Who Really Runs the Ranch: Sophia is my mare and, as this video makes clear, apparently also the ranch foreman. I was trying to get some work done, but she wanted some attention. Spend enough time around horses and there is no mistaking that each has a personality. Sophia’s message was pretty clear: stop working and pay attention to me.

Not All Heroes Wear Capes: A guy was stopped at an intersection when he saw a man in a wheelchair struggling to cross the road, so he jumped out of his Jeep and helped him across. Did I mention he was dressed as Spider-Man? The traffic camera caught the whole thing. He had just gotten off work at a trampoline park, perhaps that explains the suit. But regardless, good dude. He was driving in full costume, mask included, and of course did his interviews the same way. :)

Friday Night Lights: A little football last Friday night. It was a fundraiser, and the high school football team played the third and fourth grade team. The “littles” took the title. There may have been some favorable officiating involved. But watching high school football players get pancaked by peewee blockers was fun. Just a fun Friday night in a small town.

Pink Skies: As I was finishing up this week’s Friday Five, I saw this happening outside my window. I took a minute to go outside and take it in. I dropped an item about old people and their tattoos to share this photo (maybe next week). This kind of sunrise often comes from a thin layer of altostratus clouds possibly mixed with some higher cirrostratus (I really like my clouds). “Pink Skies” are a good way to start your day and a touching song by Zach Bryan! Try not to miss the pink skies in your life.

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Have a great weekend.
Nathan

The Dog I Almost Never Met: The final photograph in the essay I published this week was of me and my sweet brown Lab, Jagger. What I didn’t explain was that it was taken in the parking lot of the veterinarian’s office. Moments before Lorena and I took him in to say goodbye. His spirit was strong. His body had given out. Even now, the photograph makes me teary. This week, I read Tommy Tomlinson’s “Why a Dog’s Death Hits So Hard.” He even uses the death of John Wick’s dog to explore why losing one can hurt so much. And yes, I know those movies are violent. I’ve seen all of them. You don’t need to email me if you don’t like them:) But if you love dogs or have experienced the pain of losing one, the article is worth reading.

Old Enough to Remember: Caleb and I were flying recently when he mentioned it was a little cold on our flight. I told him that “back in the day,” airlines provided blankets and pillows. He looked genuinely confused. “They did what?” I always laugh at the ordinary parts of our childhoods that our kids cannot believe were ever real. Try explaining why we still say “hang up the phone” to someone under 20. If you have a good example, please share it in the comments.

Call Someone: One study found that participants spoke almost 30 percent fewer words a day compared to twenty years ago. It is easier than ever to avoid conversation. Pay at the pump. Order through a kiosk. Text instead of call. All convenient, I guess (although I hate self checkout). But none has the value of conversation. Conversation wanders. You laugh. You hear something in someone’s voice they would never put in a text. It gives you some connection. Even the introverts out there are social beings. This piece provides the why and some how on getting back in the habit of using old school words. Spoken out loud! Give it a try–you will feel better.

Baseball Gold: Baseball players have routines. Then they have superstitions. They are different. Mariners catcher Cal Raleigh was stuck in an 0-for-36 slump when teammate Logan Gilbert suggested he shower in his full uniform. You know to wash away the bad mojo. He did. The next night, Raleigh finally broke the slump with two hits in big win. I’m not saying the shower fixed his swing. But I’m not saying it didn’t.

Some Things Should Never Change: I was on the road the other day and in a hurry. Like always. I saw a line of cars with their headlights on coming the opposite way. A funeral procession. I joined the other drivers pulling to the side of the road. We got out of our cars, even in the heat, and stood silently as the procession passed. None of us knew who had died. We didn’t know the people grieving. It didn’t matter. Just a moment of respect for someone gone. A moment of support for those mourning. The world gives us plenty of reasons to focus on conflict and cruelty. But people are still kind. They still care about others. Even those they have never met. Some things should never change.

Have a great weekend.

Nathan

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It is hard to describe the end of a combat deployment.

You really want to go home. And a part of you really wants to stay.

You miss your friends and family, but also know you will miss the bonds of war.

You want the things you couldn’t have when deployed: burgers, baseball and beer.

But you know you can’t replace the things you had at war: purpose, adrenaline, and camaraderie.

Still, no one misses a flight home. You know you can always come back.

Mainly, at the end of a deployment you don’t want to die.

I mean you never want to die. But you really don’t want to die at the end. You have been through so much. You have made plans for when you get home. Maybe something special.

For me, I had a chocolate lab puppy waiting. I had always wanted one and promised myself that if I didn’t die in Iraq, that would be my reward. He had already been born. Just waiting for me to pick him up.

I had named him Jagger.

I really couldn’t die now. My dog was waiting for me.

On literally the last day of my deployment we conducted a large operation targeting several high-value individuals we had spent months trying to capture.

It was complex. We were conducting simultaneous raids on multiple sites. After the first locations were hit, we would move to secondary targets, which meant the element of surprise would be gone. Daybreak would likely be upon us.

Everyone was on edge. The area we were entering wasn’t friendly and we expected resistance.

But it went great.

We got everyone we were after and no one on our side was injured.

It was time to exfil. Convoy back to our base.

Then get ready for our “freedom bird” to start the long journey home.

There was a sense of relief.

Done. Let’s drive back and get the hell out of here.

Guys were smiling.

I was in the passenger seat. My buddy John was driving. Two guys were in the back.

The mission was in our rearview mirror…

Then I heard it.

Thump. Thump.

I knew immediately.

Mortars.

The call came over the radio.

“Incoming.”

The first rounds landed a fair distance behind us.

Drive faster.

A pause…then another. Thump. Thump.

The next explosion was in front of us.

Well shit. They were walking the rounds in. Adjusting to each impact point. Not good.

So we changed directions.

They kept calibrating their aim.

The next volley hit a Humvee ahead of us. The vehicle caught fire and was disabled.

The guys got out, but we were stuck. The whole convoy piled up in soft sand with a Humvee on fire.

And now they were dialed in on their range and our static location. Very bad.

A voice on the radio from someone at headquarters who I’m certain had never left the wire was instructing us to engineer a tow strap and haul the damaged Humvee back.

We were sitting in one of the most dangerous places you can be.

I kept saying the same thing.

We have to go.

Just pull the comms out of the damaged Humvee. Drop a thermite grenade on the engine block. And let’s go.

At that point, it’s useless metal.

The clock in my head was ticking on how fast they had been reloading and firing.

We really need to fucking go.

Thump. Thump.

Their clock beat faster than the asshole on the radio who cared more about a truck than our lives.

A 120mm mortar round landed three feet outside the passenger side door of our Humvee. Right outside my window.

The impact hitting the sand sent a shock wave through the vehicle.

The kill radius of a round that size is at least 30 meters.

We were one meter away.

If it detonates that close, all the armor in the world doesn’t matter.

A catastrophic explosion. We all die.

We all clenched for the explosion. It was over. Time’s up.

Then nothing happened.

I had instinctively curled into a ball. I opened my eyes.

I looked to my right.

The round was sitting there in the sand. Half buried. Half sticking out of the ground.

It was huge.

It hadn’t detonated.

There’s no explanation for that.

It just didn’t.

At that point we all made the same decision.

Time to go. We started driving and everyone followed behind.

We didn’t really say anything on the way back. It was a lot to process.

And I wasn’t looking for meaning. I just wanted to see my dog.

You would think something like that would permanently change the way you live.

Maybe for some people it does.

For me, it did and it didn’t.

I have never forgotten how random life can be. Sometimes I think about that round sitting half buried in the sand. Bullets flying between my legs. Enemy tracer rounds rattling around inside our Humvee.

Sometimes, I think about all the times I came close to dying and didn’t.

But I am not sure I think about them in the right way.

I’m doing a lot better these days, but I can still spend too much of my life letting stupid shit ruin a day. Not a moment but a whole day.

I can survive a 120mm mortar round landing three feet away and not going off. And then waste a perfectly good Tuesday pissed off because the insurance company hung up on me after 45 minutes on hold and three transfers.

I mean no matter how much therapy or psychedelics you do, that will still piss you off.

But sometimes I wonder why so many near-death experiences didn’t leave me with the absolute clarity I thought they would.

Much more than the times I survived, I think about those we lost.

My friends who died in combat. And those who survived the war but died later because of it. They are on my mind every single day.

I don’t know if there is a right way to carry that. Losing them should make me more grateful for the days I still have. I should focus on what they would have done with just one more day. Most of me just misses them. And there have been times when a part of me I don’t like to admit wished it had been me.

I feel that less now. But not never.

But more than just war. Life and death have been on my mind lately. And what it means to truly live.

A friend just died from dengue fever in Asia. Random and tragic. Out of nowhere.

The adult son of another friend suddenly gone. An accident.

Another friend, still young, is facing stage four terminal cancer.

No incoming rounds. No convoy. No warning over the radio.

A person is here. Then they aren’t. Or they are told the end is coming and there is nothing you can do about it.

I don’t want to be morbid. Or depressed. I want the opposite.

I want to appreciate the good in my life. I want to be present with the people I love.

I want to treat every day like the gift I know it is.

This Sunday, as if on cue, our pastor’s sermon was on this very point. You have a finite amount of days.

Don’t let that depress you. Let it inform you.

Every day find a way to “rejoice and be glad in it.”

I don’t want to need another mortar, another funeral or another diagnosis to remember that a day is a gift.

Yes, I am likely to still curse at the insurance company for hanging up on me.

