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There are plenty of serious topics deserving of our attention these days. This isn’t one of them.

Family and friends who have known me for a long time know I possess a particular characteristic. Some might call it a character flaw. I happen to think it’s one of my more endearing qualities.

I have an uncanny ability to debate, some would say argue about things that are completely unimportant and utterly inconsequential. I’ve been doing it since I was a kid. It’s not that I need to be right. I simply enjoy the discussion.

Recently, Brenda found herself on the receiving end of one of those discussions. She had made a wonderful breakfast, and as we sat eating, I asked what seemed to me to be an important question.

What’s the better breakfast meat… bacon or sausage?

Brenda politely entertained the conversation for a few minutes before deciding there were, in fact, more important things to do with her day.

Undeterred, I carried the debate to a few close friends. They also humored me for a while before eventually moving on to more meaningful pursuits.

I, however, have continued to wrestle with this great philosophical dilemma.

Bacon or sausage?

Which is the superior breakfast meat?

There are certainly weightier issues facing the world, but I remember a freshman composition professor once telling our class that if you really wanted to become a better writer, you had to learn to write seriously about an unserious topic.

I don’t know how serious my writing is, but I’ve definitely found my unserious topic. So, let’s make the case.

The Case for Bacon

I’ve long believed bacon may be the closest thing to a perfect food because it appeals to every one of our human senses.

The sound of bacon sizzling in the pan is one of the great sounds in cooking.

The aroma, whether it’s frying or baking, fills the entire house with anticipation.

The sight of perfectly crisp bacon on a plate beside eggs is enough to make you hungry before you’ve even taken a bite.

Then there’s the feel of picking up that perfectly cooked strip between your fingers.

And finally, the taste; salty, smoky, crispy. It is simply magnificent.

Is there a more iconic American breakfast than bacon and eggs?

Bacon presents an awfully strong argument.

The Case for Sausage

But then, there is sausage. Oh, how I love thee.

When pancakes are on the menu, sausage may have the advantage. Links or patties on the plate that you can eat with your fork instead of picking up with your fingers feels like a more refined way to eat breakfast.

French toast? Sausage again. Waffles covered in warm maple syrup? I’ll gladly reach for the sausage links.

There’s just something about the combination of savory sausage and sweet syrup that feels perfectly balanced.

Sausage also rivals bacon in both aroma and flavor while it’s cooking.

And then there’s the trump card, Biscuits -n-Gravy. Notice it’s sausage gravy, not bacon gravy. That fact alone deserves serious consideration.

The Verdict

So where does all of this leave us?

Honestly, I still can’t decide. Bacon is the king of classic breakfasts. Sausage might be the champion of syrup breakfasts. Both have Hall of Fame credentials.

It is important to point out that I realize that none of this actually matters.

Then again, neither does arguing about who the GOAT is in sports. Yet television networks, sports radio hosts, and fans spend countless hours debating whether it’s Jordan or LeBron, Brady or Mahomes, Ruth or Ohtani.

Personally, I find the breakfast debate much more enjoyable.

Fortunately, life doesn’t require us to choose. Some mornings call for bacon. Other mornings demand sausage. And every once in a while, wisdom says to put both on the plate and call it a great day.

So now I put the question to you.

Which team are you on?

Team Bacon or Team Sausage?

Tell me why.

I’d genuinely love to hear your argument.

One final note, if you’re a vegetarian, I say this with all due respect, but you may want to sit this debate out. I simply feel sorry that you’ve been denied one of life’s great breakfast pleasures.

That’s the perspective this week.

Until next Friday,

Chad Tuescher

I am not a Catholic; however, I have long believed that honest confession is good for the soul.

This week’s perspective is a bit of a confession.

A recent experience has forced me to confront something about myself that I wasn’t expecting. It made me think back to my years as a coach and teacher, and it brought me face to face with one of my own personal demons.

I hate hypocrisy. I truly despise it. Few character traits bother me more than someone saying one thing while living another. So imagine my discomfort when I suddenly had to look in the mirror and wonder if I was guilty of the very thing I can’t stand.

To be human is to live in a constant battle between virtue and vice. Most days we like to think our better angels are winning, but when you discover that one of your own vices may have gotten the upper hand, it’s a deeply uncomfortable feeling.

Recently, I started a new position at Sand Valley. It has been a great move for me personally and professionally. The people I work with are terrific; the work is fulfilling, and I’ve been challenged in valuable ways.

One of those challenges has been technology.

