It’s been scary. The kind of overwhelming, underachieving feeling you had when you brought home your first newborn and didn’t have a clue how to care for a tiny person. I was recently discharged from the hospital, 48 hours after surgery. Had I pushed the issue, they would have let me come home a day earlier, shy of 24 hours after what I consider major surgery. Total knee replacement and home less than 24 hours later. I was not ready. It would have made a difference had I gone into surgery earlier. I was the last scheduled surgery for the day. Although knee replacement doesn’t take very long, by the time I was moved from recovery into my room it was 5:30. So no, I was not ready to blow that pop stand a few hours later.

I was told last fall the cartilage on both knees had deteriorated to nothingness. Knee replacement was the only solution and I should choose which one I wanted done first. So I’ve known. Anticipating surgery for a long time gets on your nerves. Had my surgeon said, “let’s replace the worst one next week,” I’d probably been fine. But it took 4 months just to get an appointment to see another guy for a second opinion. (He’s quite popular, an excellent surgeon with a fantastic success rate-which is what I was striving for). Then surgery was scheduled another 90 days out. Goodness. Didn’t think the actual day would ever actually materialize.

I’ve kept busy during those sedentary months watching my dyed brown hair grow out to my natural-but never before seen grey/white/silver shades. (Been waiting 30 years to come to that decision, then one day it just hit me). Slowly my L’Oréal fake color faded and grey roots popped up. The comparison is like watching paint dry. So stinking slow. Which adds to the embarrassment. My hair, at the longest is 4 inches. You know how many months it takes before all the dyed brown crap is gone? Me either, I’m still waiting. And waiting. Gonna be at least another 6 weeks, bringing the total to 8 months. Almost the length of an entire pregnancy for my short hair to grow out to its natural color. I don’t know how anyone with hair a foot long could live through this. This drove me crazy. But I smiled a lot. I look like such a dork.

So while I’ve been totally enthralled witnessing the new Neese morph in front of my very own eyes, I put my upcoming surgery on the back burner and tried not to think about it much. Did all the pre-op testing, EKG, bloodwork and appointments explaining what they were going to do. At last my surgery date was on the horizon. It hit home as I read the prep work instructions on changing my diet, eliminating supplements, and how to shower the night before. Yet I felt no apprehension until I was about to leave for the hospital. My surgery was on a Thursday, I was given the exact time on Tuesday. Great. I was last. (At least not dead last) Good news though. I could drink clear broth, water or tea until 10:30 that morning. Yay. Yum.

With only 2 hours to go once I arrived at the hospital, at least the pre-surgery time zipped by. Vitals taken, stripped of my clothing, funky hospital gown added (with a vent where they attached a hose that blew warm air over my frozen body). Questions and more questions plus my favorite part. Trying to get an IV started when you’ve pretty much been fasting for 18 hours. Well, 3 times worked like a charm and I wear the other two stab bruises with pride. Dr. Carpenter stopped by to mark my surgery leg (with a purple sharpie), although we both decided if he made a mistake and gave me a lefty, it was still all-right.

My anesthesiologist. A talkative fellow. Used lots of words. With the recent success of my IV line, he would put me to sleep. (I’m gonna knock you out-mama’s gonna knock you out). Then roll me on my side and give me an epidural, basically numbing me from waist to toes. Ok by me, don’t really need to know exactly how they’re going to get rid of the knee joint I’ve become quite attached to after 68 years. (So happy together. With all this love, you’d think some of my missing cartilage would have hung around longer). After my epidural, me now soundly asleep, he snakes a long, thin needle into my upper right thigh. It’s called a nerve sheath catheter. An angel hair sized spaghetti tube is inserted and the needle is removed. The nerve catheter significantly reduces pain after surgery. It’s taped in place and hooked up to a portable pump about the size of a baby bottle inside of a ‘way too cool’ looking fanny pack. (Just kill me now). The pump cartridge has a capacity of 600 squirts of a novocaine type medicine, lasting 3 or 4 days. (He went into great detail on the workings, monetary value, consequences if cartridge pump was not returned through the U.S. mail, care and removal with Shannon and John listening intently while I was cutting serious z’s). This would be taken out until after I was home. (I should have asked someone, anyone a few questions).