And then remember, yeah, but I’m here for it. And that is something.

After that round didn’t go off, I wasn’t looking for meaning.

I just wanted to see my dog.

I made it home to him and we had 14 wonderful years together.

But as I think about it now, maybe Jagger understood something I am still trying to learn.

Maybe he was showing me something that I failed to see clearly until after he was gone.

Every morning, from his first day until his last, that dog was the happiest he had ever been. In his entire life.

Just because he woke up.

Just because we were there.

I think that’s it. Right there.

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Tornado USA: I knew America led the world in tornado movies, but I didn’t know we lead the world in actual tornadoes! By a huge margin. We get roughly 10 times as many as the next country, Canada. Geography is the reason. Warm, humid air comes north from the Gulf of Whatever We Are Calling It Now. Dry air moves in from the West. Cooler air drops down from Canada. Together, aided by flat terrain and wind shear, they create near-perfect conditions for tornadoes. I now live close to the southeastward-shifting center of American tornado activity. I found all of that interesting, but none of it will keep us safe. That’s what the storm shelters are for!

God Bless Baseball: I will reluctantly admit that instant replay is probably good. You don’t want someone’s hard work stolen by human error. But it has taken away one thing that makes baseball great: manager tantrums. This week, we got a good one. Skip Schumaker, the new manager of the Texas Rangers, went after home-plate umpire Todd Tichenor over a called third strike that ended the inning. They were getting after it when the mid-inning rendition of “God Bless America” kicked off. Both stopped. Hats off. Peace. The song ended. Hats back on. Argument resumed. God bless baseball.

Have You Ever Seen the Rain?: I love rain. And clouds. Which is convenient, since they are connected:) I don’t understand the obsession with avoiding rain. We pay good money to get wet: pools, hot tubs, rivers and lakes. Then nature provides it for free and people run like it’s the plague. And no, you cannot catch a cold because you got wet. No surprise, I’ve always liked CCR’s “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?” But for years, I missed the point. John Fogerty wrote it at the peak of the band’s fame. They were rich, successful and miserable. The central image is rain falling on a sunny day. That was CCR. Tom Fogerty left soon after, and the band broke up the following year. CCR didn’t last. The song did. Maybe it connects because a lot of us have lived through a time when everything looked sunny from the outside.

Proof of Age: I proudly don’t drink anymore. But we had friends coming over, and my wife asked me to pick up a bottle of wine. I grabbed one based entirely on how fancy the label looked. At checkout, the guy asked for a photo ID. “Really? Photo ID. You don’t think I’m 21?” I asked. “How about I show you a photo of my grandson?” That worked.

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Nathan

It was hot. Cloudless. No breeze. My shirt was sticking to my back and I had sweated through my jeans.

The guy I was with didn’t appear to be remotely affected by the heat and humidity.

He was a soil restoration expert and I was excited to finally have him on site. I needed some technical help getting my pastures in prime condition.

We were touring my property in my side by side. Even on the hottest day, I love everything about my ranch.

We drove past thousands of oak trees with leaves in variations of green that I never knew existed. I proudly told him that in the fall, the leaves make the hills seem on fire with a mix of yellow, red and orange.

He didn’t respond. It hit me that he lives here and has seen what the trees do his entire life.

We followed the trail between my pastures beneath a natural canopy of interconnected branches, with small rays of sunlight peeking through. It was at least ten degrees cooler.

We saw the animals. The horses I love. The cattle I value. The chickens that my wife obsessively mothers. Birds, deer and turkeys are a common sight. Just last week, I saw a black bear cub scampering along a tree line (Momma has to be close).

And then there is Nacho, my trusty pit bull/lab rescue and wannabe cattle dog. Always with us. Always convinced he is helping.

It is easy to get completely lost in the natural beauty and forget this is a business. A working cattle ranch with equine ambitions.

And this guy was not here for a nature walk. He was here for work.

Every rancher is a farmer. We grow grass. Grass that sustains our cattle.

Healthy pastures produce healthy cattle.

My place sat dormant before we bought it and had gone a while without consistent pasture management. I’m building something to last generations and am willing to do the work to make it just right.

As we drove, the expert took everything in, often asking me to stop so he could get out and look around. He always had the results of a comprehensive soil analysis in hand.

He said a lot of “uh-huh”, “I see”, “there you go”.

I wasn’t sure who he was talking to.

He was older than me, but it can be tough to pinpoint the age of someone who has spent their entire life outdoors. I’m certain he has never once used sunscreen.

But he knew what he was doing. And he knew how to help me get it all “just right.”

I was there to listen and soak it all in.

We finished in my top pasture and he walked me through his recommendations. Natural lime for all the pastures, chicken litter in a few, a seeding plan to get the right balance of grasses. Slightly different for horse pastures versus cattle pastures. He had forest management advice and thoughts on getting rid of the weeds, blackberry and invasive species.

I was feeling pretty good about things.

Then he said, “You can start all of this over the next three to four months and then come back next year and re-test. Then we will make some adjustments and come up with the next phase.”

Despite the heat, my brain froze when he said “the next three to four months”.

Wait, what?.

He was here on a Tuesday. I had planned to implement everything he suggested by Friday at the very latest.

I hadn’t even processed that we would re-test in a full year and then have to do something else.

I felt my heart beat faster and some not so subtle irritability rise through my chest.

I said, “I don’t want to wait a year. I want to fix it now. How do we speed up this process?”

He looked at me with a mix of uncertainty, curiosity and slight amusement.

He pushed his straw cowboy hat back a bit and with a smirk that irritated the shit out of me said,

I am a grandfather. Granted a fairly young one, but it’s been a while since someone called me “son.”

It was the most appropriate way he could address me at that moment.

I just stood there. Kind of embarrassed. Kind of frustrated.

It hit me that I was looking at the grass. He was looking much deeper.

I was looking at the visible result I wanted to see.

He was studying the conditions required to produce it.

Sometimes what is beneath the surface takes time to yield results that you can see.

We aren’t that much different.

We’ve gotten so used to living in a world of instant gratification we start believing everything should work that way.

I’ve always believed hard work and speed can solve almost anything.

Quicker the better. Do it now.

But some things refuse to obey effort. They just don’t work that way.

The pasture doesn’t.

Recovery doesn’t.

Healing or rebuilding trust can’t be rushed.

Even finding your purpose is a path that requires more time and openness than speed and effort.

Some things take time.

Some things you cross off a to-do list. Others require constant tending.

You can build a fence. But other things need ongoing diligence.

My pasture.

Sobriety.

And rest is a critical part of this work.

If you overwork a pasture, you aren’t gaining an advantage. You are sacrificing the health of the field for years to come.

Time and rest are not the enemies of progress.

Time is part of the repair. Part of the progress.

Standing in that pasture, it’s easy to focus on everything you see that is wrong.

The weeds.

The invasive plants.

The places that need attention.

But none of it happened overnight.

Years of neglect changed the land a little at a time. Restoring it will happen the same way.

One season after another.

One careful decision after another.

We aren’t that much different.

We make a change and expect everything to be better the next day.

But sometimes what is beneath the surface takes time to yield the results that you can see.

Maybe that’s why I haven’t stopped thinking about what the soil expert told me.

You can’t fix a pasture in a day.

You can’t repair a life in one either.

Some things have to heal.

Some things have to grow.

Some things take time.

The time they take isn’t the problem.

It’s part of the repair.

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Happiest Place on Earth: A few moments without stimulation and we think we might implode. Even at Disneyland. Standing in line can be boring, but it doesn’t have to be miserable. Once, in a long Star Wars line, my wife and kids started the wave. Soon hundreds of people throughout the line were doing it. We laughed and had a great time. But Disney has figured out how to monetize our inability to deal with boredom. After paying for the tickets, ice cream and dumb little ears, you pay more for Lightning Lane. Then someone spends the day as a full-time travel agent, stumbling through the crowds with their head buried in a phone, refreshing and “stacking” reservations. The Wall Street Journal calls them the theme-park version of a designated driver. Maybe we should just enjoy where we are. Especially somewhere built to make us happy. Although happiness at Disneyland can show up in strange ways. A local cop followed a buddy into the parking lot and pulled him over for a traffic violation. “I thought this was the happiest place on Earth,” my buddy said. “Well, I’m happy,” the cop replied as he handed him the ticket!

Muscle Shoals: I love music despite having absolutely no musical talent. I tried guitar lessons but couldn’t tune the thing. In an elementary school musical, I started in the front row. Then they turned on the microphones and quickly moved me as far back as possible. I have no talent, but I love the stories, the songs, the lyrics. I was blown away by the documentary Muscle Shoals. It tells how a northern Alabama town of about 8,000 people helped shape soul, R&B and rock. Aretha Franklin, Wilson Pickett, Etta James, Percy Sledge, the Rolling Stones, Lynyrd Skynyrd, Bob Dylan and Paul Simon all recorded there. Outside, George Wallace was promising “segregation forever.” Inside, black artists and white Alabama session musicians were making some of the greatest records ever cut. The artists still struggle to explain it: the river, the isolation, the people or maybe some kind of magic. Whatever it was, the place had its own feel and its own sound. It changed American music. I highly recommend it.