I’m using computers systems and tools that are well outside my comfort zone. At times I feel completely out of my element, and that has led to feelings of concern, worry, and even fear.

Every day I am concerned about making a “catastrophic” mistake. Every day I worry that I’ll click the wrong button and somehow crash the entire system. And every day, somewhere in the back of my mind, I am afraid that my mistakes will expose my incompetence and prove I wasn’t worthy of the opportunity I was given.

Being worried and afraid is not my normal mental state. Facing those feelings has made me think back to my years on the softball field and in the classroom.

How many times did I tell players and students, “Don’t be afraid to make mistakes”?

Hundreds? Thousands?

I preached it constantly because I believed it.

Growth requires failure. Learning requires mistakes. Confidence is built by getting something wrong, correcting it, trying again, and eventually getting it right. It was one of the foundational lessons I hoped my athletes and students would carry with them long after they left my classroom or stepped off the field.

Now, years later, here I am—the one who is afraid to make mistakes.

There’s a certain irony in that, and if not irony, a little personal humiliation.

When I’ve shared these fears with my coworkers, every one of them has offered some version of the same reassurance:

“Chad, there isn’t a mistake here that can’t be fixed.”

That certainly seems true enough. It also happens to be exactly what I spent years trying to convince athletes and students to believe.

One of my coworkers has driven that lesson home even more. She started around the same time as I did and is about the same age as the college athletes I used to coach.

She attacks every new task with enthusiasm. She asks questions without hesitation. She isn’t paralyzed by the possibility of getting something wrong. She shows no signs of being afraid to make a mistake.

One day when I was complimenting her on how well she is doing so quickly in the new job, she smiled and said, “Sometimes you just have to act like you know what you are doing. You know, fake it till you make it.”

I almost fell over laughing at the juxtaposition of her using those words on me.

If she makes a mistake, she fixes it, learns from it, and moves on.

Watching her has been inspiring and a little humbling. In fact, it’s even a little comical.

After spending a lifetime encouraging young people to embrace mistakes as part of learning, I’m now the old guy quietly hoping I don’t make one.

Coming face to face with my own hypocrisy, I even started to wonder if I had been a fraud all those years of coaching and teaching.

But I don’t think I was. I believed every word I told my players and students, and I still believe it now.

The problem wasn’t the lesson. The problem is that human nature is stubborn.

Most of us don’t like looking foolish. We don’t enjoy being wrong. We don’t want to disappoint people. We worry about failing, being judged, or proving we aren’t as capable as others think we are.

That’s true whether you’re sixteen or fifty-four.

Knowing we shouldn’t fear mistakes doesn’t magically erase the fear. It simply reminds us of what’s waiting on the other side of it.

Growth.

Every meaningful skill a person ever learns comes with the frustration of making mistakes. Every worthwhile accomplishment requires getting something wrong before eventually getting it right.

If I allow the fear of making mistakes to keep me from learning this new job, then I stop growing as a person.

And I don’t want that.

So, to every student who hesitated to raise a hand because you were afraid your answer might be wrong, and to every athlete who played a little too cautiously because you didn’t want to make an error, well, I feel you and understand you better today than I ever did back then.

When I told you not to be afraid of making mistakes, I wasn’t pretending it was easy.

I simply knew it was necessary.

Today, I’m learning the very lesson I spent decades trying to teach.

Turns out, old coaches still have things to learn, and that’s a lesson worth learning, or relearning, even at my age.

That’s the perspective this week.

Until next Friday,

Coach T

Time.

It is a topic that has fascinated scientists, philosophers, poets, and theologians since, well…the beginning of time.

Time has been on my mind recently for several reasons.

Readers of this blog know that Brenda and I have been walking through the challenges that come with aging parents. At the very same time, we recently celebrated birthdays for two of our youngest grandchildren. It is hard not to think about the passage of time when, in the span of a single weekend, you witness the boundless joy of childhood alongside the very real struggles that often accompany old age.

It is a reminder that life isn’t lived in chapters. It is lived all at once. While one generation is just beginning its story, another is writing its final pages.

Time has also been in the news.

The U.S. House of Representatives recently passed a bill that would make Daylight Saving Time permanent. Given all of the serious issues demanding the attention of Congress, it seems fitting that they would devote energy to something I happen to think is exactly backwards. If changing the clocks twice a year is truly such an unbearable burden, Standard Time should be made permanent—not Daylight Saving Time. But Congress will be Congress.

