Here is the cover of the soon to be published KU track and field media guide. The outcome pleases me very much. My initial thoughts for this cover centered around the strength of KU weight thrower Mason Finley and the speed of sprinter Diamond Dixon. With the Olympics in London coming later this summer, my hope was to photograph these two outstanding athletes in an ancient Greek mythological style. Since the Olympics were born in ancient Greece, I thought of Finley as Atlas, holding the world in his strong hand, and Dixon as part human and part flying angel.

Coming up with a concept is one thing. Making it happen in a pleasing way is the real challenge. Without the enthusiasm of both Finley and Dixon, the cover never would look as good. Finley stood patiently holding a huge medi-ball striking various poses. All the while, the monster of a man joked with me that he had a body far removed from the classic Greek Olympians portrayed in ancient sculptures. Compared to Finley’s size, Dixon seems like a tiny bird. She gracefully bore her wings, found at a Halloween store, and took flight by making countless starts in the studio until her form and my timing satisfied us both.

Our graphic designer, Jackie Berra, took things from there. Truly, this is where the teamwork began. My ambition often exceeds my computer design skills. There is no shame in admitting I need someone of Berra’s talent to make some of my ideas really shine. I just love taking photographs, and as needed, enjoy working with others to make the most of what is rambling around in my mind. Berra certainly came through on this cover.

It is hard for me to consider myself an artist, yet in some small way, with a camera in hand, it does apply.  Now, a great designer truly is an artist using a mouse and screen instead of paint and canvas. Too often the artistic photographer and the artistic designer butt heads and do not mesh. Finding a designer willing to listen and work closely with me is a real plus.

Working with designer Jeff Davis during my later years at the Capital-Journal was a real pleasure. He thought well ahead of the curve and showed me how computer design could enhance my visions when done properly. Davis remains an amazing talent.

Beau White made design work at KU fun. Besides being a very good friend, Beau was a fantastic designer. I wrote last year about our work on the rowing poster. He and I also collaborated on my KU men’s basketball time-lapse project in 2010. White left last summer for the corporate design world with Sprint in Kansas City. My worry was that such a strong working relationship might never be replicated.

Jackie Berra at work

Berra has proven me wrong with this cover. She immediately understood my concept for the cover as well as the feel and tone of the images I sought. Once we agreed, the most important task was getting out of her way. Berra the designer had to have the time and freedom to make the cover hers as well as mine. I am very happy to call it ours.

We made a few adjustments along the way to gain final approval by track and field coach Stanley Redwine, but we never really needed to waiver from our original plan. Berra proved she will be a wonderful teammate on many future projects. I look forward to working to redefine our horizons together. Hopefully, she feels the same.

As for Dixon and Finley, this summer’s Olympics probably comes too early in their careers. Hopefully, by 2016 in Brazil, these two KU athletes will have traded their KU jerseys for ones adorned with USA.

My thanks go out to Dixon, Finley and my new teammate, Jackie Berra. My belief is it was a job well done.

This short video is definitive proof that life is cruel. There in the front is my wife, Laura, taking a leap off the diving platform along with Tegan Thornberry at the swimming complex in Mayaguez, Puerto Rico. Thornberry is the team’s director of operations. Laura the team’s academic advisor. Both are accompanying the team on the annual seven-day training trip to a warm locale during winter break. The weather is gorgeous. The sun is intense. Laura is enjoying herself which thrills me.

There is only one major, big-time problem. I am not there!

Trust me there are many people enjoying every moment of my suffering. From the day KU’s  senior women’s administrator, Debbie Van Saun, and Laura’s boss, Paul Buskirk, told Laura she would accompany the team in an administrative role, the witty comments and facetious questions have rolled in like the surf at the island’s Dogman Beach.

Van Saun jokes how she knows winter has arrived because she no longer sees me in shorts. She has relished telling me how much fun Laura was sure to have on the trip. Clark Campbell, the team’s head coach, seriously asked Laura how badly I would take the crushing news. Buskirk, with tongue in cheek, offered to send his children over to the house to make sure I would not have time to mope.