Recovery. I’m in a big room. Nurses are constantly checking my vitals and watching my feet as though I’m running the Boston Marathon, at record breaking pace. They really want me to move my toes. It feels strange to try so hard for just a little wiggle and get zilch for the effort. Dr. Carpenter comes over, says surgery went fine and I’ll be going to my room shortly. (As soon as I move my dang toes). I’m in and out, trying to pay attention, but very sleepy. Dr. Chatty (anesthesiologist) wanders over and takes my hand. I sit straight up, look him square in the face and cry, “I wrote a blog about Notre Dame yesterday.” And promptly laid back down! (What was that about)? He squirms out of my grasp and moves away. Far away. Never to be seen near me again.

After I’m settled in my room the nurse asks if I want to use the bathroom? Well it has been 6 hours, so probably. She offers to bring in a commode, help me stand or I can try and walk to the bathroom. Are. You. Kidding. Me? No, I am not. At 6:30, (about 2 plus hours after surgery) using a walker and help from a nurse, I walked about 15 steps. Learned how to ease the new-knee-leg out (not quite ready to bend or flex) and sit down gently. I honestly can’t believe I did that. With their encouragement to boot. Very little pain while I was in the hospital. What hurt the worst was right above my knee, front and back (lower thigh I guess). The reason was the tourniquet during surgery. Huh.

Wasn’t moving much or very fast when I got home Saturday. The nerve block catheter still had 150 pumps remaining, plus I was on pain meds (which Hubs cut in half). Our bed is too high for me to get in without a lot of discomfort so I’m sleeping in my Lazy Boy in the family room. About 1:30, early Monday morning, I hear a noise, which startles deaf me. I think maybe it’s the smoke alarm. It’s not. It’s the nerve block pump indicating a blinking warning, 600 pumps, 600 pumps. Good grief, I’m gonna die. It’s gonna pump air into my chubby leg vein, and my new knee has been for naught. Shit. Why didn’t I pay attention when everyone was trying to decide who drew the short straw and had to take this wretched thing out? I wiggle my sweats under my butt and look at the loopy snaked thread going INSIDE MY LEG. Covered with about a 4 inch square of clear tape. Yuck. I start peeling the tape loose, without yanking the part that’s still inside a few inches (though I’m positive it’s killing me on empty somehow). Gross. I gently tug on the thin tube inserted in my leg. It’s moving but leaking some kind of clear fluid. I grab a used napkin which recently held a homemade sugar cookie (sterilization attempts be damned) and dab the leak frequently. Now I’ve got cookie germs inside my leg because air or poison wasn’t enough to do me in. Finally I notice the end of the catheter slide out of my leg. I limp to the bathroom, trying to hold the napkin in place and almost fall because my sweats are halfway down my leg and the walker wheel lands on top of it. I grab a bandage before I sit on the pot and try to salvage my life. There by the grace of God, go I. Rather clumsily.

Doc said more intense pain would start after I was home for a day or 2. Dude was right again. And I’ve been experiencing some strange side effects from surgery or my medication. My teeth chatter, mouth goes dry, I’m a little queasy, neck is achy, hands and feet are freezing even though it’s quite warm in the house. I had my first & second physical therapy sessions which probably had a lot to do with these feelings. (My therapist’s advice: eat more, drink more, walk more). For one thing, my leg turned black and blue in a matter of hours, 5 days after surgery. Hubs was looking for a subtle clue that his somewhat normal Neese was back ‘in the house’ and stumbled upon it Tuesday. He walked in the living room, sat down and offered me a huge smile. “What,” I asked. “Your iPad. You’ve been home for 3 days and have not turned your iPad back on since before you had surgery. I knew you’d be ok as soon as you as you started writing again. Are ‘ya blogging?” “Well, one paragraph. I can’t stay focused on these pain pills very long.” Still, a good sign. For both of us.

I told Hubs he could wring out the oil in my hair Monday and just siphon it into the Jeep. (I wasn’t allowed to shower until the nerve catheter was out. Too afraid of infection). That’s a laugh. Try rubbing sugar cookie crumbs in it instead. So with help and sitting down I took a shower Monday. I don’t think a shower ever felt better. Shampooed my hair twice. Although it’s very tiring and time consuming, on Tuesday I showered on my own. After my shower Wednesday, I added a shirt and bra (instead of pj’s) for the day. By the end of the week, who knows? World domination? One small step at a time…

P.S. Title of my story is a shout out to my 2 year old great-granddaughter Jovi. She loves the song, Baby Shark, do, do, do, do, do, do. It’s catchy. If you don’t recognize the tune, well, you haven’t been around a toddler enough lately…

I’ve never been very adventuresome. Actually, I’m quite boring and feel somewhat threatened when forced to try new things. My idea of high adventure is ordering a dish I’ve never tried before in a restaurant. I just suck. But I wasn’t always such a dud. I pulled my share of shenanigans (in legal terms it’s probably called a misdemeanor) when I was a teen. I assume there are still some people from my home town who might consider me an instigator when we were growing up. Hmmm.

