1982

April 24, 1982

Just four years earlier, I was a player, a high school senior who still had no idea where he was going once college started in the fall.

But on this date I was back at the Franklin baseball field, this time as the sports editor of the Star Free Press, which covered Franklin, Springboro, and Carlisle, and on this particular day I was covering the finals of the first annual Warren County Tournament.

I can't say covering baseball was as easy or exciting as coaching football and basketball, but it had been my passion for so many years.

Once Mason won the tournament, it was my pleasure to award it the first-place trophy.

May 10, 1982

This may have been the worst day of my life.

After four years at Miami, I had a plan of graduating in December, only one semester late. I was okay with that. But what I was not okay with was Spanish, or whatever foreign language I had to complete in order to graduate. The syllabus said I needed to complete a 202 level course, which is something generally taken after 101, 102, and 201.

I had done none of that.

I took Spanish in high school, four years earlier, and I was pretty terrible at it. Still worse, I didn't want to be good at it. So I devised a plan, to take Spanish 202 during the summer in Oxford so I could get it out of the way.

Oh. My. God.

I sat in class for 30 minutes that very first day and I was never so lost in my life. I was surrounded by normal white American kids, but they talked like they had been born and bred in Mexico City.

I did not belong here. There was no way I would pass this class.

I was panic-stricken, more afraid than ever I would be a student at Miami for the rest of my life.

Right then and there, I made a vow to never eat Spanish food again.

This story gets worse...

July 13, 1982

It was the night of the baseball all-star game, because I could watch it on the TV in the car dealer waiting area. With five kids all driving, and with used cars breaking down every single day, Dad decided that leasing a new car would be a good way to go. Since I had a job, I could pay for it -- I just needed him to get the financing. We were at the Jack Walter Toyota dealership by the Dayton Mall. There was a wine colored Corolla that I liked, and a blue one that seemed right for Jenny.

But the salesman made Dad so mad, first with not really being forthright and then, mainly, because he wanted a $20 bill to show his manager so he would know Dad was really intent on buying.

"What the hell does it look like I'm doing here? Tell that jackass to get his head out of his ass." Dad had zero patience for most people, and this salesman was at the top of the list.

When a counteroffer was made, Dad blew his stack. "Forget it. Let's go."

A week later he spoke with his good friend Lee Chapel and Chapel Leasing in Middletown. I got the car I wanted through him, $160.00 a month, which meant I had to save $40.00 out of each paycheck, which was only about $142.00, for my car. But I loved that car, and I drove it for four years. 

Miami-Middletown golf team, 1982 (L-R) Wildwood golf pro Larry King, Kent Stevens, Dave Pugh, coach Jim Sliger, John Langhorne, me, Todd Hatfield

 July 18, 1982

As I stood on the 17th tee, I was the leader by three shots, only two over on the day and even par for the three-day tournament. Also, I had birdied this hole three out of the last four times I played -- including a near-perfect shot that hit the flagstick on the front nine. Lastly, I was only two months removed from finishing out a four-year career on the Miami-Middletown golf team, which gave me a lot of experience in pressure situations against tough competition.

Was I nervous? No. In truth, I was probably a little overconfident.

I had played in the Franklin City Golf Tournament since I was 14 years old. Like all kids, I started out way down in the C Flight before moving my way up slowly through the ranks. By the time I was a high school senior, I was in the championship flight, playing with and against Billy and Bobby Peters, Jeff Smith, Denny Smith, and Steve Dalton. On this hot Sunday in July, I was better than all of them, and was intent on finishing up what I had started.

The 17th played at 152 yards, a perfect 8-iron. My only swing thought was to put a smooth swing on it.

But I didn't.

When I get quick, I am prone to pull the ball and hook it, making for what I call a left-to-left shot, which is not at all like the right-left draw I usually put on a shot. It went way out of bounds. And when my re-tee landed short and left of the green, I was left with a difficult change of getting up and down for double bogey. I had to settle for a triple, and when Jeff Smith -- my leading pursuer -- made par, we were all tied.

As I stood on the 18th tee, I was in a whole different world than I had been only ten minutes earlier. Gone was the confidence. Gone was the feeling I could conquer anything. Now I had to fight for my life just to keep from losing this tournament.

We both parred 18, leaving me with a closing 75 and sending us into sudden death. We then both birdied the par-5 first hole.

When Jeff birdied the par-3 second, after my par, he won. It left me to make the 400-yard walk back to the clubhouse all by myself, with a fake attempt to try to be a gracious loser. I couldn't believe I let it get away. It was really hard to accept.

...

A WEEK LATER, I WAS PLAYING a casual round with some friends, who put everything into perspective.

I had played competitively for many years, but I never been in that kind of situation before -- in the final group of the tournament, with the lead. I was not the first player to ever struggle with that.

So I had to do what all the good players do, learn from my mistakes and commit myself to feeling more comfortable the time time I found myself in a similar situation, if that were to ever happen. 

"Okay. Thanks," I said.

But, in truth, that didn't make me feel any better.

August 30, 1982

While I enjoyed all of my time at Miami-Middletown, I didn't like Miami (Oxford) one bit. It was too big, the students were rich kids from places I could not afford to go to, and I never felt like I fit in.

But I could not graduate if I didn't take classes at the main campus.

I needed 21 hours to graduate, which is a tough load for anyone, let alone a student with marginal intellect and a full-time job as a sports editor. But I wanted out. I wanted done. So I boldly marched into the Miami U. offices and signed up for 21 classes.

"Uh, we can't let you do that," someone said. "We're only going to let you sign up for 16 hours."

I was pissed, but I had a plan. I went to Miami-Middletown and signed up for 9 hours I could take there. Then I dropped a 4-hour class I had signed up for in Oxford.

Maybe the computers were down. Or maybe someone was too busy to notice.

In November, six weeks before I was to finish, I got a letter that said, in essence, "We have a problem. You did what we specifically told you not to do. In order for us to approve what you have done, we need letters from each of your professors telling us you are attending and are doing your work."

So I did. Even in Spanish 202.

I hated Spanish 202, and that sentiment would not change for years to come. 

Buenos noches, Miami.

From 1982, I was a college senior and Joe was a high school senior.