National Day of the Cowboy: At one of the lowest points in my life, I left rehab with no job, a career in shambles and no idea how to make a living. I only knew I wanted to be outside and around horses. An angel in human form descended from heaven and offered me work cowboying on a commercial ranch spanning tens of thousands of acres. Old-school Mexican vaqueros showed me the ropes. I rode, roped, built fence, tended cattle and stacked hay. I left my phone in the truck. I loved every minute of it. While accompanying my wife to a work function, someone asked what I did. “I cowboy.” They looked confused. “No, for work.” “That is my work.” “That’s a real job?” I asked them: “Do you eat?” Every bite of food you eat comes from somewhere and a farmer or rancher had a hand in getting it to you. It is a real job and can be romantic. It can also be more than work. A lifestyle, but a hard and painful one. It leave scars, calluses and a fair amount of bruises. But I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Now I get to do it with my kids while building our family cattle ranch. This week we celebrated National Day of the Cowboy. I honor the men who welcomed me, taught me and showed me the ropes. And all those who work hard to ensure we can eat.

Slow Ride, Joyride: Heavy equipment is cool. I love my John Deere tractor and, admittedly, tend to leave the keys in it. You probably want to take your keys with you if you are in an urban or residential area. In San Diego, someone stole a backhoe, took it for a joyride through a neighborhood, dragging the bucket, throwing sparks everywhere and eventually causing $25,000 in damage. I understand the temptation. But if you want to experience the joys of heavy equipment, renting one is still cheaper than bail.

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Have a great weekend.
Nathan

My Man Gus: A few weeks ago, I wrote about the mystery of why the most terrifying predator in history had such ridiculously short arms. I never lost the child like interest in dinosaurs so it caught my eye when a 67-million-year-old skeleton, named Gus, sold at Sotheby’s for $50.1 million. I don’t know whether the anonymous buyer of Gus ever wondered about his tiny arms, but they clearly like Tyrannosaurus rex more than anyone else in the world. I was hanging in the bidding for Gus up until close to the end, when my wife disconnected the wifi. Scientists hope something this rare ends up in a museum, where it can be studied and seen by the public. Yeah, me too. Or maybe put him at a random truck stop. That would be fun. But if Gus disappears into a private collection, someone now owns the greatest backyard lawn ornament in human history. No word on whether the $50.1 million included delivery and setup. I’m guessing it will be about as tough to assemble as most IKEA furniture. If so there will certainly be a few bones left over. Probably just extra bones that weren’t actually meant to be installed.

Vegas, Sober: I’m coming up on three and a half years of sobriety. I was in Las Vegas for work this week, and a few people asked if being there was hard. Years ago, I probably would have thought the same thing. The truth is, I found it reinforcing. I slept great, woke up feeling good, had good conversations, and was present for all of it. Early one morning, on my way to the gym, I passed a man throwing up in a trash can and a couple completely passed out on the casino floor. I’m not judging. I’ve thrown up in more trashcans than I care to admit! I’m just grateful I’m not anymore. There was a time when feeling terrible was so normal that feeling good felt unusual. Sobriety didn’t take anything from me that was worth keeping. It gave me back far more than it ever asked me to give up. I wrote a little more about that here.

Daniel Silva Week: One of my favorite fiction authors is Daniel Silva, and one of my favorite fictional characters is Gabriel Allon, an art restorer and spy. A friend and great writer introduced me to Silva around 2004. I bought The Kill Artist that day, read it nonstop, then immediately bought the other three. I finished all four in about a week and couldn’t wait for the next one. For the last 22 years, I’ve preordered every new installment and devoured it the moment it arrived. I’ve grown with Gabriel through tragedy, loss, love, and pain, and followed him on countless adventures from Vienna and Venice to London, Moscow, Jerusalem, and back again. There is something special about opening a new book and finding an old friend waiting, while still wondering where in the world he is going to take you this time. This year’s book, Ransom, is out. It’s incredible. If you enjoy intelligent, well written spy thrillers and have never read Silva, you have just been handed a gift: 26 books waiting for you. What I wouldn’t give to start all over again.

Rodeo Date Night: Lorena and I had a great time at the rodeo last weekend. No research. No study. No larger lesson. I love a good rodeo, and I love spending time with my wife. Put the two together and you get a pretty great night. Plus, it gives me an excuse to share a picture with the best-looking city girl turned cowgirl there is!

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Nathan

Pecking Order: We officially have chickens now. This project was more Lorena than me, but I am here for it. They are a little crazy, fairly messy and apparently wasting no time deciding who is in charge. Watching them sort things out helped me understand the phrase “pecking order.” It is not just a figure of speech. The phrase came from observations of chickens establishing a social hierarchy. The dominant birds peck the chickens below them, who then peck the birds below them, until everyone understands their place. After only a few days, I can confirm that this holds up in reality. We are looking forward to fresh eggs before too long. The chaos arrived immediately.

Back to the Movies: Hollywood is having its best year at the box office since before the pandemic. People are going back to the movies. In high school, I worked at a movie theater as the janitor, cleaning it at four in the morning before school so I could still play sports in the afternoon. During the summers, I also worked as a projectionist, loading each movie into the projectors. I doubt anyone is loading big movie reels anymore, but I loved that job and grew to love the movies. We now have anything you might want to watch instantly on a smart TV, but there is still something magical about seeing one on a big screen with a room full of other people. You laugh together. You get quiet together. For a couple of hours, everyone gives the same story their attention. A few years ago, Lorena and I attended the premiere of Top Gun: Maverick. It was an incredible experience. I never got to see the original Top Gun (my favorite movie as a kid) in a theater, so seeing the sequel that way meant a lot to me. Get out and go watch a movie!

To See Takes Time: This week, I wrote an essay titled Learning to See about opera, a horse painting and the unexpected ways art entered my life. Writing it brought me back to something Georgia O’Keeffe once said: “To see takes time like to have a friend takes time.” We are quick to decide what we like, what we understand and what is meant for us. Sometimes that instinct is right. But sometimes we have simply not stayed with something long enough for it to reveal itself. That is true of friends, and it is true of art.

Happy Hour for Flipper: Last week I read a story that sounded like it might involve a couple getting high while getting engaged, only to discover it was actual elevation, not drugs. This week I heard a story about dolphins getting high and assumed there was no chance it could mean that literally. But apparently dolphins have been filmed gently passing around toxic pufferfish, then floating near the surface and seeming mesmerized by their own reflections. The theory is that they were taking in small amounts of the pufferfish toxin to produce a trance-like state. In other words, happy hour for Flipper. Scientists are not convinced the dolphins were intentionally getting high, which is exactly what their attorneys would say!

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Nathan

“I don’t even like opera. Like, not at all.”

Those words flew out of my mouth without much thought.

I was relatively new in my tenure as an executive at Qualcomm, a wonderful company full of wonderful people. They had brought me in after a pretty successful tenure in the state legislature followed by a pretty unsuccessful campaign for mayor.

I was doing a multitude of different things, but on this particular day I had been called in for a specific assignment.

Qualcomm had made a significant investment in the arts community in San Diego, including the opera.

Now the opera was on the verge of bankruptcy.

Its collapse would ripple across the city’s arts community, affecting musicians, performers, stage crews and set designers. It mattered to the cultural and economic life of San Diego.

Because of the company’s sizable contribution, they had a seat on the opera’s board.

I was being told I would now fill it.

My assignment was simple: Do all I could to ensure the opera survived.

I couldn’t imagine anything worse.

Opera isn’t generally performed in a language I speak. Even when it is, I can’t understand what they are saying.

The one time I had gone, it felt like a struggle to know whether I was supposed to watch the words scrolling across the top of the screen or the people moving around onstage. It was too hard a choice. I fell asleep.

I respected the talent. I understood that opera was an important art form. And I knew it contributed to the economy, enriched the culture of the city and meant a great deal to the people who loved it.

I just wasn’t one of them.

I assumed most opera lovers had about as much interest in sitting on the tailgate of my truck, drinking a Bud Heavy outside a Cody Jinks concert, as I had in spending another night in a suit at the opera. (These days it would be a Bud Zero. More than three years sober and counting.)

Still, I took the assignment. I wasn’t given a choice.

My first board meeting lasted something like six hours. It was contentious. People did not just threaten to quit. They got up and walked out. There was a lot of drama. And emotion. You could say it was kind of like an opera but with people yelling instead of singing.

Contracts were renegotiated, staff was reduced and expectations were reset. The organization had to reimagine how it operated.

I don’t know how much I contributed, but we succeeded. The opera survived.

Along the way, I met some incredibly kind and thoughtful people. I came to a deeper appreciation of opera.

That still doesn’t mean I like it.

I rarely go today. By rarely, I mean not once since I left the board.

But while I served, I went.

My wife would roll her eyes every time I referred to intermission as halftime. There was a first half, a break to get food and use the bathroom, and a second half. I still don’t see the problem.

During one halftime, I had the dullest conversation of my entire life. With Al Gore. I couldn’t wait for the little chimes to ding and send us back to our seats.

Another evening, we were seated beside one of the opera’s major donors and his wife.

It was about halfway through the second half (almost the fourth quarter for those keeping score at home).

And he was asleep.

Not nodding off. Completely out.

His wife didn’t notice.

She was enthralled by what was happening onstage.

She wasn’t merely watching the performance. She seemed to be somewhere inside it.

It was like the music and singing had become a part of her.

At a particularly powerful moment, tears began to run down her face.

Not sadness. Just pure emotion.

She didn’t brush them away.

She didn’t look around to see if anyone had noticed.

Right then, I don’t think anything existed outside what she was taking in.

Her husband slept through the whole thing.

There is something truly beautiful about watching another person become completely immersed in an experience. Watching them surrender to a moment without embarrassment, restraint or concern for how they might appear.

I was touched by how deeply she was moved.