Although I like vacations, I’ve never felt the pull to go very far away from home. My biggest reason (or excuse) were Mom and Dad, who still lived in Iowa. So the majority of our trips were to visit them. I took a couple vacations with Mom & Dad to California and Colorado when I was a kid, but failed to visit Mount Rushmore (practically in my own back yard during my first 35 years of life) until I was 45.

My bucket list consisting of Yellowstone, Bryce Canyon, Grand Canyon, Alaska and the redwoods of California have yet to be checked off before I check out. With so many places I long to visit in the states, I had absolutely no desire to travel abroad. None whatsoever. In November 2012, our son Joshua and his soon to be bride, Erica chose Cancun as their wedding destination. This was as far away as I had ever been from home. It was an awesome, all inclusive resort and I had a blast. I was very brave and signed up to go scuba diving. Pretty big accomplishment for this big coward. I enjoyed it immensely but just thinking about scuba diving was way out of my comfort zone.

So my oldest child. Shannon. The polar opposite of me in most respects. (She did get my snarky gene, however). A born leader. Successful in all her endeavors. Multiple lofty goals. Graduated with a PhD at 37. Has about 400% more ambition than her mom. Soon after we moved back to Jackson in 2015, she suggested we take a BIG trip together. (For several years before we went antiquing/shopping to different states together once a year-kid less). The way she phrased this unknown adventure was, “let’s go somewhere while you’ve still got your faculties.” (Wicked sense of humor) I was about to turn 65.

So she booked a 12 day tour of Rome, Florence, Assisi and Venice, Italy in the summer of 2016. I blogged about how fantastic the trip was (except I had been limping for 6 months with a sore knee and did drag the whole group down at times). I won’t go into trip details again, but I will concisely define the trip in 2 words. The Coliseum. Wow. Just wow. Ok 5 words. Sorry.

Fast forward six months after our Italy trip, late fall-winter of 2016. Our youngest granddaughter, Peyton was one of 50 teens selected to tour France and Germany for 6 weeks during the upcoming summer of 2017. Peyton would be part of a choir from Blue Lake Fine Arts Camp. Shannon was going for at least a month, Tracey and Landon for a week.

Without much fanfare Shannon quietly put this bug in my ear. “I’ve got an apartment in Paris by myself for a week after Tracey and Landon leave but before Peyton joins me to go sightseeing. All it would cost you is your flight to France Mom. You in?” Ok, I don’t know any sane person who could say no to a week in Paris/Germany for the cost of a round trip ticket. Three weeks later I was landing at Charles de Gaulle airport. Waiting for me was Shannon in her rented Mercedes (which I got to drive over 100 mph on the Autobahn. Unbelievably stoked).

Shannon had been in Paris and Germany for weeks already when I landed and had gone sightseeing with Tracey and Landon, so she rattled off some highlights of France. “Mom we’re spending 2 days in Germany to watch Peyton’s last concert, but we have 2 days in Paris before and a day after when we get back. What do you want to see?” (All, I wanted to see it all). Two sights I had my heart set on had some issues. Both Versailles and The Normandy American Cemetery would each consume a whole day because they were quite far away. (I should have stayed another 2 days. Not a smart decision Neese, you were already there).

But during my rather short time in Paris I managed to visit the Arc de Triomphe, The Louvre, Eiffel Tower and Notre Dame. Plus a 7 story, high end Shopping Mall. And lots of great food. Not gonna lie and tell you the Cathedral at Notre Dame was my favorite. It’s just me, but much like arriving at The Coliseum in Rome (breathtaking-truly took my breath away) the same thing happened as I was nearing the Eiffel Tower. For some reason, I just couldn’t get enough and didn’t want to leave. And I took one of the best pictures of it-ever. It should win an award. Seriously.

Notre Dame though offered different feelings/sensations/emotions. Everything in America is so new compared to this holy place I was about to enter. I think about the 2 nuns who help manage the fabulous daycare/Montessori school where I work. Sister Vicky and Sister Carolyn. There are no 2 finer women of God on this earth. I wish they were walking beside me to explain in detail the wonders of Notre Dame.