Friday night, the assistant swim coach, Jen Fox, could be heard in the background during a phone call crying out with delight, “Tell him we went surfing today,” fully aware of the pain inflicted even though rough seas made it impossible for all but the most skilled regulars. Thornberry asked how upset I would be when everyone went stand up paddling in the coming day? My only response was, “I hope Laura loves it so much she will let me buy a pair for us to paddle on local lakes.”

As adventurous as this all sounds, there is one important aspect of these trips making me the most jealous. Beyond the training benefits, the swimmers and divers main goal is to come back to wintry Lawrence as tan as possible. Basking in the intense Caribbean sun is a must. My biggest personal rub about Laura’s time away is the fact she really does not like tanning. The fair-skinned, red-head can tan some, but she really can burn.

“Tegan, Beth (team massage therapist Beth Morford), and I are laying on the pool deck getting some sun,” Laura said over the phone one day, meaning Laura had coated herself in 100 SPF sun block. I had to ask whether her stomach had ever been exposed to the sun unblocked. She admitted probably not. Sorry skin cancer purists, if Laura spends a week in Puerto Rico, some serious bikini tan lines need to be revealed in the privacy of our bedroom upon her return.  She called later from the beach to say she was going “naked” in the afternoon, meaning the super-strong Coppertone stayed in the bottle and has often since.

What we have here is a sun block woman bathing in tropical rays while her deep tanning oil husband remains in Kansas photographing basketball games in Allen Fieldhouse where the game lights offer no “harmful UV waves.” Deep in the recesses of Laura’s heart, I know she was hoping for bitter cold and deep snow  while she is gone. At least the warmer Kansas weather has taken a bit of the sting out the trip for me and prevented Laura from further delight of rubbing my nose in deep snow.

All jealousy aside, a road trip provides Laura the chance to further bond with the swimmers and divers. There is just something about being on a long road trip that does it.  The same goes for Laura’s time with Tegan, Beth and team trainer, Emily. They have shared something very special and will be better friends because of it. Heaven only knows what deep secrets rum sucked out of a hollowed-out coconut helped reveal. As long the words “Norse god” get used to describe me, who cares.

Meanwhile, I am left at home getting brief glimpses of a life filled with sun, sand and sea. Through phone calls and e-mails, I relished the tale of the team’s two-hour bus ride west from San Juan to the team resort in Rincon. Most KU bus travel comes on lush buses equipped with individual TV screens, power and wireless internet.

The bus waiting in San Juan was something out of the movie Major League. From her temporary administratively powerful front row seat, Laura could see the sparks flash from the dashboard when the bus hit a major rut in the road. Meanwhile further back, the pine tree air fresheners taped to the ceiling bounced with aromatic delight as team gear went flying and the driver cried out in shock and delight.

Soon, Laura and the crew will be back on that bus headed back to KU and the second semester, but not before going para-sailing. Writing all this is so hard, but I am so happy KU blessed Laura with this refreshing break. Her husband will be anxiously waiting to pick her up and check out the tan lines on the woman I love and miss so much.

Laura has already mentioned plans are for a longer training trip next winter to Hawaii. Hopefully, Laura will be able to go again. There is one certainty if she does: I will be in Hawaii with her even if I have to stuff myself into one of her bags.

Photographs from Laura and her friends as they live the good life in Puerto Rico.

My grandson can call me Ishmael.

“Call me Ishmael.” That is what I told my daughter.  The opening sentence in the epic novel Moby Dick popped into my mind soon after Julie announced her pregnancy months ago. It has nothing to do with the saga of a man’s fight against his personal demon, the great white whale.

This is all about the names for grandparents. Julie’s stepfather comes from Alabama. Julie’s husband comes from Mississippi. They both have strong Southern sensibilities. Julie’s mother and her husband chose Mawmay and Pawpay. Tim’s parents seemed to feel they would like to be called Mimi and Grandpa. Laura said she might not like be called Grandma. Suddenly, Moby Dick popped into my mind. “Call me Ishmael,” is what I blurted out. I promised to use Ish for short. Immediately, Laura picked up on this and announced, “I’ll be LoLo.”