But I didn’t understand it.

The opera was in a language I didn’t speak.

At that point in my life, so was the emotion she felt.

There was a lot I didn’t see back then.

Even more I didn’t feel.

I knew energy, drive, adrenaline and survival.

I had a relentless desire to outrun the past and get where I was going as quickly as possible.

The present wasn’t really a place I experienced. It was just the passageway I hurried through on my way to whatever came next.

I didn’t watch a sunrise, truly listen music or find the simple beauties that surround us daily.

There was no art on my walls. Just pictures.

The pictures mattered. They still do.

They showed me where I had been, what I had done and who had been there with me. They documented the people I love, the things I had survived and the better parts of the journey.

I had spent years hanging evidence of my life on the walls. The meaning was clear.

Everything was linear. Literal. Easy to understand.

At the time, that suited me.

Feeling things could slow you down. Looking too closely at the past could interfere with whatever you had ahead.

The problem with always searching for more is that it is impossible to ever actually arrive.

Eventually, all that motion ran full speed into something it could not move.

The slowing down that followed was forced.

I spent 45 days in a trauma rehab center without any meaningful connection to the outside world.

I was stuck in that same passageway but with nowhere to go.

That is when I walked into a dusty arena and met a Tennessee Walker named Star.

I wrote about our time together more fully in The Perfection of a Horse, because what happened in that arena changed the direction of my life:

Star had crossed the arena and pressed her face against mine.

Nose to nose.

Breath to breath. I leaned into her, face to face, because she was strong enough to remain exactly where she was.

And in that steadiness, something in me finally softened.

The tension I had been gripping for years loosened.

Not because it was taken from me, but because I no longer had to hold it.

It felt like the clenched, vigilant, exhausted part of me began to melt.

Even in that essay, I struggled to put words to the full experience.

In the years that followed, I found peace in AA rooms, meditation and of course with my own horses.

I slowed down. By choice this time.

I hear music differently. Sunsets mean more. Quiet no longer feels like anxious time that needs to be filled.

I began to notice what had been around me all along.

On a meditation retreat for combat veterans, I told a friend about my experience with equine assisted therapy.

A few weeks later, he sent me a link to a painting.

He said it felt like me.

I opened it. And everything stopped.

I was enthralled.

It wasn’t something I merely looked at. I felt as though I had stepped inside it.

Tears began to run down my face.

I bought it immediately and had it shipped as fast as possible.

It took me back to a moment in my life that I had felt deeply but had never fully known how to explain.

There is nothing in the background of the painting.

No corral. No round pen. Only a man and a horse.

He is leaning into her.

He is not holding her to keep her in place.

He is holding her because he needs to know that she is there. He needs an anchor.

The horse simply holds steady.

He stands directly in front of her, in one of the few places where a horse cannot see clearly.

That is trust.

The horse’s eye is open. The man’s face is hidden.

It feels like the horse can see him at a moment when he cannot see himself.

The painting is not smooth or polished.

It is thick, jagged and uneven. It has rough edges. Like life.

Purple streaks run down between them.

I do not know what the artist intended them to mean. I know what I see.

The purple looks like bruising to me. The visible mark abuse leaves behind. But here it is not trapped beneath the skin. It is pouring out.

I see someone finally letting go.

The essence of training a horse is pressure and release.

The essence of equine-assisted therapy for me was connection and then release.

For most of my life, I thought art was something you had to be trained to understand.

I assumed there was a correct interpretation hidden inside the work, and people with the proper expertise knew how to find it. They knew what it meant.

This painting asked none of that from me.

I did not need to know the artist’s intention.

I thought art was something you had to understand. I did not realize it could understand you.

Opera still does not really speak my language.

This painting did.

And when I first saw it, I finally understood the woman sitting beside me all those years before.

She wasn’t crying because she understood opera better than I did.

She was crying because, for a few minutes, it understood her.

Something in the music had reached a place inside her that ordinary life could not.

Years later, staring at this painting with tears running down my own face, I understood.

The painting now hangs on the wall directly in front of my desk. It is there as I write this.

When I look at it, I remember Star. The dusty arena. I see the man I was and the moment that changed him.

I had spent years trying to outrun pain. I did not realize how much beauty I was running past.

Maybe healing is not only learning how to live with less pain.

Maybe healing is becoming able to feel beauty again.

Maybe healing is learning to see.

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World’s Highest Couple: A headline jumped out at me: “World’s highest couple get engaged.” I assumed it was some kind of cannabis-related stunt. It was a stunt, just not about weed. Two daredevils climbed the transmission tower atop the Empire State Building and got engaged. People willing to do something like that are rarely subtle, so they unfurled a banner that read: “When the power of love beats the love of power, the world knows peace.” That’s cute. The quote is often attributed to Jimi Hendrix, although it appears to trace back to 19th-century British statesman William Gladstone. We can see the lesson about love in the picture, but their lesson about power arrived quickly. The couple was promptly arrested and charged with burglary, reckless endangerment, criminal mischief, possession of burglar’s tools, criminal tampering, criminal trespass, disorderly conduct and several other offenses. Kids these days…

July 4th: I suspect we all have favorite holidays. Thanksgiving may still be my number one. I love the traditional meal, football on TV, and a no-shame day to take as long a nap as you want. But July 4th is on my list as well. When I was at war, we were attacked every July 4th. The people trying to kill us knew our holidays and understood what the day meant. That memory never disappears completely, but now I get to spend the day in peace. This year that meant a pool party, plenty of good food, and joining other families for a community celebration. I’m not a huge fireworks guy, which is somewhat common among combat veterans, but they were pretty impressive. We spend plenty of time focused on what is wrong with America. Having visited more than 50 countries, this is still the place I want to be. Sometimes it is worth pausing to appreciate the simple gift of being able to celebrate it in peace.

A Name Returned: Pvt. John Pumphrey was around fourteen when he enlisted in the Continental Army. He came from a prominent Maryland family, fought for nearly four years, reenlisted for the duration of the war, and died at the Battle of Camden. War is often a rich man’s war and a poor man’s fight. But history is rarely clean enough to fit entirely inside a slogan. Pumphrey had choices. He enlisted anyway. He died hundreds of miles from home and disappeared into the aftermath of a battle long forgotten. Nearly 250 years later, researchers used DNA and genealogical records to give him his name back. And his honor. He was never truly nameless. We had simply forgotten who he was.

For the Win: Ward Davis is an Arkansas legend. He has written songs with or for numerous artists including Cody Jinks (my favorite), Willie Nelson, Merle Haggard, and countless others. In a world where politics seems to drown out everything else and resolve even less, Ward Davis finally settled the defining ideological question of our time.

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What a $40 billion budget crisis taught me about living

“Can you point out which one of these is Fletcher so I can get on to the next newbie?”

She smiled when she said it.

I smiled back.

I had officially been a member of the California State Assembly for maybe an hour. My new office was filled with people attending a celebratory reception. She was a well-known capitol figure, and I had been honored when she stopped to introduce herself.

Then I realized she had no idea she was actually talking to Fletcher.

The Capitol is built to make you feel the importance of the institution. Marble floors. Massive chandeliers. Vaulted ceilings. Portraits of presidents and history hanging on the walls. Standing on the Assembly floor, I thought about the people who had served before me and those back home who had trusted me enough to send me there.

The office was important. But, I wasn’t. Just the next in line to occupy it.

I pointed her towards a slightly older guy about my size with an air of importance and then quickly turned around before I busted out laughing.

I lived across the street from the Capitol in a no-bedroom apartment I rented month to month. A mattress on the floor. A coffee pot. And one folding chair I had owned forever. I had named him Hank. Hank had followed me to Sacramento and served as my dining chair, reading chair, coffee drinking chair and, depending on the day, a place to throw my suit. I really liked Hank.

Early each morning, I rode a borrowed bicycle a few miles to a CrossFit gym for a 6am workout with people who didn’t know anything about me. Just another veteran doing some dumb workout in a warehouse. It was a refuge. Sweating with a group of people who weren’t a part of the chaos of my professional life.

It was one hour when I didn’t have a vote. No expectations to live up to. Just some gym buddies who cussed too much and loved working out to the point of throwing up. It was great.

Then I would leave. Back to shower, get my suit off of Hank and head across the street to work.

California was facing a budget deficit of more than forty billion dollars on a general fund budget of roughly one hundred billion.

We could have cut all funding for every state university, closed all the state prisons and cut a month off the K-12 school year and still would only solve for maybe half the deficit. It was hard to comprehend the scale of it.

There were no easy solutions. Every proposal carried consequences. Every decision meant someone would hurt.

The Capitol itself carried a tension that overtook the fake smiles and handshakes.

Sound echoed down the hallways. Heels clicking across hard floors. Doors opening and closing. Staffers shuffling quickly while staring at their phones. Reporters lurking outside committee rooms. The ever present security and of course lobbyists. Lobbyists everywhere, waiting for meetings, hoping to catch a legislator in the hallway, or simply hanging around to see what happened next.

In some ways, it felt like a busy market I had walked through in Somalia less than two years earlier.

A bustling sea of humanity. Everyone moving. Everyone struggling to get somewhere. Energy, tension, fear and uncertainty. Everyone needing something.

Except this one had air conditioning and everyone wore business attire.

Then there were the protestors.

Loud, boisterous. Well organized. The groups had perfected chanting. Hundreds if not thousands of voices becoming one. Bullhorns and drums. The sound would rise through the rotunda and reverberate through the building.