The first thing that struck me was-there are no pews. Anywhere. (Did parishioners stand up during a church service hundreds of years ago?) Folding chairs abound. The Cathedral was cool-as in chilly, very dark and quiet, considering it was packed with tourists. Saints and sinners. Believers and skeptics. The statues, artwork, and glasswork are simply overwhelming. You’re shuffling along quietly, eyes drawn to some gorgeous statues, trying to memorize how, what, when, where and why so you can retrieve that information when you rediscover that picture again in 2 weeks on your phone. Suddenly in a few feet, your eyes are feasting on another masterpiece, plus 3 minutes of reading material. Just a huge overload on so many levels.

I was surprised how emotional I got when I heard about the raging fire engulfing Notre Dame. It hurt my heart. These strong feelings feel somewhat strange. I was not raised in the Catholic Church. Before this trip, I never thought about Notre Dame (except for South Bend, Indiana and the Disney movie, Hunchback).

A special Cathedral which has stood for 850 years. I’m happy people are stepping up with massive donations to rebuild. I’m ecstatic for the quick thinking folks who removed artwork before it was damaged or lost. I’m forever grateful that my wise daughter thought enough of me to suggest, “a free week in Paris for the cost of your plane ticket mom. You in?” Indeed…

I am bombarded daily with numerous, innocuous visuals. We all are. A funny post on Facebook. A migrating, seldom seen bird at our feeder this spring. These usually make me smile. Other visuals concerning real life may prove to be sad, happy, thought-provoking, painful or tear inducing, cause me to pause. While some are fleeting, stopping only for a few seconds before they move on and are forgotten. Others linger much longer, some may never find a way out of your head or heart again.

It’s how we respond to these glorious, distasteful, silly, serious, hurtful, phenomenal events in our lives that make a difference. Determining who we are. You may have had a great day shopping, feeling accomplished. You’re backing out of a coveted parking spot at the mall when suddenly you hear a car horn blaring. Turning your head you see a guy’s imposing Chevy Yukon 2 feet from your bumper and he’s flipping you the bird. Now your reaction can go a couple of different ways. You can throw up your hands with ‘Dude, my bad’ look or you can mouth some mighty strong, easy to lip-read language of your own, and see where it goes from there. Since the swimming suit in the store was flattering enough it’s now in a bag on the passenger seat, you go with, ‘geez I’m sorry, I was watching my backup mirror and your honking big truck was just out of my line of vision,’ and happily give him your spot. Had the swim suit actually shown how big your ass really is might have resulted in a different response.

We haven’t had a pet for several years. Chico was 17, half blind, mostly deaf but he still had quality to his life. Roamed our little cul-de-sac, visiting neighbors who were quite patient with him standing in the middle of our shared driveway, unaware that a car was behind him, patiently waiting for him to move. I don’t think of myself as much of a animal person (allergic to cats) yet there’s something about animals that makes me a weepy mess. Recently, we were watching a program where a female (human) character’s background was being introduced. A time when Chris was a rookie officer a few years back and had a K-9 dog for a partner. Chris was just told her retired police dog was near death. If she wanted to see him before he was euthanized she shouldn’t wait. I bawled through the whole episode about the dog, which really wasn’t even the main storyline. I don’t know why I do this. It’s just the way I am. Can’t watch PSA’s about malnourished, shivering thrown away pets and have to move quickly past memes about taping a dog’s mouth shut, illegal dog fights and other tortuous pictures. I just can’t.

One sentence from ‘Compassionate Friends’ posted on Facebook recently stuck in my head since I read it. As a mom/gram/great-gram, these simple, stark messages pack a powerful punch. It’s not possible to have anything worse happen than losing a child. My parents went through it when my brother died at 12 and our family was never the same. That one tragic event changed our lives forever. This is what the message read, “Parents fear dying until they lose a child, then they fear living.” Unless you’ve gone through it, one cannot imagine what that’s like. My worst fear.

I get this college periodical a couple times a year. I got on their mailing list for some reason. When this 30 page magazine arrives, I am compelled to read it cover-to-cover. (It’s weird, I don’t know why. I know almost no one from the school or town). There might be alumni/students/staff who toss it as soon as it hits their mailbox, but I cannot. Sometimes when you least expect it, God sends you a message. A sign. He wanted me to read, heed and pay close attention.

This story is not about someone I know. Probably read it 6 or 8 weeks ago. It’s 3 pages long with a couple pictures. This guy (I would guess about my youngest kids age-upper 30’s) is happily married, has 5 young children, a good job and had just bought and moved his family into a larger house and yard. They had oodles of plans for their new home and landscaping last summer. But they also needed a short respite. So with his wife, the kids and dog, they went to visit family for their summer vacation. On the last day they decided not to leave as early as they had originally planned, but opted for one more family outing before hitting the road back to Michigan. Maybe the traffic around Chicago wouldn’t be as congested.

