Lets start with an explanation of the title to this blog, Letters To Purgatory. Believe it or not I have to break this down into two explanations; Letters & Purgatory. I'll start with "Letters." Many, many years ago I read the following article in SI - for all you sports challenged people, that's Sports Illustrated.
On Tuesday the best man I know will do what he always does on the 21st of the month. He'll sit down and pen a love letter to his best girl. He'll say how much he misses her and loves her and can't wait to see her again. Then he'll fold it once, slide it in a little envelope and walk into his bedroom. He'll go to the stack of love letters sitting there on her pillow, untie the yellow ribbon, place the new one on top and tie the ribbon again.
The stack will be 180 letters high then, because Tuesday is 15 years to the day since Nellie, his beloved wife of 53 years, died. In her memory, he sleeps only on his half of the bed, only on his pillow, only on top of the sheets, never between, with just the old bedspread they shared to keep him warm.
There's never been a finer man in American sports than John Wooden, or a finer coach. He won 10 NCAA basketball championships at UCLA, the last in 1975. Nobody has ever come within six of him. He won 88 straight games between Jan. 30, 1971, and Jan. 17, 1974. Nobody has come within 42 since.
So, sometimes, when the Madness of March gets to be too much -- too many players trying to make SportsCenter, too few players trying to make assists, too many coaches trying to be homeys, too few coaches willing to be mentors, too many freshmen with out-of-wedlock kids, too few freshmen who will stay in school long enough to become men -- I like to go see Coach Wooden. I visit him in his little condo in Encino, 20 minutes northwest of L.A., and hear him say things like "Gracious sakes alive!" and tell stories about teaching "Lewis" the hook shot. Lewis Alcindor, that is. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.
There has never been another coach like Wooden, quiet as an April snow and square as a game of checkers; loyal to one woman, one school, one way; walking around campus in his sensible shoes and Jimmy Stewart morals. He'd spend a half hour the first day of practice teaching his men how to put on a sock. "Wrinkles can lead to blisters," he'd warn. These huge players would sneak looks at one another and roll their eyes. Eventually, they'd do it right. "Good," he'd say. "And now for the other foot."
Of the 180 players who played for him, Wooden knows the whereabouts of 172. Of course, it's not hard when most of them call, checking on his health, secretly hoping to hear some of his simple life lessons so that they can write them on the lunch bags of their kids, who will roll their eyes. "Discipline yourself, and others won't need to," Coach would say. "Never lie, never cheat, never steal," Coach would say. "Earn the right to be proud and confident."
You played for him, you played by his rules: Never score without acknowledging a teammate. One word of profanity, and you're done for the day. Treat your opponent with respect.
He believed in hopelessly out-of-date stuff that never did anything but win championships. No dribbling behind the back or through the legs. "There's no need," he'd say. No UCLA basketball number was retired under his watch. "What about the fellows who wore that number before? Didn't they contribute to the team?" he'd say. No long hair, no facial hair. "They take too long to dry, and you could catch cold leaving the gym," he'd say.
That one drove his players bonkers. One day, All-America center Bill Walton showed up with a full beard. "It's my right," he insisted. Wooden asked if he believed that strongly. Walton said he did. "That's good, Bill," Coach said. "I admire people who have strong beliefs and stick by them, I really do. We're going to miss you." Walton shaved it right then and there. Now Walton calls once a week to tell Coach he loves him.
It's always too soon when you have to leave the condo and go back out into the real world, where the rules are so much grayer and the teams so much worse. As Wooden shows you to the door, you take one last look around. The framed report cards of the great-grandkids. The boxes of jelly beans peeking out from under the favorite wooden chair. The dozens of pictures of Nellie.
He's almost 90 now, you think. A little more hunched over than last time. Steps a little smaller. You hope it's not the last time you see him. He smiles. "I'm not afraid to die," he says. "Death is my only chance to be with her again."
Problem is, we still need him here.