You could hear it in your office with the door closed. You could feel it.

Billions of dollars were on the line. But budgets aren’t numbers. They are lives.

Classrooms, hospital beds, treatment programs. Firefighters and cops.

There were no good options. Just a perpetual struggle to find the “least bad” path.

Every decision meant someone would lose something they depended on.

For a new legislator still trying to learn the ropes, it was exhausting.

Pressure itself was not new to me. I had spent years in combat zones.

What I misunderstood was the permanence of this kind of conflict.

I remember thinking, “If we can just get through this one thing.”

Get through this budget and we can catch our breath.

After months of arguing, negotiating and failing to find an option anyone liked, a messy compromise came together.

It wasn’t a victory. But it passed.

I expected the pressure to ease.

Instead, another controversy immediately took its place.

A different issue drove headlines. Different protesters filled the building. Different interest groups demanded meetings. Different accusations flew back and forth.

And then after that one. Another.

The budget crisis ended.

The crisis never did.

Years later, I visited the capitol when the situation was much different. California had a record budget surplus. No cuts to make. No new taxes to pass. This time the debate was over new programs, investments and tax cuts. It should have felt completely different.

It didn’t.

It felt the same. A bustling sea of humanity. Everyone moving. Everyone struggling to get somewhere. Energy, tension, fear and uncertainty. Everyone needing something.

Hallways full of people shuffling around staring at their phones looking like they really needed sleep. Lobbyists desperate to plead their case. And protestors! Chanting, bullhorns, drums and outrage. You could hear it. You could feel it.

That was when it clicked.

It never ends.

I had believed that the pressure was temporary. That calm was waiting on the other side of the current fight.

But there was always going to be another issue. Another decision. Another problem demanding immediate attention.

Waiting for the Capitol to run out of conflict is like waiting for a ranch to run out of work.

At some point, I realized that if I wanted any kind of sanity, I could not wait for conflict to disappear.

I had to learn to live while it was happening.

But the reality is this lesson is not about politics.

It is about life.

We’ve all been there. If we can just get through this.

This financial strain. This challenge with a kid. This problem at work.

This loss. This illness. This heartache.This fucking year.

If we can just get through this one thing

Then things will settle down.

Then we can relax. Take a breath. Enjoy life a little.

But unless your life is radically different from mine, it rarely calms down.

At least not for long. One challenge gives way to another.

That does not mean life is only hardship. It means hardship is just part of it.

And if we postpone everything good until the hard parts are completely gone, we end up postponing all the good.

A problem may deserve part of the day. It doesn’t deserve all of it.

In Man’s Search for Meaning, Viktor Frankl describes a prisoner in a concentration camp urging everyone outside to see the sunset.

They stood amid the mud and suffering and watched the sky change color.

The sunset did not alter their circumstances. But it gave them a moment in which those circumstances did not possess every part of them.

My circumstances were not remotely comparable. But looking back, I recognize a small version of the same instinct.

Each morning, I rode a borrowed bicycle away from the chaos and conflict. The budget did not improve while I was gone. Nothing got worse either.

But for one hour, the problem did not get all of me.

I did not understand it then, but I was learning not to wait for perfect peace. I was learning to take it where I could find it.

Looking back, I smile at the thought of that young legislator with the perfect double windsor knot, the mattress on the floor and Hank waiting across the street.

He believed that if he could just get through the budget crisis, life at the Capitol would calm down.

That day never came. But the lesson did.

These days, I do better. Coffee on the porch swing watching the sun rise over the valley. Time with the horses before it gets too hot. And the satisfaction of a good day or at least a day with some good parts in it.

The challenge is not waiting for life to stop making demands.

It is making sure we don’t give those demands all of us.

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A Life Well Lived: I had never heard of Witold Pilecki, which is embarrassing because he lived one of the most remarkable lives I’ve come across. He was a Polish resistance fighter who intentionally allowed himself to be captured and sent to Auschwitz so he could organize resistance inside the camp and get reports of Nazi atrocities to the outside world. He later escaped, kept fighting, and was eventually executed by the communist regime. I read about him in Mark Manson’s book and this quote of his final words really hit me, “I have tried to live my life such that in the hour of my death I would feel joy rather than fear.” Pilecki confronted one of the greatest evils in human history. Most of us will never be asked to do anything close to that. Our opportunities are simpler. A chance to encourage someone. To protect someone. To forgive. To serve. We may never be heroes to the world, but we can all be one to someone in our world. That seems like a life worth living.

What It Means: In David Grann’s The Wager, he shares a few common phrases that originated at sea. “Toe the line” comes from sailors standing for inspection with their toes on a deck seam. “Pipe down” was a boatswain’s whistle signaling everyone to be quiet for the night. “Piping hot” came from the call announcing meals. “Under the weather” referred to sick sailors being moved below deck, where they were sheltered from the weather and rough seas. I love things like this. Words survive for centuries, quietly carrying little pieces of history that most of us use every day without ever knowing where they came from.

Where’s the Beef: Beef prices are at an all-time high. That is good for cattle producers, not good for people like me who are building a herd, and certainly tough for anyone buying beef. Ranching has a way of making you appreciate how many things have to go right. Rain. Grass. Fences. Drought. Storms. And most importantly, cattle health. One of the things we are watching closely right now is New World Screwworm. It is as nasty as it sounds. The larvae burrow into cattle, spread quickly, and can kill livestock in a week or two. It had been eradicated but recent detections in Mexico have now spread into Texas and everyone is paying attention. Unfortunately, disruptions to federal animal health programs delayed parts of the prevention effort at exactly the wrong time, reminding us that decisions made in DC eventually reach cattle pastures in Arkansas. We can’t fix the federal government from our ranch, so we do what we can: check cattle often, treat wounds quickly, and pray. Hope and prayers are not the preferred cattle management strategy, but it is what we have at the moment.

One Happy Island: Aruba sits at the southern end of the Caribbean, just 18 miles off the coast of Venezuela. It is outside the hurricane belt, the trade winds keep the weather comfortable, and the beaches are exactly what you hope they will be. White sand. Stunning blue water makes it a favorite destination of honeymooners or just old married couples who still love each other. There is enough sun to make aloe feel less like a product this island produces and more like a public service. The island has a fascinating history too. Gold rushes, aloe production, a massive World War II shipwreck sitting upright for scuba divers, and a native population that grows up speaking four languages. All of that is interesting. But sitting on the beach with a good book and your best friend might be what Aruba does best.

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The Case for Doing Nothing…Together: We get so busy. And often confuse motion with progress. One of the best things we can do for a good life may simply be to slow down. There is an epidemic of loneliness and no app, algorithm, or life hack seems able to solve it. I recently started getting this newsletter and it got me thinking about why. One article points out that many Americans already have friends but wish they spent more time with them. Somewhere along the way, friendship became something we struggle to schedule instead of something that is a core part of our lives. We spend hours every day texting, emailing, scrolling, posting, and consuming updates about other people’s lives while struggling to find time to sit on a porch, share a meal, or help a friend with a project. We hear a lot about the epidemic of loneliness. Maybe part of the problem is that we are so busy being busy that we’ve forgotten what really matters.

T-Rex Arms: I have probably spent more time thinking about this than I should, but I have always wondered why Tyrannosaurus rex had those tiny little arms. The animal was over 40 feet long, weighed several tons, and had one of the most powerful bites in history. Yet somehow ended up with arms that were ridiculously small. To put it in perspective, I am 6’2”. If I had T-Rex arms, they would be about five inches long. You see my point? Apparently, there are scientists just as weird as me because they decided to study it. A new paper suggests those tiny arms were an evolutionary tradeoff. As their skulls became larger and more powerful, evolution shifted resources away from their arms. They didn’t need the arms. They needed the head. I get it. But I can’t help wondering if a little more wingspan might have given those dinosaurs enough reach to build a spaceship, put a Bruce Willis type T-Rex on it, and send him after that asteroid. What might have been…

Ice Cream or Yogurt: We are often fixated on little things to improve our health. The frozen yogurt industry touts fewer calories than ice cream, at least until we cover it in crushed Butterfingers. They also tout less fat, but but then we are told fat is actually good for us. Dairy is bad. No wait, dairy is good. You can read the entire breakdown, along with all the studies, and still not be much clearer on which one is actually better. So eat what you prefer. In moderation. Exercise. Spend time with people you care about. Maybe while eating some ice cream. Or yogurt. We recently ordered an ice cream maker and are excited to start making our own. Fresh eggs from our chickens, cream, real vanilla, and blueberries we grew ourselves. Maybe it will make us healthier. But I am know it will make us happier. And it doesn’t take a study to know that is good.

The War Horse: One of the unexpected gifts of the last few years has been writing. For a long time, I wasn’t sure I would ever write openly about some of the experiences that shaped my life. This week, one of my essays was published by The War Horse and, for the first time in my life, an outlet paid me for something I wrote. It’s not the money that means something. It’s the lesson that sometimes the things we are most hesitant to do end up opening doors we never expected. You can read it HERE. Thank you to everyone who has subscribed, shared a post, left a comment, or encouraged me along the way. This new chapter has been more meaningful than I ever expected.

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Don’t Be an Asshole About It: In combat, you don’t get to unfriend someone because they said something you don’t like or voted for someone you don’t support. That doesn’t mean you have to agree. As I shared in the clip above, “Just don’t be an asshole about it”. This came to mind while reading Michael Scherer’s in depth piece in The Atlantic. The article details how social media algorithms reward outrage, division, and dehumanization. In many ways, they encourage the exact opposite of the lesson combat taught me about tribe. The answer isn’t spending more time yelling at strangers online. And it isn’t abandoning beliefs you hold dear. It is spending more time talking to actual human beings. In person. Not online. Algorithms destroy a lot, but they still can’t wreck a genuine conversation. A personal connection.