The calendar offers another reminder that time keeps moving.

Major League Baseball’s trade deadline is only days away. Baseball has always measured time differently than other sports. Opening Day signals the promise of spring. The All-Star Game tells us summer is halfway gone. And the trade deadline quietly reminds us that autumn is waiting just around the corner.

As a middle-aged man who is moving steadily past the “middle” part of that description, time occupies my thoughts more than it once did.

Watching one grandson turn four and one granddaughter turn six reminded me how effortlessly children experience joy. The excitement of opening presents. The smile that comes from getting exactly what they hoped for. I don’t know if I will ever experience that same innocent excitement again, but I was reminded that life’s greatest pleasures are often its simplest ones.

We’re now several weeks past the summer solstice. The days are still long, but each sunset arrives a little earlier than the one before it. That shortening daylight feels like an appropriate metaphor for life itself.

Youth finds joy in anticipation. Older age often finds joy in appreciation.

The fun may become a good meal with family, an afternoon on the lake, a conversation with an old friend, or simply waking up with fewer aches and pains than yesterday. The joys may change, but they never disappear.

The baseball trade deadline has always fascinated me because it forces every organization to confront the same question we all eventually face.

Do you sacrifice tomorrow to improve today?

Contending teams willingly trade away talented young prospects for established veterans who might help them win a championship now. Other teams decide the future matters more than the present and begin rebuilding for seasons yet to come.

Neither approach is automatically right. They’re simply different tradeoffs. Life is full of those same decisions.

Do I spend money today on something that brings immediate happiness, or invest it to create greater security years from now? Do I devote more hours to building a career, or spend that time with the people I love? Do I chase one more opportunity, or learn to appreciate what I already have?

Kenny Rogers famously sang that you’ve got to “know when to hold ’em and know when to fold ’em.” General managers in baseball build—or lose—their reputations based on those decisions. The same is often true in life.

I don’t believe it’s possible to live a meaningful life without accumulating a few regrets along the way. Anyone who claims otherwise probably hasn’t reflected very deeply, or perhaps simply isn’t willing to admit their mistakes.

The goal isn’t to avoid every regret. The goal is to recognize that every choice carries a tradeoff, and to make those choices thoughtfully.

As technology continues to make life faster and more efficient, I’m increasingly grateful to be at an age where slowing down feels less like falling behind and more like gaining perspective.

Time will keep marching forward whether we’re ready or not.

The trade deadline will come and go.

My grandchildren will grow up much faster than I can possibly imagine.

My parents will continue their journey through the final season of life.

And somewhere in between, I hope I remember to appreciate the season I’m living in today.

As summer continues to slip by, I hope you’ll take a few moments to reflect on the remarkable, relentless, and precious passage of time.

That’s the perspective this week.

Until next Friday,

Tuescher

At the risk of sounding like a Chick-fil-A commercial saying, “Eat more chicken,” my message this week is much simpler:

Read more books.

A book, a magazine, and a newspaper all came together for me this week in a way that made this topic impossible to ignore.

I was finishing Powers and Thrones by Dan Jones and thinking about writing simply to recommend his books. If you enjoy history, his books are absolutely “must reads.” His ability to explain complex historical events while making the reader feel like he is reading an adventure novel is remarkable.

Then I read the cover story in the August issue of The Atlantic titled, “The End of Reading Is Here.” After that came an editorial in the Black River Falls Banner Journal discussing Wisconsin’s reading scores.

By the time I finished all three, one conclusion seemed unavoidable.

Reading is in trouble.

There are certainly bigger problems in the world than declining reading habits. Wars, economic uncertainty, political division—those deserve our attention. But I also believe that the decline of reading quietly fuels many of those other problems.

This is the battle I believe needs to be fought.

Anyone who travels by air has probably noticed what I have for years.

Sit in an airport terminal before boarding your flight and look around. Hundreds of people will be staring at phones, tablets, or laptops. Very few will be reading a book.

Board the airplane and the pattern continues. The moment people sit down, earbuds go in, movies begin, games start, or social media fills the screen. Only a handful of passengers ever pull out a book.

Now, maybe many of those people are reading quality articles or important work on their devices. I certainly hope so, but I can’t help looking up from my own book and feeling as though we are slowly drifting into one of Ray Bradbury’s or Kurt Vonnegut’s dystopian novels.

Does it really matter?

I believe it does.