The look on Julie’s face, the one where she further questioned my sanity, was the same look Laura and I shared on New Year’s Day 2011. On January 1, we attended the memorial service of local sports legend and WIBW sportscaster Ron Paradis. As family and friends spoke, one person revealed, “I never really knew Ron Paradis as Ron. I only knew him as Shecky.”

Shecky? We were not the only people shaking their heads in disbelief. The friend went onto explain how Paradis refused to allow anyone to call him grandfather, so he adopted Shecky in classic Paradis fashion.

We will not go quite as far. Laura’s choice comes from a friend’s daughter unable to pronounce Laura’s name and instead called her LoLo. My choice simply comes from a very twisted mind. The most important thing to remember is we love having fun.

We pushed and pushed for the name Osborne Barry Phillips for our grandson. Of course Osborne is the last name of legendary Nebraska coach Tom Osborne and Barry, the first name of Oklahoma coaching legend Barry Switzer. We argued should the boy become a doctor or lawyer, the name Osborne Phillips would have a nice classy touch. If he turned out to be a jock, the name could be shortened to Oz or Ozzie.

Jake's first pair of Vans to go with a few pairs of ours.

Instead, sanity ruled. Here is how Julie explained in her baby blog.

“Tim and I have always wanted a family name and have really had one favorite for a boy since we found out were expecting. Our son’s name is: Jake Robert Phillips. (Yes, it is just Jake, not Jacob.)

Jake not only comes from my maiden name, but it is also the nickname for both my dad and grandfather. I was named after my grandfather, so it feels so wonderful to also name my son after a wonderful man I did not get to meet. Robert was Tim’s grandfather’s name and is also his father’ middle name, so we are tying both families together.”

Should sanity rule again after the baby arrives, Laura and I will probably end up being called Grandma Laura and Grandpa Jeff, but for a “whale” of a good time Jake can call us LoLo and Ish.

Bill Maher (HBO)

That thought applies to the recent tweet from droll comedian Bill Maher regarding Tim Tebow. The avowed atheist sent out his thoughts after the Buffalo Bills soundly defeated the Denver Broncos last Saturday.

“Wow, Jesus just f***ed #Tim Tebow bad! And on Xmas Eve! Somewhere…Satan is tebowing, saying to Hitler “Hey, Buffalo’s killing them,” Maher tweeted.

The wonderful thing about our freedom of speech is that it allows someone like Maher to fail. Maher typed what came to mind and in so doing revealed that, beyond his atheism, Maher’s profane tweet exposed a man filled with vicious hatred. That alone is very sad. Without freedom of speech and the opportunity to fail, we never really would have known.

Lest you feel this post is purely Christian driven, let me share another story revealed to me a few months after KU won the basketball National Championship in 2008. Two friends, well-known for the their conservative right-wing Christian beliefs, were reveling in the details of the championship game with Laura and me. One revealed that as the game wound down towards the Chalmers miracle shot, she had left the watch party for a private room where she kneeled in prayer asking that “the good guys would win.” Again, without this patent failure in Christian belief, revealed thanks to freedom of speech, we never would have known.

Christian persecution is centuries old. Meanwhile, in the city of Topeka, where we live, a minister and his followers carry on a continued hate-driven campaign against gays filled with enough non-Christian pronouncements to stagger the mind. Some mock Tim Tebow for kneeling in brief prayers on the field while thousands demand a boycott of Maher’s HBO comedy show. The battle lines will be forever drawn in the sands because of our failure.

Tebowing (MSNBC)

Yes, I believe we live in a world filled with failure because of our sin. I believe too many do not see their failures and will not fall to a knee asking for forgiveness here on earth and from their heavenly Savior. No, I do not believe that God in heaven is sitting with his angels comparing fantasy league results. Tim Tebow is an inspiring player, but he is no more a “good guy” than KU players were in that 2008 game. However, trying to convince any KU fan that John Calipari is nothing more than a cheat might be a tougher battle than bringing people to Christ.

We spend far too much time trying to shape Christian faith, or the lack thereof, to our personal demands for our lives. Sadly, that is our greatest failure of all. A little more sincere “tebowing” would be a good thing, but you certainly are welcome to disagree.