Documentary I Recommend: This week I shared the story of a blown call that cost a pitcher a perfect game and his place in baseball history. What struck me wasn’t the mistake. It was the accountability shown by the umpire, the grace extended by the pitcher, and the unlikely friendship that followed. ESPN’s 30 for 30 series documentary, 28 Outs: An Imperfect Story tells it beautifully. It’s worth watching, even if you don’t care about baseball.

Quote Worth Considering: Most things I learn come the hard way, by first doing it wrong. I’ve wasted plenty of time stressing about things that never actually happened. I now try and take to heart the advice of Seneca in the quote below. Let’s not borrow trouble from tomorrow. Today has enough of its own.

Just In Case You Were Curious: I really like horses and enjoy horse competitions, rodeos, and other equestrian events. But some take place overseas. Which got me curious about how do you travel internationally with a horse. I had one of mine driven across the country and came away with a real appreciation for the care that goes into keeping them comfortable and safe on a long trip. But a plane? I see people do it all the time with dogs (maybe a bit too much), but it’s tough to fit a horse under your seat. It turns out, there is an entire industry devoted to transporting horses by air, complete with dedicated aircraft, stalls, handlers, and detailed safety protocols. This short video walks through how it all works. Pretty cool.

World Cup Mania: I cannot claim to be a true soccer fan. I appreciate that it is undeniably the most popular sport in the world, and 20 years ago I got a firsthand look at its reach. I was deployed and watched a World Cup games in six different countries. One was in a village in Somalia with no power or running water, just a generator for the television and a satellite connection. Another was at a bar in Bahrain that might as well have been in New York. And I watched the final match between Italy and France at the French Embassy in Yemen. It didn’t go particularly well for France, but I had a good time. With the World Cup underway, I thought you might enjoy the story behind one of sports’ most recognizable sounds: Andrés Cantor’s famous GOOOOOOAAAALLL call. This short video explains how the Argentinian announcer trains his voice. Yes, he has a personal trainer!

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Nobody’s perfect.

Except in baseball. There, perfection for a pitcher has a clear definition. Twenty-seven batters. Twenty-seven outs. No hits. No walks. No errors. No one reaches base.

No mistakes.

In the history of Major League Baseball, almost a quarter of a million games have been played. Only twenty-four have been perfect.

It is one of the rarest accomplishments in sports. The kind of thing that can define a career. Pitchers come and go. Win some games, lose some games, get traded, get hurt, fade from memory. But throw a perfect game and you are forever a part of baseball history.

No one can take it away.

Or so we thought.

Wednesday, June 2, 2010. Detroit, Michigan.

An early summer evening baseball game between the Tigers and the Indians.

It had everything to love about baseball. The fresh cut of the grass, manicured infield. A beautiful evening. Clear skies, and a warm summer breeze blowing out to left field. Flags waving. People taking their seats. America’s pastime.

Armando Galarraga was pitching for the Tigers. A journeyman who the previous year had bounced back and forth between the minor and major league. He was doing his best to hold onto the spot as the Tigers’ fifth starter. Out of five.

It was a midweek game between two middle-of-the-pack clubs. Seventeen thousand fans in attendance. About half the stadium's capacity.

Galarraga started strong. First inning. Three up, three down.

In the second inning, Tigers first baseman and future hall of famer Miguel Cabrera hit a home run to give the Tigers a 1-0 lead.

Galarraga kept dealing. He had a great sinker that night. Inning and after inning he got batters out. All of them. The Tigers defense did their part.

But by about the fifth inning people started to realize something special on the line.

Something perfect.

Baseball is a superstitious sport. One of its oldest unwritten rules is that you can’t mention a perfect game while it is in progress. You will jinx it. It got to the point that no one on the Tigers would talk to Galarraga between innings. Or even sit anywhere near him on the bench. Or even make eye contact with him.

Around the 6th inning, Cleveland’s shortstop Jason Donald did the math on the number of outs left and his place in the lineup. He realized that if the perfect game held he would be the 27th batter. The last man standing between Galarraga and perfection.

7th inning. Three Cleveland batters up. Three down. Same in the top of the 8th.

In the bottom of the 8th inning, the Tigers added two runs to give themselves a 3-0 lead.

Galarraga and the Tigers were perfect through 8 innings.

It was all down to the 9th inning.

But baseball history is littered with near misses. More perfect games have been broken up in the 9th inning than there have been actual perfect games.

This game had moved so quickly that the sun had still not set on a long summer evening.

It was a perfect setting for a perfect game.

Every fan in the stadium was on their feet.

The first hitter up, Mark Grudzielanek, drove a deep fly ball to left-center field. For four and a half seconds, the entire baseball universe held its breath to see if it would drop for a hit or clear the fence for a home run.

The ball traveled almost 400 feet and would have been a home run in most major league parks. But Comerica Park was different.

Center fielder Austin Jackson, one of the fastest players in the league, broke at the crack of the bat and sprinted nearly 100 feet toward the wall.

Unbelievably, he made a spectacular Willie Mays-type over-the-shoulder catch just before crashing into the center field fence.

It is one of the greatest catches you will ever see.

Out one.

It felt like the baseball Gods had officially blessed Galarraga.

Next batter hit a routine ground ball to the shortstop. Out two.

Then as predicted a few innings earlier, Jason Donald came to the plate.

One batter left. One out from perfection.

Donald hit a weak ground ball. The first baseman fielded it cleanly and tossed it to Galarraga covering the bag.

Galarraga beat the runner there.

He caught the ball.

His foot hit first base.

Donald was a step away.

Third out.

A perfect game.

The crowd erupted.

Tigers players celebrated.

History had been made.

But wait...

Jim Joyce, the first base umpire, spread his arms wide.

Safe.

There was stunned silence in a crowd that seemed to have swollen far beyond its announced attendance.

And across the country and all the way to Venezuela, where Galarraga grew up dreaming of moments like this, the baseball world was stunned.

It took a few seconds for everyone to understand what had happened.

Jim Joyce was not some random umpire. He was a veteran with a 30-year career. One of the most respected umpires in the game. He worked World Series games, playoff games, and All-Star Games.

If you wanted a call made right, Jim Joyce was the man you wanted making it.

But nobody’s perfect.

Donald admitted he was out. Cleveland’s first base coach admitted he was out. The replay left no room for debate.

The Tigers manager came out to argue. But this was before the era of instant replay.

It was done.

Jason Donald was safe.

The perfect game was gone.

One man had been wronged.

Another man had failed.

The crowd booed unmercifully. Stunned silence turned to disbelief and then quickly to anger. It was tense.

Galarraga composed himself and faced the next batter.

Ground ball. Easy catch. Easy throw. Out.

The game was now over.

No perfect game. Not even a no-hitter.

Tigers players angrily confronted Joyce as he tried to make his way off the field.

But not Galarraga. He waved to the crowd, entered the dugout, and headed into the clubhouse.

Joyce was escorted off the field and into the umpires’ room beneath the stadium.

He asked third-base umpire and crew chief Derryl Cousins if he had gotten the call right.

“No Jimmy,” Cousins replied. “I don’t think you did.”

Then Joyce saw the replay.

Donald was out.

The call was wrong.

He knew it immediately.

And he broke down in tears.

At that point, he could have left the stadium and gone home.

No one would have blamed him.

But he did something rare for a major league umpire.

He faced the media.

All of them. At once.

And he admitted he got it wrong.

“I took a perfect game away from that kid who worked his ass off all night.”

He could have hidden behind, “I call ‘em like I see ‘em,” or simply avoided the media altogether.

But he didn’t.

The whole world was attacking him. His entire career suddenly felt reduced to one mistake.

And he leaned in.

He shared that before his media appearance he asked the Tigers if he could talk to Galarraga. Galarraga agreed and Joyce said, “I went right to him and told him, ‘I made a mistake. I’m really sorry.’ He gave me a hug, and I can’t tell you how much respect I have for that kid.”

Galarraga for his part said to the media, “He feels more bad than I do. I mean, nobody’s perfect.”

One man chose grace.

The other chose accountability.

The reaction of Galarraga did not match the reaction of the rest of the world. Major League Baseball assigned security to Joyce and his family after death threats started pouring in.

The next day was the series finale. A Thursday afternoon game between the same two teams. Less than sixteen hours after the blown call.

Joyce was scheduled to work home plate.

MLB tried to take him off the crew for a few days.

He refused.

He was going back out there.

He was going to face the fans.

He was going to own his mistake.

As the umpires emerged from the tunnel, a chorus of vicious boos rained down on Joyce.

Before every major league game, the managers bring their lineup cards to home plate. They meet the umpires, shake hands, review the ground rules, and then it is time to play ball.

But on this afternoon, it wasn’t Tigers manager Jim Leyland who emerged from the dugout carrying the lineup card.

It was Armando Galarraga.

The crowd heard the announcement and the boos transformed into cheers for the hero of the game the night before.

Galarraga strode to home plate and shook Jim Joyce’s hand.

In a moment, he gave the crowd permission to do what he had already done.

He didn’t teach the baseball world a lesson.

He taught all of us one.

Life eventually puts us in both positions; sometimes we are Galarraga, and sometimes we are Joyce.

