To the Finish Line

My friend and colleague, Colonel Napoleon Carter, announced that he will be retiring, effective tomorrow, to care for his wife, Brenda, who has an aggressive form of breast cancer.  He has taught thousands of students and, as a former student said, “Some teachers have to yell and shout or even do jumping jacks to get the attention of students, but, once in a while, you find a teacher who commands respect, and he or she doesn’t even need to open their mouth…”  Another former student wrote, “I pray that with the time the Lord allots me on this Earth I am able to touch someone’s life the way Napoleon Carter did in my life.  His commitment to his wife in her time of need is inspiring to a young man like myself who, one day, plans to find a wonderful woman to call wife.  His  commitment to the vows he took with her is, unfortunately, becoming a rarity in today’s society and I am thankful to see that some people are still going about marriage the right way.”

Here is the tribute that I wrote for Napoleon…

It is six-something in the morning on a Saturday in some cold month here in Saint Louis; maybe it is February.   All I remember is that it’s the day that every serious chess player in the state of Missouri waits for all year, a chess player’s finest fantasy.  Armed with their pawns, their bishops, their rooks, and the rest of the noble crowd, this is the day that all the geeks march to Jefferson City in search of blessed checkmates.     This is the state chess tournament.

And, on this frigid morning, I have collected Max from his bed, thrown some cordouroys on him, and sped over to Wydown.   You see, Coach Napoleon has invited seven-year-old Max and I to ride over with the bigwigs, the Middle Schoolers, and, for young Max, this is even more thrilling than a Pujols RBI in the ninth.

“You made it, Baker,” Napoleon says, as we stumble onto the bus, pillows in tow.

I have learned that Mr. Napoleon Carter waits for no man (or woman) and that a 6:30 departure time does not mean 6:31.  This colonel means business.

“Yeah,” I think.  “With two minutes to spare but only because I ran that red light back on Olive.”

Mr. Carter insists on being an early bird in his trek to Jeff City. He likes to snatch the best tables, to get all of his smarty pants registered, to prepare his spreadsheets, to strategize, all the while (in true colonel fashion) ordering the puny 6th graders to lug around the oversized bucket of chess paraphernalia.

Yeah. Mr. Carter waits for no one.   I am relieved that we made it.

But let’s imagine for a moment that your name is Richard Millett.  And you, Richard, just could not, on this freezing morning, lug your eighth grade behind from under the covers.  And, once you finally have, you certainly are not going to miss the lovely scrambled egg breakfast that your mother has prepared.

Mr. Carter calls you.  No answer.  He calls again.  Finally, he meekly tells the bus driver to just pull away.  He is not a happy man.   There are other kids missing from that bus, but it’s Richard that Carter wants.  It’s Richard that Carter needs.  He calls a few more times.

“You’re doing what?” he shouts into his cell phone.  “Eating eggs?!”    Exasperated, he says, “Okay, here’s the plan.”

We must have waited on the shoulder of some highway at such-and-such exit for 45 minutes for that Millett kid’s mother to catch her minivan up with the bus.  Twenty kids are on the bus, all overtired, all itching to move, all staging a mini when-are-we-leaving-already, let’s-just-forget-Richard rebellion.

But there is no way in heck that Napoleon is leaving without his chess player extraordinaire.

Not a chance.

For Richard is Mr. Carter’s hope, his superstar, his very own Tiger Woods.

Without Richard, there will only be second or third place team trophies, or heaven forbid, just mere medals.  Without Richard, Carter is just another coach lugging his kids to Jefferson City.  No way.

And, there is the fierce Gabriel Boyd character to contend with, Boyd, whose students always cart home a few too many prizes for Carter’s liking.   Boyd, who is Carter’s arch-nemesis.

Carter wants that first-place team trophy, and he wants it bad. And, if he does not get it, he will still rejoice, but only half-heartedly, when the team stops for its Mcflurries-and-french-fries  celebration on the way home.

For this guy did not trek all the way from the fields of Pine Bluff, Arkansas many, many moons ago, just to return to Wydown on a Monday morning, trophy-less.

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The funny thing, Napoleon, is that I don’t even remember if we came home with a trophy that night or not (though you probably do).

But, as we stand here on this day, we both know that, regardless, your real trophy is not being displayed in a case out in the hallway.  Your real trophy is that woman you’ve known since you were next-door neighbors as kids, that woman whose laughter you adore, that woman about whom you once told me, “You know what, Baker, it wasn’t until she was 20 that I even realized she was a girl.”  I have never heard a man speak with greater admiration for his wife than you do for Brenda.  Never. And I know that you would have waited for her on the side of the highway for far, far longer even than we waited for Richard Millett, for she is your true superstar.

And you, Napoleon, have been a true superstar around here, a role model for thousands of kids and adults who have passed through the halls of Wydown.  Thousands of lives have been impacted by your wisdom and your kindness.  And you have reminded me, countless times, what it means to be strong, to stay strong.

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I remember something else about that day in Jefferson City.  I remember that Max lost his first three rounds and each time he emerged a bit shaken, even with tears, and you reminded him, with a smile, to hang in there, to stay tough.

Now I am reminding you, my friend…You hang in there, Napoleon.   You keep fighting.  You stay tough. And you keep remembering that we are here for you, thinking about you, missing you.

And, you know what?  That darn cancer had better just watch its step or it’s gonna find itself collapsing under a fancy five-move checkmate.  After all, Napoleon Carter does NOT like to lose.