dig into the hall closet clean-out project later this year.  Wouldn't that be something?

For the moment, however, it's pretty cool to have unearthed this treasure and caught a glimpse into a by-gone era. It's a window into a simpler time, for sure, and a piece of family history we had not previously seen.

JG