When we are Galarraga, something important is taken from us. We are treated unfairly and forced to pay the price for a mistake that wasn’t ours. We lose a job, a reputation, an opportunity, or a version of the future we thought we had earned.

But when we are Joyce, we are the ones who get it wrong. We fail, we hurt someone, and we make a mistake that cannot be fully repaired. We live with the agonizing wish that we could go back and make the call differently, terrified of being defined by a single, catastrophic moment.

Sometimes, life is complicated enough that we experience both things at the same time.

The question is not whether those moments will come. They will.

The question is who we become when they do.

One man could have become bitter, but chose grace.

The other could have become defensive, but chose accountability.

A gruff veteran umpire from Ohio and a young pitcher from Venezuela.

Different generations. Different backgrounds. Different lives.

Linked forever by one moment neither of them would have ever chosen.

Maybe some people eventually forgive. Maybe some move on.

Very few truly embrace one another.

Almost none write a book together.

Yet that's exactly what they did. Their book is appropriately titled, “Nobody’s Perfect”.

They turned a moment that could have produced a lifetime of bitterness into something that produced understanding and love.

That may be the most remarkable part of this story.

A perfect game happens once every ten thousand baseball games.

Accountability and grace can seem even more rare.

Armando Galarraga never got credit for a perfect game.

Jim Joyce never got to take back the call.

But a life doesn’t have to be defined by one moment.

Two years later, Joyce would save the life of an Arizona Diamondbacks employee by administering CPR during a cardiac emergency at Chase Field.

Today, Armando Galarraga teaches youth baseball. I suspect he teaches them about a lot more than just baseball.

People are more than their worst day.

They are also more than their best one.

“I don’t want to make it sappy and say it was love,” Joyce said. “But the support I got was just..love.”

Who says there is no crying in baseball?

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The Meaning of Your Life: I have been reading more than at any point in my life since college. Then again, I am not entirely sure I read as much in college as I like to remember. Either way, I have a large stack of unread books waiting at home, so I resist the temptation to buy new ones at the airport. Arthur Brooks' The Meaning of Your Life broke that rule. And for good reason. It is one of the better books I’ve read in a while. Brooks argues that meaning comes from three things: coherence, purpose, and significance. He is also sharply critical of our relationship with technology, arguing that our endless pursuit of distraction robs us of both reflection and time with the people we love. Another idea that stuck with me is that a meaningful life is not about finding all the answers. It is about continuing to ask better questions. The book is thought-provoking, practical, a quick read and well worth the time. Here is an excerpt he published if you want to get a sample.

You Don’t Have to Die for Each Other: Lorena and I had a great time in Montana with Warriors and Quiet Waters. It was my honor to keynote their Legacy Day event. In this short clip, I share what I believe is the next mission for many veterans: looking out for each other. We spent years being willing to die for each other. Now we need to be willing to pick up the phone when life gets hard. That same lesson applies to all of us. If you'd like to watch the full speech, you can access it HERE.

When to Work Out: The fitness industrial complex loves the latest hack. Work out in the morning for best results. No wait, do it at lunch. Actually, the evening is best. A large study reached a refreshingly simple conclusion: it doesn't really matter when you exercise. You might feel stronger later in the day, while an early workout may help set the tone for everything that follows. The key isn't timing. It's consistency. Get your heart rate up, do some strength training, and keep showing up at least three times a week. It doesn’t matter when in the day you do it! And you don’t have to buy a supplement, an app or a membership for that advice!

Shared Wisdom: A Sunday short feature I’ve been experimenting with is called Shared Wisdom. The idea is simple. People have been wrestling with the same fundamental questions for thousands of years. It fascinates me how often very different traditions arrive at remarkably similar conclusions. Christianity. Islam. Buddhism. Recovery. Philosophy. Different words. Shared wisdom. Each one of these posts is very short and simple. Here are links to a few examples: sacrifice, forgiveness, resentment, helping others.

The GOAT: Colonel Victor Bianchini is a legend. A Vietnam combat veteran decorated for valor, he served in a number of leadership roles, including Commanding Officer of Force Recon. In "retirement," he built a distinguished career as an attorney, mediator, and respected Superior Court and Federal Judge. He is also exceedingly kind and always made time to help guide a wayward younger Marine. I know because I am one of them. What is he doing now? Just winning multiple fencing medals…in his 80s. Truly, the GOAT.

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P.S. In Case You Missed It: Earlier this week I wrote about one of the most underrated skills in life—learning to tell the difference between a real crisis and something that is, quite simply, just Tuesday. You can read it here.

My favorite commercials right now are the ads where they try to stop people from turning into their parents.

You’ve seen them.

A guy correcting strangers in the checkout line. Overseeing construction sites that aren’t their property. Announcing coffee orders that are not theirs.

They are funny.

They also hit a little closer to home than I would like to admit.

I feel young. I feel strong. No health problems. Life is good.

But my youngest son, my baby, starts 10th grade this fall. He is driving.

Another one is graduating high school. Another is finishing college. One is tremendously successful and fully independent. Another is married with a baby of their own.

Somewhere along the way, I stopped being the young dad in the room and became the guy watching those commercials thinking, “That’s funny...oh wait. I am kind of that guy.”

If you asked my kids what dad says that makes them roll their eyes, I’m pretty sure I know the answer.

It has to be my reaction anytime somebody uses the word “crisis.”

I have become insufferable about that word.

Someone says, “this is a crisis,” and I can feel the old man speech rising:

“There I was outside Fallujah at 3 a.m., stuck in a minefield, three Humvees on fire, guys bleeding out of their ears, taking mortars and small arms fire, not sure any air support was coming. Let me tell you, son, that is a crisis.”

All of that happened. And yes, it shapes how I think about the word crisis.

I am not sure anyone going through something short of that really cares to hear my hot take.

But more importantly, sometimes I need to heed my own advice.

Because I have lived through enough real crises to know the difference.

And somehow I can still catch myself sometimes treating a canceled flight like a personal attack. Or accidentally cutting the fiber optic line that brings internet to the ranch and feeling like civilization itself had collapsed.

That is probably why I am writing this.

Not because I have mastered it. Because I haven’t.

I’m guessing I am not the only one.

The car won’t start. Traffic makes you late. You spend an hour on customer service hold, after arguing with a robot that nothing on the website will fix your problem, only to have the call drop the second a real person comes on the line.

Life is full of these things.

Annoying.

Inconvenient.

But not every inconvenience is a crisis.

I have written a lot about the big things.

War. Shame. Addiction. Recovery. Public failure.

The kind of moments where life breaks you open and you have to decide whether you are going to crawl out or stay there.

Those are real. They deserve reflection.

But most days don’t include a catastrophe.

Most days just have some friction. It’s just Tuesday.

That is where I think a lot of us get ourselves into trouble. We lose the perspective to size things correctly. Something that should be an hour-long detour gets promoted to ruining the whole day.

But there is something underneath my insufferable old man speech worth holding onto.

Even in that real crisis, even in those awful moments outside Fallujah, we did not get to flail around and make it worse. We did not get to scream our way into clarity.

We had to look at what actually happened and calmly ask the questions that mattered.

That is not just a lesson for war.

It is a lesson for whatever bullshit Tuesday throws at you.

Over time, I’ve found myself returning to this simple framework.

1. Start with what actually happened.

Not the story you immediately tell yourself. Not the insult you attach to it. Not the assumption. Just the simple reality. The appointment was not in the system. The car is not ready. Someone had the meeting on a different date. Most of us skip right past the fact and start adding intentions. Nobody respects my time. Nothing ever works out. This always happens to me. But the person at the car dealership did not wake up that morning and say, “Let me screw Nathan today.” Something just happened. Start there.

2. Then ask the question that matters.

What can I do? What are my options? Is there a problem I can solve? Or is this just a fact I have to deal with? Most of the time, there are not good options. Just available ones. Lay them out. Pick the least bad one. Move on.

3. Size the issue correctly.

My wife has a line I love. “No one’s dead. No one’s going to jail. We’re going to be okay.” That may not solve the problem, but it usually puts it back in its proper place. That doesn’t mean the problem is fake. It is certainly frustrating. It may cost money. It may throw off your plans. But frustration is not a catastrophe. Inconvenience is not a collapse.

This is not the same as pretending everything happens for a reason.

I do not believe someone backing into you is a spiritual assignment. But if you are stuck waiting for the tow truck, you still get to decide what to do with that time. Call an old friend. Take a breath. Think about how much worse it could have been. If you are stuck overnight in a city you never planned to visit, find one thing worth seeing. Eat somewhere local. Walk around. Make a memory out of what was supposed to be dead time.

But find pride in being steady. There is a quiet kind of strength in those who take things in stride.

Not indifference and not because nothing bothers you.

But because you have learned not to hand every inconvenience the keys to your nervous system.

It is a skill.

And like any skill, it can be practiced, refined, and strengthened over time.

Trust me, life will give you plenty of opportunities to practice.

I admire people who can do that consistently. They get bad news, take a breath, look around, and say, “Okay. What now?”

They are steady.

And steady is strong.

Maybe that is the lesson I am still working on. What I am striving to do better at.

Not just how to survive the worst days. But how to live better inside the ordinary ones.

I think back to that night outside Fallujah.

At the time, the whole world narrowed down to fire, dust, blood and bullets.

It was a crisis. A real one.

But when all was said and done, none of those young Marines died.

We got air support. We got the wounded out.

They lived. And we continued our mission.

We had to deal with reality as it actually was.

