DSG Syndrome

     I am afflicted by a malady that sometimes makes it difficult to live a mere 19 miles from the reputed Sports Capital of the World.

     My Daddy was an avid sports fan. He listened to baseball and football on the radio and then later watched on television.  He passed along his sports interest to my three brothers: Lee Roy, Leonard, and Lew.  But something short-circuited with me, his second son.

     Though I have consulted neither my General Medical Practitioner nor an Athletic Trainer for a scientific diagnosis, I have studied the evidence and determined on my own that I was born with  a Defective Sports Gene, commonly known in athletic circles as DSG Syndrome.

     In our growing-up years, my sisters and brothers and I spent the fall months in the cotton fields of West Texas instead of in the halls of learning.  So, Lee Roy, my older brother, and Leonard, my younger brother, did not "come out for football," although they longed for the chance.

     By the time Lew entered the world, Leonard (the baby of the family until then) was nearly thirteen.  So, for all practical purposes, Lew grew an only child.  He did play high school football, with Daddy's enthusiastic support.

     My active interest in sports withered and died in grade school when I realized I would always be the last chosen at recess when two jock-to-be types chose sides for the prevailing seasonal sport.

     I went to football games in high school and college and in my early years in the "real world." Then I woke up one day and realized I went because it seemed expected -- the thing to do.

     It's been thirty-five years since I've been in a stadium.  

     The last game I went to, Pansy and our boys and I lived in Waco, Texas, and I went to a Baylor game with my dear older brother-in-law Jeff who had an extra ticket. 

     I don't know who won. I don't remember the Bears' opponents.  My only clear memory  of the afternoon is the moment when I stood with Baylor fans as they sang "That Good Old Baylor Line" and stretched out their arms with their fingers curled to represent Bear claws.

     These days, as orange athletic supporters go ga-ga over bowl games and trips to Phoenix, I'm sure I'm missing something.  But I have no idea what it is.  Or maybe I do.

     I've often heard it said that football is a religion.  I've often said "Amen" to that.  But now I have proof positive:

     Coach Swinney will soon be canonized Saint Dabo as he gives glory to God for his win over the Oklahoma boys.  I'm not sure where this leaves the coach from the Southwest.  Is he less than favored in the eyes of the Almighty because his boys lost?  Is Dab more holy than his 2015 competitor as God gave "us" the victory?

     After the Orange Bowl, a fan told me, "I'm on a spiritual high after that game!" I looked my friend in the eye and scratched my head as I asked, "Really?"  He probably thought my head-scratching was a sign of dandruff.

     Then there was the sports writer's Facebook post, quoting from the "love chapter," First Corinthians 13, in tribute to The Coach with God's Blessing.

     Does God give wins to His (or Her) favored teams?

     Does God give a good care about which team of rowdies scores more points?

     Will the coach and the guys up the road in Tigertown be better Christians after a winning season?

     Will they be even better Christians when they are crowned National Champions?

     Will "we" be better Christians because "we" won?

     

     Many of my friends -- or former friends -- are sadly shaking their heads .  .  . if they've read this far:  Poor Lawrence.  We knew he'd flipped.  We just didn't realize the extent of his DSG Syndrome.   

What Will It Matter That I Have Lived?

What can I do to make any difference that I have lived thirty, forty, fifty, sixty, seventy, eighty, or ninety years on Planet Earth?

“All you can do is face the world with quiet grace and hope you make a sliver of difference.”

Brian Doyle wrote those words in the Sojourners magazine regarding raising your children, maintaining a happy marriage, and doing your job well.

Doyle wrote the reflective article for the January 2016 issue, the time of year we associate with looking forward and simultaneously looking backward, after the fashion of the two-faced Roman god Janus.

To hope for the future, you must believe “being a very good you matters somehow,” the editor of Portland Magazine at the University of Portland in Oregon wrote.

Another urgent belief, according to Doyle, is “that trying to be an honest  and tender parent” will have reverberations among your descendants for centuries to come.

Still another point in Doyle’s credo is that people beyond your range of knowledge will benefit as you do “your chosen work with creativity and diligence.”

Through all your good work, however, you likely will never get proper credit or be properly understood, except by Jesus, whom Doyle calls “the Arab Jew.” He realized good had gone out of Him the instant a sick woman dared to touch the hem of His garment. Few of us have such perception.

Doyle says realizing our limits should bring humility, knowing “we are all broken and small and brief.” But, while acknowledging our limits, we need also to know, where there is love, “there is everything else.”

Salenthiel C. Kirk, summed up this message in his 1912 song, “Our Best”:

Wait not for men to laud, heed not their slight;

Winning the smile of God brings its delight!

Aiding the good and true ne’er goes unblest,

All that we think or do, be it the best.  

Every work for Jesus will be blest, 

But He asks from everyone his best.  

Our talents may be few, these may be small,

But unto Him is due our best, our all.