Dad was driving east near the Michigan State line when a wheel/tire from a car in the westbound lanes bounced over the guard rail, crashed through the windshield of the family van, hitting dad square in the face. He was immediately knocked unconscious, the van bumped into the guard rail before mom grabbed the steering wheel and eased it over to the right shoulder and stopped. She frantically called 911 and waited. A nearby hospital patched him up, but since his injuries were very critical, he was transferred to the hospital at U of M in Ann Arbor (about 175 miles away, but now fairly close to their home).

His face/head was fractured in 50 different places. 50. Eleven hours of surgery, attaching seven titanium plates and screws up the wazoo, putting his face and head back together. A miracle. He was the 5th patient with similar injuries at U of M in 2018. He’s the only one who lived to talk about it. Once he gained consciousness he was overcome with gratitude, not only for God sparing his life, but the rest of his family. And others.

News spread quickly through the small college town. Coworkers, students, townsfolk helped with meals, caring for the children, yard work, eagerly gnawing their through the family’s long wish list of to-do’s they had made for their new home. He was told he’d be in the hospital at least 3 months. He went home in one week. He was back working at the college in 11 weeks. They knew God was in control.

At the hospital during recovery, he was frequently asked some questions: what’s your name? What month is it? Where are you? Why are you here? His response to the last question never changed. “I’m here because I should have died in a car accident, but God has a different plan for my life.”

This simple sentence. I can’t read or think about it without crying. Profound.

So this little known story from a little known publication I just happened to read has served as a reminder for me the last several weeks. I pray it continues to do so.

1. I am going to stop using the work luck. Nothing in my life has to do with luck.

2. I am still roaming the face of this earth for one reason. The grace of God.

3. I have been blessed more than I deserve. Far more.

4. God has blessed John, our children, grandchildren, great-grandchild and in-laws.

5. God is patient with me, which gives me hope.

6. I have faith I will join my Heavenly Father when He calls me home.

7. This is the day the Lord has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it…

I’m kind of a sports junkie. I know what you’re thinking. Right, only thing she could possibly excel in, sports wise, would be grand prize winner in a couch potato contest (or eating potatoes). OK you got me. I may not look like a sports aficionado but I do enjoy WATCHING sports. Or at least I used to. I may be past my prime.

When the Hubs and I got hitched, part of ensuring this marriage was gonna last more than a month was embracing the Minnesota Vikings as an avid fan. Bordering on fanatical. The other part of this equation was becoming a credible pinochle player. There was no option on either. Yup, he had both items listed in our vows. Sigh. Imagine my surprise when I discovered I enjoyed the game of football. I could rattle off players/positions/coaches from teams all over the league. Fouts, Stabler, Mean Joe Green, Swann, Tarkington, Alzado, Payton, Montana, Rice, Winslow. And on and on. Tickets didn’t cost much in the 70’s or we’d never been able to go. No such thing as indoor football at the old Metropolitan Stadium in Minneapolis. Freezing drizzle, snow, blizzard conditions frequently during the game, continuing on our trip back home.

We started following the Iowa Hawkeyes (football & basketball) at the same time. Went to games when we lived in Davenport. Bobby Hansen, Steve Carfino, Greg Stokes, Michael Payne, BJ Armstrong shooting hoops. Chuck Long as quarterback against U of M’s Jim Harbaugh in one of the best games I’ve ever watched in person. Kinnick Stadium, maybe 1985, Hawks won 12-10 in the final seconds.

Took a bus trip from Davenport to Chicago in 1982 to watch the Cubs play the Cardinals. I attended baseball games as a kid in Los Angeles (Dodgers) in 1960 and Minneapolis (Twins) in 1963 with my parents. How Mom became an ardent New York Mets fan (which was bad enough) but my Dad rooting for the Yankees, (even worse) is still a mystery. My friend Mary Ellen (several years older than me) had been going to Cubs games since the mid’40’s because her grandparents lived in Wrigleyville and she spent part of the summer with them. I fell for the Cubs and Wrigley Field on that beautiful summer day in ’82. Fervently watched every Cub game for about 30 years. (Hubs finally figured out if he wanted supper approximately on time (before the Cubs game was over), it might be prudent to add a TV in my kitchen). Adam knew baseball, like double plays, before he was 3. Although I wasn’t an active participant, I knew a lot about sports in general.