We had to look at our options.

We had to size the problem accurately.

We had to make the best decisions available with the information we had.

And keep moving.

That does not make what happened easy.

It just means the moment did not get the final word.

It rarely does. Unless you let it.

Maybe that is why I have become so insufferable about the word crisis.

Because most things are not.

Most things are just life asking us to practice the same skills on a smaller scale.

The flight gets canceled.

The truck will not start.

The day goes sideways.

Deal with reality.

Look at your options.

Stay steady.

Keep moving.

Most of life is not Fallujah.

It’s just Tuesday.

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Endless Summer: Lorena and I were struck by how much longer the day holds on up here. Montana gets almost two more hours of sunlight this time of year than home. More daylight is good and more summer is even better. Did you know because of a quirk in the calendar, this year’s summer is about as long as it gets. Ignore the solstice and equinox. For normal people, summer starts on Memorial Day and ends on Labor Day. Memorial Day (last Monday in May) fell early this year, on May 25. Labor Day (first Monday in September) lands as late as possible, on September 7. That gives us a longer than normal stretch between the two. You might never get another summer this long. So use it. Stay outside. Take the hike. Go camping. Sit by the river. Let the kids stay up late and play outside.

Sharks Don’t Kill People, Hot Dogs Do: I’ve long argued that sharks get a bad rap. More people are killed each year by hot dogs, vending machines, champagne corks, and even freshwater snails. But this substack post caught my eye. It all makes sense except for that speck of red in the mid-west. How did Iowa have a shark attack? Turns out that an 18 inch bamboo shark at an aquarium got startled when being moved and latched onto the arm of the handler. The person was fine. But of course, some politician felt the need to demonize sharks by introducing legislation declaring sharks to be “wild and dangerous” animals. Come on. If you want to call out the world’s most dangerous animal, be honest, it is not the shark. It is the mosquito!

Life Is Too Short For Bad Boots: I love a good pair of boots. Luccheses are the kind of boots you can leave to your kids one day. The problem is they have metal shanks, which means even with TSA PreCheck, airport security turns into a wardrobe change. You can buy cheap boots without the metal shank, but life is too short to wear cheap cowboy boots. So I found a travel boot jack that folds up small enough to hit in a pocket and makes getting your boots off in the security line super easy. I’ve had several people stop and ask where I got it. So here you go. Don’t sacrifice good boots to metal detectors.

Bat Dog in the Dog House: A while back I shared one of the greatest things to ever hit minor league baseball, the bat dog. Well, one of them is in the doghouse and even facing a suspension. If you know labs they really lock in on their retrieval. The bat dog for the Tulsa Drillers did his job retrieving the bat from the field. He just didn’t notice the star player (and former 1st round draft pick) jogging back to the dugout. The player jumped to avoid the dog, landed awkwardly and injuring his knee. I don’t know blaming the dog is right. Last year, this guy stole 100 bases. You’re telling me he couldn’t safely avoid one Labrador retriever?

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Editor’s Note: This essay was originally published in the San Diego Union-Tribune on May 22, 2020. I recently re-read it and was struck by how much of it still feels true. Memorial Day remains complicated for me. I am proud of my service and grateful for the men and women I served beside. I also still wrestle with questions about sacrifice, grief, survivor’s guilt, and what it means to build a life worthy of those who never came home.

I’ve changed a lot since this first ran. The world has too. But the heart of it still feels honest. I’m republishing it here this Memorial Day weekend because I suspect many veterans, and many families who carry loss, still feel some version of these same questions.

Every year on Memorial Day, I am forced to confront my grief for those gone and my own struggle with survivor’s guilt. While it is important and appropriate to honor those whose service led to the ultimate sacrifice for our nation, it is especially painful for those of us who returned from combat when our brothers and sisters did not.

Serving my country, upholding the ideals of life and liberty, of freedom and equality, have made me who I am today. I value the camaraderie it instilled in me and at times the tough lessons that came with serving in combat: mustering courage when you’re most afraid, sacrifice where you are willing to give your own life for someone else, and enduring when it doesn’t seem possible. Duty, honor, valor, loyalty.

The Marines molded me into a man I wanted to be. It is a part of who I am.

On this day and many others, I wage an internal battle. Like many veterans of my generation who have served in Iraq and Afghanistan, Memorial Day presents a personal dilemma. It is difficult to reconcile the honor and pride I feel of having served with the harsh reality that I question the value of our sacrifice. I struggle to answer the simple question, “Was it worth it?”

I fought in the Iraq War, where we went into a bad situation based on a false premise — and now see an outcome that is objectively worse than when we invaded. In Afghanistan, thousands of lives have been lost in an almost two-decade war that never had a clear focus on al-Qaeda and still doesn’t have an exit strategy in sight.

Those competing emotions are at their most intense when I hear “Taps” as a part of a bugle call. The haunting musical tribute to the dead triggers an overwhelming grief in me, not only for the friends I’ve lost, but because I question if their sacrifice truly had purpose. It is the search for meaning on Memorial Day that is most challenging.

But there is a better way to think about it.

In “Man’s Search for Meaning,” author Viktor E. Frankl, a survivor of Nazi concentration camps, delves deeply into finding purpose in what appears to be unjust or meaningless suffering or adversity. Frankl has perhaps the greatest claim to truly needless heartache and despair.

Yet even in those circumstances, he is able to offer this wisdom:

Each year on Memorial Day, I pledge to channel my own grief and questioning into creating meaning and purpose. I commit to rigorously questioning the intentions of war and to never forgetting the real, lasting impact and moral harm that armed conflict has on humanity.

But more than that, I strive to live the guidance of Frankl — to choose a positive path, to commit to continued service and to use this day to reinforce the fundamental ideals behind service, honor and sacrifice. This is and should always be foundational to the American experiment.

President Abraham Lincoln once said, “to ease another’s heartache is to forget one’s own.” I know, firsthand, this is one reason you see so many veterans continue to serve their community, one another and their country once out of uniform. The spirit of service cannot and should not ever be broken.

And now, all Americans are called to tap into our own sense of duty as we face one of the most difficult challenges in our nation’s history. It’s ironic that a nation founded on the sacrifice of life to ensure personal liberty is now being called on to sacrifice personal liberty to preserve lives during this pandemic.

My hope is that our nation can call forth its spirit of service and sacrifice to show the greatness of which we know we are capable. May this Memorial Day remind all of us to be grateful for service, for sacrifice, and, most of all, for life.

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Brick by Brick: I have found a surprising amount of peace in physical labor. Clearing land, running a chainsaw, brush hogging, driving t-posts. I recently came across the story of Winston Churchill fighting what he called his “Black Dog” depression by laying bricks at his home in Kent. Brick after brick, hour after hour. I spent one summer in Arkansas working as a mason’s assistant, hauling cinder blocks and laying brick in 100-degree heat. What it mostly cured was any thought I wanted to spend the rest of my life laying bricks. However, Churchill may have been onto something. There is something good for the mind about giving the hands something useful to do. Modern psychology calls part of this “behavioral activation,” the idea that action can interrupt the spiral of rumination and inertia. I do not think hard work magically cures all suffering. But I do think there is something deeply human about getting outside, sweating a little, building something real, and seeing progress one post, one gate, or even one brick at a time.

Respect: One of the things I admire most is people who refuse to believe life has an expiration date on growth. Billie Jean King interrupted her college education to win Wimbledon titles, changed women’s sports forever, and built one of the most accomplished careers imaginable. At 82 years old she went back and this week graduated with her degree. I love it. My mom did something similar. As a grandma, she went back to school, earned her bachelor’s degree, then her master’s degree to become a counselor. Then as a great grandma, she started her new career helping people. There is something deeply inspiring about people who keep becoming. No matter their age. No matter the chapter. No matter how many people think the story is already written.

Protein + Fiber: For years, I’ve tried to get close to one gram of protein for every pound of body weight. At 250 pounds, that is a lot of protein and pretty tough to pull off consistently. But it is getting much easier. I can’t walk into a gas station without a “plus 42 grams of protein” milk, bar, cookie or brownie. Coffee shops now add it, as do a lot of fast food. It is a good thing, especially as people age and muscle mass becomes more important for health and longevity. But the thing I rarely hear discussed is fiber. Most Americans get roughly half the recommended daily amount, even though fiber is strongly linked to blood sugar regulation, cholesterol, digestion, and long-term health. A lot of high-protein convenience foods are almost completely devoid of it. If you dramatically increase protein intake without also paying attention to fiber and overall diet quality, you may actually create new problems. The goal should not be “plus protein” but instead “protein plus fiber.” It is building a body that can carry you well for a long time. If you want to read more, here’s a good overview on why fiber matters and where to get it.

Laughter is the Best Medicine: Even the Mayo Clinic backs up the science behind the fact that laughter truly does reduce stress, improve your immune system, and relieve pain. Someone needs to tell that to Broadway. This Wall Street Journal article outlines a crisis in today’s theater–people are laughing too much. For them, it is no joking matter. One playwright re-wrote lines so laughter wouldn’t drown out the dialogue, an actor had a meltdown on social media and signs have actually been posted to discourage laughter. Alright. Well, this publication encourages you to laugh. For your health. And because it feels good. So here is a list of 19 YouTube videos that are certainly going to make you laugh. I watched all of them with the boys and we laughed really hard. Our top three (if you don’t want to watch all 19) are the Jon Cena prank phone call, the ice breaker and the Eagles fan outside the subway car. You are encouraged to laugh. Just don’t do it near a theater!

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