The Banner Journal editorial pointed out that on the 2024 National Assessment of Educational Progress, only about 31% of Wisconsin fourth and eighth graders scored at or above proficiency in reading. Wisconsin has passed legislation designed to improve literacy, but implementation has struggled because schools lack adequate resources.

Those numbers should concern every one of us, but why would children become readers if adults rarely model reading themselves?

The article in The Atlantic paints an even darker picture. The decline isn’t just among children. Adults are reading fewer books, spending less time with long-form writing, and losing the ability—or perhaps the desire—to engage in deep reading.

Now, I know some of you are already smiling.

“Easy there, Chad.”

“I remember you as a kid.”

You’d be right.

I wasn’t much of a reader growing up. I was easily distracted, struggled to concentrate, and would have preferred almost anything else over sitting down with a book.

And my former students probably remember that there were days when I relied on videos in the classroom more than I should have.

I plead guilty to both charges.

But none of that changes what I’ve learned since then.

Somewhere along the way, largely because I grew up in a home where reading was valued, I developed the discipline to become a reader. Looking back, I also wish I had done more to cultivate that same discipline in my students.

Reading isn’t always entertainment. Sometimes it’s work. And that’s exactly the point.

If you want muscle endurance, you have to challenge those muscles through endurance training.

If you want a stronger mind, you must challenge it through deep reading.

Reading demands focus. It requires patience. It teaches us to follow complicated ideas, wrestle with opposing viewpoints, and think critically rather than react emotionally.

Our brains need that exercise every bit as much as our bodies do.

One of the fascinating themes Dan Jones explores in Powers and Thrones is the role literacy played in lifting Europe out of what we call the Dark Ages. The spread of books, learning, and education transformed civilization.

Ideas spread because people learned to read. Knowledge accumulated because people preserved it in books. Civilizations advanced because people took the time to think deeply.

Today, we live in an age where information has never been more available, yet thoughtful reading has never been more neglected.

Instead, too many of us are content to let computers—and increasingly artificial intelligence—do our thinking for us.

Ironically, the smartest people you hear on podcasts became intelligent the old-fashioned way.

They read.

If someone truly has wisdom worth sharing, chances are they earned it by spending hours and hours reading books, not scrolling headlines. So instead of only listening to what they have to say, read what they read.

At the risk of sounding preachy, I’ll leave you with one simple request.

Read.

Read fiction.

Read history and biographies.

Read science and social sciences.

Read books that entertain you.

Read books that challenge you.

Read books that force you to slow down and think.

Read for your own soul.

Read because your children and grandchildren are watching.

Read because our civilization depends on people who can think deeply, reason carefully, and understand ideas larger than themselves.

I promise you this.

The next book that truly reaches down into your soul won’t just be worth your time.

It will make you want to pick up another one.

That’s the perspective this week.

Oh, and by the way, thanks for reading it!

Until next Friday,

C. Tuescher

Lake Petenwell early in the week before the smoke and haze from the wildfires.

Lake Petenwell under the cloud of smoke from the wildfires.

The Major League Baseball All-Star Break has always felt like the season’s halftime. It’s the perfect time to look back at the first half and ask a simple question:

Is baseball better today than it was just a few years ago?

Like most baseball questions, the answer isn’t as simple as it first appears.

I’ll admit my bias right up front. I’m a baseball traditionalist.

I still don’t like the designated hitter. I think the Wild Card has diminished the importance of the regular season. Interleague play has taken some of the mystique out of both the All-Star Game and the World Series.

But being a traditionalist doesn’t mean I’m opposed to change.

A few years ago, baseball desperately needed it.

Games had become too long. Too many at-bats ended with either a strikeout or a walk. Endless pitching changes slowed the pace to a crawl. The game wasn’t losing its soul, but it was certainly losing its audience.

To baseball’s credit, the sport responded.

The pitch clock has made games more watchable. Bigger bases and new rules have made the stolen base relevant again. The three-batter minimum has reduced the endless parade of relief pitchers. Even the ABS Challenge System has produced the most consistent strike zone I can remember.

Those are meaningful improvements.

Yet every time I watch a game, I find myself thinking about a line I’ve quoted before in this blog from Charles Frazier’s Cold Mountain:

“For everything added, something is lost. Oftentimes what is lost is preferable to what is gained.”

That sentence has always resonated with me because every improvement comes with a cost.

I’ve loved this game for as long as I can remember.

As a little boy, major leaguers were heroes. As a teenager, I convinced myself that maybe—just maybe—I might someday become one of them. As an adult, I eventually realized every player on the field was younger than me. Today, I simply sit back and marvel at athletes capable of doing things that border on the unbelievable.