Issue date: March 20, 2000
With my basketball background I have always looked up to John Wooden and certainly tried to coach and conduct my life as this great coach does. Grace, wit, wisdom, perspective, humility, love, competence, devotion and spirituality have rarely been packaged so well in one man. One of his players was once asked to choose one word to describe Wooden. He chose "Saint." He's still teaching his famous Pyramid of Success, which encompasses all of the above and more. See below and if you are at all interested in how to live your life, run a business, raise a family, coach a team or conduct yourself this is a must have:
You can't read the fine print, but you get the idea and I most certainly suggest you google this and print out one for yourself. So before I get lost on my John Wooden tangent, I'll get back to the point. You're probably wondering what the heck does John Wooden and basketball have to do with the title. I cut that article out of SI in 2000 and I still have the original. What caught my eye first & foremost and maybe even made me cry (I'm not sure if it did then, but it does now) is that John wrote his wife, Nellie, a letter every month and put it on her pillow. For whatever reason that raised my respect for John Wooden all the more. How beautiful and admirable I thought. Fast forward to 2003 and by now I'm involved in my own relationship. I shared this article with K-dub (name changed to "pet name" just cuz) and he, like me, thought it was something wonderful. At that time I can't remember if I said this or thought this, but I knew if anything ever happened to my K-dub I would do the same. I guess when I imagined that day I would be like John Wooden, in my 80's or so. I didn't think I'd be doing it 3 years later. As the months go on my stack grows bigger, yet it pales in comparison to John Wooden's 263 letters, Nellie died March 21st, 1985, 4 days before K-dub. Since I have been writing K-dub these letters and throwing in cards for our anniversaries, birthday, Valentines Day, etc. I have found that writing him these letters and cards has been therapuetic. Needless to say I have about a 6 inch stack (conservative) of paper, all letters that I have written to him. So why not put these thoughts and ramblings to a good use in a blog. Maybe someone will stumble upon this blog and read what it really feels like to go through grief a.k.a. hell on earth. If I can help just one person by easing their pain or reassuring them that they aren't the only one I've done something good. Or even better, something good has come out of something tragic. Okay, so there is the explanation for the "Letters." Why did I pick Purgatory? Most people would choose letters to Heaven or maybe even Letters to a Lover or Letters to a Dead Person....anything, but Purgatory! That all stems from my Catholic religious convictions. If you are Catholic (all 1,100,000,000 of us - one sixth of the world population) you know why I put Purgatory and not Heaven, but if you are not part of the 1,100,000,000, this is a short lesson for you. The church never declares any dead person is anywhere, not Heaven, not Purgatory and not Hell. Not even Hitler (at the last moment he could've said "What was I thinking!? and actually had remorse, we don't know what he was thinking). The only people in Heaven are Saints. For those of you unclear on the rules, the criteria for sainthood is really easy breezy lemon squeezy. Dead+In Heaven=Saint. In order to do this the church has to prove the person is in heaven. The only way to prove a soul is in heaven is if a living person has a miracle bestowed upon them after asking for the intercession of the saintly candidate. You've all seen the miracles: statues of Mary crying, etc. Well, two miracles + dead = Saint and in Heaven. Make sense. With that being said, I write my letters and send my prayers to Purgatory. I will never know when God has made the decision that all of K-Dubs sins have been repented and cleansed, so in the meantime I direct it all to Purgatory. Not to mention, the more prayers and sufferings that we offer up to God for the souls in Purgatory, the quicker we help them to Heaven. So it should be clear that we will never know if our loved ones are in Heaven yet, so it is best to continue to pray for them as if they are still in Purgatory. With this long winded explanation you should all have a better understanding why I have named the title to this blog "Letters To Purgatory." Did you think I'd name a blog without any thought?
So welcome to this blog and journey with me through the mind of a griever if you dare. Please note that this blog is for me and me only, I write what I feel and nothing else. If you don't like it click the X in the upper right corner and just exit. Most importantly these are feelings and like the passing seasons, moods and feelings pass. I typically write when I need to get something out and that usually happens when I'm pained or saddened, not happy. Sometimes there will be happy posts, funny posts and sad posts; that is the rollercoaster ride of grief. Don't for a second think that if I talk about wanting to be with K-Dub, wanting to be in Heaven (or Purg) or wanting to die that I will commit suicide, that is one of the ultimate sins and I would NEVER do that. And finally, as stated before I typically just write everything to K-Dub so most posts will be talking to him. So with all this being said, "Welcome To The Mind Of A Maniac....." - Dr.Dre. I'll spare the next line. :) Just had to say that. Which reminds me, I love music and I cope with music so there will be a lot of references to music in here and maybe if you're lucky I'll throw up some mp3's or albums to download. Okay, nuff said, let the games begin.