And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them: and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear Not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David, a Savior, which is Christ the Lord.

Could any gift be more personalized than to have it proclaimed by an angel as a gift to you? Yes, the angel spoke to the shepherds, but through the Gospel, my Savior speaks to me, a poor and miserable sinner.  He speaks to you and all who believe. It is that gift to “you” that allows us to fear not and shout with joy over our “Savior, which is Christ the Lord.”

Merry Christmas to “you” all.

That line, from Robert Redford in the movie Out of Africa, is the best way I can explain how I feel today as Laura and I celebrate 10 years of marriage. Laura, you have ruined it for me as well…the being alone.

Redford in the movie played the carefree African big-game hunter Denys. Tied to no one or any one place, his character found himself falling deeper and deeper in love with the movie’s lead character Karen Blixen, played by Meryl Streep. Every time he left her, the leaving  became harder and harder. The hunter fought hard to combat his feelings, but eventually realized his life of being alone no longer was worth the price of loneliness.

In my life, I have enjoyed being alone at times, but I never liked being lonely. Even when I was with someone from my past, I have been lonely. During times of professional and personal challenge, being alone meant I could be lost in my thoughts and prayers. I would ride my bicycle for miles or walk a golf course in solitude. As the miles mounted or between golf shots, I carried on a rambling discourse with my Savior. His ceaseless grace and mercy soothed my soul and gave me strength until the right job and the right woman came to me freely as His gift.

Ten years ago, Laura filled my life. Loneliness flew away like the Redford character did in his bi-plane. No longer do I rail against loneliness because a woman of God has shown me love in an exhilarating new way.

Loneliness is long gone, replaced now by ruin. Now, being alone means hours wasted not being with Laura. While I still ride many miles by myself and still carry on my discourse with my Savior, it is only because Laura cannot join me. Every time we part, the alone is just not that satisfying.

Tonight, as we celebrate, I will raise a toast to Laura and a thankful prayer to my Savior for the welcomed ruination of my life. I love you, Laura. May the Lord bless and keep us in ruin for many more years.

That survival instinct came to mind in November on my first visit to Lawrence’s “sweat box” better known as the Bikram Yoga studio. In a room heated to a humid 105 degrees, Laura and I made our first attempts to move through two sets of 26 yoga postures for 90 minutes while sweat poured out of our bodies in bucket loads. The heated studio “creates deeper stretches and injury prevention, while reducing stress and tension.” Really, my only thought that first night was “survive”, just like a prisoner of war tossed into a burning solitary hell.

Ah, but that was only the first night. Now that we have completed 10 classes, I can honestly joke with Laura after each of the sessions that “yoga is my life.” To understand why I would willingly try to contort myself into something called a “bow” posture, you need some background.

Call it my “summer of discontent.” A severely pulled hamstring last May made this past summer more than just miserable for running and riding. That one injury caused disarray in nearly every aspect of my physical life.

Heap the blame on me for my stupidity regarding the proper care of an aging body. Too anxious to make the most of the summer, my hamstring was never allowed to heal fully. My efforts to run and ride were cruel jokes that left me completely unbalanced and sore beyond belief. The thought that I would never again run freely or sit comfortably on a saddle left me in a state of unsettled desperation.

That is when Laura, concerned and yet frustrated with me, suggested I see massage therapist Beth Morford. Morford works with the KU swimmers and divers and came highly recommended. A series of massages helped me feel better immediately, and I highly recommend Morford to everyone I know. These were deep muscle massages that seriously prodded muscles to release some of the tension and tightness.

However, it was her blunt evaluation of my physical state that really struck me and stuck with me. While she complemented me on my muscular strength and overall fitness for a 60-year-old man, those brief feel-good moments were immediately replaced by the harsh reality that was laid out for me. My flexibility was beyond awful. Morford stressed that without drastic changes, one injury after another awaited someone of my advanced age. She strongly urged me to try Bikram Yoga.