I still love baseball.

I’m just not sure I love every change to today’s game.

The pace is unquestionably better.

But when it’s the eighth inning of a one-run game, I don’t want the tension dictated by a countdown clock. I want the batter stepping out just long enough to make the pitcher think. I want the veteran pitcher shaking off signs because he already knows what he wants to throw—not because an iPad in the dugout told him so.

I miss that silent chess match.

Those moments weren’t wasted time. They were drama.

I also love seeing stolen bases return.

For years, analytics nearly erased one of the game’s most exciting plays. But in bringing the stolen base back, we’ve also lost another part of baseball I genuinely enjoyed.

I miss watching pitchers work tirelessly to keep runners close. I miss the endless dance of pickoff moves, changing looks, and the occasional perfectly timed pitchout that caught everyone—including the runner—by surprise.

Those battles began long before the pitcher ever released the baseball.

The same is true in the dugout.

I supported the three-batter minimum because managers had begun treating every left-handed hitter as though he belonged to a protected species.

Still, I miss watching managers wrestle with difficult decisions.

Do you burn your best pinch hitter now? Do you save him for the ninth? Do you use one pinch hitter simply to force a pitching change before countering with another?

Baseball has always been a thinking person’s game, and some of its most fascinating strategic moments have quietly disappeared.

Then there’s the ABS Challenge System.

The benefits are undeniable.

One missed ball or strike can completely change an at-bat. The difference between a 3-1 count and a 2-2 count can alter the outcome of an entire game.

The challenge system has also revealed something else.

Major League umpires are actually pretty darn good.

Even before ABS, they correctly called nearly 93 percent of pitches. Catchers win only about 60 percent of their challenges. Hitters are successful even less often.

Maybe the umpires deserved more credit than many of us gave them.

So why am I still conflicted?

Because during my years as a coach, there was one lesson I hoped every athlete would learn.

Overcome adversity.

A bad call, a bad bounce, an error, a strikeout, that’s sports. That’s life.

When a player makes an error, he doesn’t get a do-over. He and his teammates simply accept the new reality and compete on the next pitch.

Perhaps that’s why I struggle with replay—not because I don’t want the call to be right, but because perfection has never been the point of competition.

Besides, if perfect fairness is truly our goal, why stop at a limited number of challenges?

Why not review every close play?

The answer, of course, is both practical and philosophical.

Practically, the game would grind to a halt.

Philosophically, nothing involving human beings will ever be perfect.

Nor should it be.

The beauty of sports has always been that human greatness and human imperfection exist side by side. That’s true in baseball, and it’s true in life.

Baseball today is healthier than it was just a few years ago.

The games are quicker. The action is better. The fans are more engaged.

Those are victories worth celebrating.

But progress always comes with a price.

Sometimes it’s worth paying, but sometimes what we lose matters just as much as what we gain.

The game is hard to play. The game is hard to umpire.

Errors by players and missed calls by umpires don’t diminish baseball. They remind us just how difficult the game really is.

As Tom Hanks reminded Geena Davis in A League of Their Own:

“It’s supposed to be hard. If it wasn’t hard, everyone would do it. The hard is what makes it great.”

Maybe that’s why we keep coming back.

Not simply because we love baseball, but because somewhere between the triumphs and the mistakes, the brilliance and the imperfections, we see a little of ourselves.

That’s the perspective this week.

I’d love to hear what other baseball fans think. Has baseball found the right balance, or has it given up too much in its pursuit of progress?

Until next week…

Coach T

I have to begin this week’s Perspective with a confession.

This week’s blog isn’t the one I hoped to write.  In fact, I feel kind of like I failed in what I set out to accomplish.  But that’s okay, sometimes we all must stretch ourselves even if we come up short.

I wanted this week’s essay to be something special, something worthy of a historic moment. Tomorrow is the Fourth of July, and this year marks the 250th anniversary of the Declaration of Independence. That’s a remarkable milestone in our nation’s history.

I wanted to contribute something meaningful to the conversation about America and what this anniversary represents. Part of my motivation was that I’ve been disappointed by much of the conversation surrounding it. Too often it has become political instead of historical, divisive instead of thoughtful.

I wanted to write something historical, not political. I wanted to teach, not preach.

I tried. I really did try.