When you watch sports, you learn about different coaching styles. I think you can tell a lot about a person by the things they do when they’re coaching. Let’s start with Bobby Knight. Throngs of people think he’s one of the greatest college coaches ever. He did know how to win games. But to me he was a bully. I hated watching him coach during a Hoosier game. Sideline pacer, loud screamer, stepping on the court. Pushing players around during a timeout, trying to intimidate the refs, throwing chairs across the court in a fit of uncontrolled rage. Had I been a mom of a superior high school player, I would have done everything in my power to discourage my son from choosing to play for Knight.

We moved to Michigan from Iowa in 1987, happy we were still in Big 10 country. I wrote a blog in January of 2015 about our first encounters as Iowa fans in enemy territory, at U of M’s football stadium and MSU’s old Breslin Center for basketball. It’s called “Plaid Pants” if you want to check it out. Actually sort of cute, considering I’m talking about Jim Harbaugh through most of it. We had a horrible experience watching the Hawkeyes play in Ann Arbor and an uplifting one when we saw the Hawks play in East Lansing, and not because of wins or losses. Two of our kids (plus our daughter-in-law) attended Michigan State, so I’ve always had a warm spot in my heart for green & white. Unless they’re Hawkeye opponents. Duh.

Got to tell you, I struggle watching coaches lose their shit on the court. It’s highly unprofessional and unbecoming and makes me uncomfortable. (That’s a lot of uns, sorry) It’s hard to fathom a coach’s reaction to a player in the heat of a moment. Not long ago I watched Pat Chambers (Penn State) literally shove a freshman during a timeout in a game. Dude, that looks so bad. On TV, no less. Please try harder not to be such an ass. Chambers was suspended for one game. Meh. Big deal.

When Tom Izzo was named head coach for MSU’s basketball program, he was taking over from legendary coach Jud Heathcote. Tom was Jud’s assistant. It was the mid-90’s and Tom was about 40. Although I’m not a dedicated Spartan fan, I’ve watched him for almost 25 years, catching his coaching techniques a few games during every season.

I don’t remember many temper tantrums from Tom until the last few years. Maybe he’s just run out of patience. In case you’re not a fan or missed it during the first 80,000 times it’s been viewed, Tom’s meltdown reared it’s ugly head during the first round game of the 2019’s NCAA tournament against Bradley. A timeout was called about the same time a freshman from Michigan State was slow getting back on defense. Izzo started running to center court, hands clenched in tight fists, veins in his head and neck popped out. This was a teaching moment. Snarling, bottom jaw jutted out, lunging for a freshman, who had a lapse of judgement about getting back on defense in a timely fashion. Surely this huge mistake cost them the game right? Nah.

Tom poked his finger at the offensive (slow to the defensive position) player and had to be restrained by other players and coaches from this Henry kid-multiple times. On national TV. Over a game. It’s still a game right? Yeah, yeah, I know, it’s really about millions of dollars. Whatever. When I see a coach go ballistic, do you know what pops in my head? If he’s like this on national TV with millions of people watching, what’s he like in practice when no one’s watching? Do the players have to pull back their coach every single time during practice? Is this the best/most successful/constructive way of teaching a young man how to become a better player? Does a coach have to scream/point a finger/belittle/get in their face/sometimes push to make a point in a real teaching moment? Would you want your son/daughter playing for this type of coaching style? For me, I’d have to say no.

My grandson, 18 year old Landon (Drew to the rest of the world) has played organized basketball, winter and summer leagues (superbly, I might add) since he was 8, so he’s had his share of coaches. The yellers and subdued guys. Although I’ve missed some of his games, I’ve seen most. I have (more than once) yelled at various coaches from the stands when their screaming has crossed the line during a game and is totally counterproductive. But I’ve never witnessed Landon with a finger in his face or getting shoved by a coach.

Not surprised after I googled ‘coaches who lose their shit’ during a game, I’m in a very small minority. Almost every sports writer sees absolutely nothing wrong with Izzo’s, or other coaches angry behavior. If you’re highly successful, but prone to erratic outbursts, it’s expected/accepted. Oddly enough, when I see a coach on TV lose it (true enough, I constantly miss plays, post-ups or screens, which would cause any coach to become unglued-sarcasm warranted here), I desperately want to walk up, screaming the whole time, and slap the snot right out of him. Which of course, makes me guilty of the behavior I abhor in him. The irony is duly noted…