I am not a great athlete, but I try really hard and am not afraid to embarrass myself in my pursuits. Once decided, I plunged into the heated room with some trepidation, but with the mind-set that this was not going to be a one-and-done effort despite the fact I would be the least flexible person in the room.

Fortunately, this was not a room filled with tall, lithesome dancers and models as portrayed in most yoga advertisements. Sure, there were a few KU students that looked as though their hamstrings could be stretched like taffy, but others looked far from overall taut. The classes range from 12 – 15 women and usually about four men. Everyone was happy to see two new people and have continued to be quietly encouraging.

Laura and I were quickly, and wisely, separated by the instructor. That immediately severed the competitive nature in both of us, and we have never been together since. Once class started, there was little time to worry about others. Positioned behind more advanced practitioners that provided pose clues, I could only concentrate on my efforts and my sorry state of stiffness by staring forward into the mirrors.

Each posture provided a unique challenge. Some proved to be surprisingly simple for me while others will surely confound me years from now. Of no surprise to me, the “awkward poses” were my best. This three pose sequence will always be known to me as the “catcher poses” because they involve squatting, first flat-footed, then up on high toes and finally on toes with knees squeezed together. For an old catcher, I immediately dipped lower and straighter than anyone I could glimpse.

Any good feeling was lost when we reached the “standing head to knee” and “standing bow” poses. These demand hamstring flexibility, one of the two areas I desperately need to improve. Grabbing my ankle and kicking my back leg up while leaning over and thrusting my other arm forward seemed impossible.

Part of my problems stemmed from my stems. I have trouble locking my knees. There is no physical reason I cannot other than being taught all my life that in athletics you keep your knees bent for leverage and balance. Even a minister at a wedding reminds the bride and groom not to lock their knees for fear they might faint.

Yet, in class, the instructor reminds everyone that a pose has not begun until the knee is fully locked. Urged to glue my eyes on my knee through the mirror as I contorted myself into a pose, I noticed my battered left kneecap staring back at me with a maniacal grin. Mangled from years of kneeling to take photographs, my kneecap dimples and shadows actually created the look of a face laughing at me. To make sure I was not delusional from the heat, I had Laura look at the face on my knee at home after class. She laughed right along with ghostly face.

Finally after 12 poses and the most part of the first 60 of the 90 minutes, our standing postures ended. My shoulders ached and screamed at me. One of the men in the locker room later told me any shoulder work in a weight room would no longer be needed. I agreed as I struggled to raise a sweatshirt over my head and pull it on. Thank goodness for the “dead body pose”.

Laying on our backs, with heels together and arms at our side with palms up, I relished the deep stomach breaths we took in for a precious few moments. The final 13 postures seemed a blessing until called upon to perform the “bow pose”. Regular practitioners immediately rolled to their stomachs and reached back grabbing their ankles to form an arch in their backside that, done properly, looks very much like an archer’s bow.

My futile efforts to grab my ankles mostly reminded me of early archery lessons where the bow’s string would scrape along my extended left arm leaving me using shameful language. Shameful as my efforts were in this first class, I never felt any judgement from the instructor or my new classmates that would shame me into quitting. The class ended, and in a now darkened room, I limply rolled up my mat and picked up the towel everyone must have on top of their mat.

The weight of that soddened towel was shocking but also revealing. After ten classes I have come to relish the sweat. The sop on that towel symbolizes the changes I can already feel after such a short time. Tight muscles have begun to loosen their hold on me. I can now grab both of my ankles. Though my arched back and limbs do not form a perfect bow yet, I have hope they someday will. I am still the tightest in any class, but with every class, I feel a muscle releasing just a bit more, as I remember it is not where one starts but where one finishes.

Happy is also the way I feel soon after the class ends – and not just because a class has ended. Both Laura and I have worked very hard and the oxygen enriched blood that flows through us makes both feel so very good. We have no thoughts of stopping. My belief is that hot yoga will enhance our every day lives and time on the bike or on a run will be far better. That makes me quite content over my time in the  sweat box.

Contacts: Massage Therapist Beth Morford. Bikram Yoga Lawrence.

Shepperd gave me great latitude during the shoot, but it is very important that my photographs fit the overall vision Shepperd is bringing to the piece. My still images must work with Shepperd’s video interpretations. We discuss ideas often. His opinion is greatly valued. The video will be a big hit. It was great being asked to contribute.

Here are a few personal favorites. They might not appear like this in the video, but they do reflect what I hoped for from the session. I really enjoyed working with the cooperative players. Unfortunately, Keena Mays is transferring at the semester, and the photograph of Mays flipping her hair back is now out. I will miss the great photographs she helped make for me in the studio and on the court. My hope is you will enjoy the photographs as much as I enjoyed making them.

Based on Keith’s early coaching career in Western Oklahoma, the movie Believe in Me, remains the coach’s continuing life lesson for those who played for him or knew him. For those that did not, the movie highlights a man gifted as a coach but blessed as a caring friend. That is a very worthy legacy and one we celebrate in our goodbyes to a dear friend, and for Laura a wonderful coach.

Other stories about Coach Keith: The All-Stater and Coach and Catching Up With Coach Keith.

Laura withe Barry Switzer in Forth Worth in December 2005

There is something about a trip to Texas that always makes me crave a can of Lone Star Beer. Connoisseurs can turn their microbrewed noses high into the air. There is no need for an arbiter of taste to tell me a Lone Star will never join any list of the finest brews. Lone Star is simply a can of “suds,” which is fine by me.  Oh, and it must be a can of Lone Star.  A bottle will not do.  Here is why.

In our home, there are two revered coaching legends. Tom Osborne for me. Barry Switzer for Laura. The two battled each other for years back when Nebraska and Oklahoma ruled the Big 8 and the college football world. As great as the two were, they always seemed total opposites in their lives. Osborne spoke in a quiet, “ah shucks” tone, while Switzer could spin tales like few others. Osborne seemed straight-laced next to the gregarious Switzer who loved to perpetuate his devilish image.

There was something about that impish behavior that appealed to Laura, who was attending Oklahoma and playing basketball during some of the Sooners most glorified days. Laura’s eyes still twinkle whenever she talks about Switzer. That is why we had to attend the Fort Worth Bowl luncheon the day before KU played Houston in the 2005 game. Laura was not going to miss Switzer, the keynote speaker.

During his rollicking speech, Switzer told the tale of recruiting a prized player out of the state of Texas. An OU assistant had done most of the work in preparation for a visit by Switzer to seal the deal with the player’s father. The father was a Texas A&M Aggie and far from sold on his son playing for Oklahoma. The other thing Switzer needed to know was that the father REALLY loved his beer. The visit would be a waste unless Switzer knocked back more than a few beers with the skeptical father. By now, Switzer was rolling and dragging the banquet crowd right along with him as he and the assistant drove up to the player’s home.

Remember, this is the coach who once had the Oklahoma team bus stop in Lincoln at the then popular drinking hole, Barry’s, just blocks from the Nebraska stadium. On the eve of one of titanic clashes between the two football powers, Switzer waved the bus on to the hotel and entered the bar that was not named for him, but was still a place that welcomed the enemy’s coach for two hours of fun.

A few beers with a recruit’s father would be no problem. There was just one last recruiting advantage Switzer wanted. He asked his assistant to drive around to the back alley first. There the man who led Oklahoma to three National Championships rooted through trash cans to discover that Lone Star beer was the only beverage of choice for the recruit’s father. Getting back into the car, Switzer signaled the assistant it was time to head for the front door.

After all the usual pleasantries, the father offered Switzer a beer. Without hesitation, Switzer replied that though he would love to have a beer, there was no way in the world he would drink any thing other than his absolute favorite beer, Lone Star.

With the crowd in Fort Worth now laughing loudly, Switzer proudly announced that he did not leave that Texas home until he had not only the son’s verbal committment, but more importantly, the father’s blessing.

Whether the story was true or not mattered little. I roared right along with the crowd and my delighted wife. The image of a can of Lone Star is branded into my mind. Every time the first gulp slides down my throat, it does so in tribute to a great storyteller, a fabulous coach and someone who means a great deal to the woman I love. That makes a Lone Star good “suds.”