I wrote. I rewrote. I started over more times than I can count. But the harder I worked, the more I realized that this moment deserves more wisdom than I have to offer. Every draft seemed to drift toward sounding preachy or partisan, and that wasn’t what I wanted.

So instead of asking you to read my thoughts this Independence Day, I’d rather point you toward words that have stood the test of time. Some ideas don’t need to be improved upon—they simply need to be read again.

The Declaration of Independence

“We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.—That to secure these rights, Governments are instituted among Men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed…”

Read the whole thing.

The Preamble to the Constitution of the United States

“We the People of the United States, in Order to form a more perfect Union, establish Justice, insure domestic Tranquility, provide for the common defence, promote the general Welfare, and secure the Blessings of Liberty to ourselves and our Posterity, do ordain and establish this Constitution for the United States of America.”

Read the whole thing.

Abraham Lincoln – First Inaugural Address

“In your hands, my dissatisfied fellow-countrymen, and not in mine, is the momentous issue of civil war. The government will not assail you. You can have no conflict without being yourselves the aggressors. You have no oath registered in heaven to destroy the government, while I shall have the most solemn one to ‘preserve, protect, and defend it.’

“I am loath to close. We are not enemies, but friends. We must not be enemies. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of affection. The mystic chords of memory, stretching from every battlefield and patriot grave to every living heart and hearthstone all over this broad land, will yet swell the chorus of the Union when again touched, as surely they will be, by the better angels of our nature.”

Abraham Lincoln – Annual Message to Congress (1862)

“Fellow-citizens, we cannot escape history. We of this Congress and this Administration will be remembered in spite of ourselves. No personal significance or insignificance can spare one or another of us. The fiery trial through which we pass will light us down, in honor or dishonor, to the latest generation…We—even we here—hold the power and bear the responsibility…. We shall nobly save or meanly lose the last best hope of earth.”

Abraham Lincoln – Second Inaugural Address

“With malice toward none, with charity for all, with firmness in the right as God gives us to see the right, let us strive on to finish the work we are in, to bind up the nation’s wounds, to care for him who shall have borne the battle and for his widow and his orphan, to do all which may achieve and cherish a just and lasting peace among ourselves and with all nations.”

Theodore H. White – The American Idea

“But what is most important is the story of the idea that made them into a nation, the idea that had an explosive power undreamed of in 1776.”

“All other nations had come into being among people whose families had lived for time out of mind on the same land where they were born.  Englishmen are English, Frenchmen are French, Chinese are Chinese…But Americans are a nation born of an idea; not the place, but the idea created the United States Government.”

That is my perspective this week.

Where I have failed, others have already succeeded. Sometimes the best thing a writer can do is recognize that wiser voices have already said it better. Two hundred and fifty years after the Declaration of Independence, those words—and the words of those who followed—still challenge us, inspire us, and remind us that the American story has always been one worth studying.

There is always wisdom to be found. We just have to be willing to look for it.

Have a wonderful Fourth of July.

Until next Friday,

C. Tuescher

This week we are going to do something a little different. Every blog post has been a collaboration because Brenda serves as my “Chief Editor.” But this week, Brenda is not simply an editor; she is a co-author!

For those who follow either of us on social media, you probably saw that we celebrated our seventh wedding anniversary this week. Since I wrote about mothers on Mother’s Day and fathers on Father’s Day, it seemed only right to write about the woman who has changed my life more than anyone else.

Once that decision was made, Brenda wanted in on the action, so this week’s Perspective is a little “he said, she said” about how our lives came together.

My only concern is that by opening up a little more about our love story, this blog is going to end up sounding like a bad country song. But what the heck. So many of the people who read this blog have been instrumental in our lives, and hopefully you’ll recognize a little of your own story in ours.

Chad Before Brenda

My family and friends had every reason to believe I was never going to get married. To be fair, I spent decades doing everything in my power to convince them they were right. As my father said in his wedding toast,

“Chad liked to boast that his bachelorhood was intact; his ring finger was clean.”

(And yes, I stole that line from Hawkeye in M*A*S*H)

I also had a little Kramer from Seinfeld in me. For those who remember the episode when Kramer advised Jerry against marriage:

“You can forget about watching television while you eat dinner because you know what you do at dinner? You talk about your day…”

Well, for most of my life, I was perfectly content watching television while I ate.

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Brenda Before Chad

Meanwhile, my life had taken a very different path.

I became a widow in my early fifties—far earlier than anyone should.

I hated being a widow. I hated being the fifth wheel. I hated spending holidays alone. Christmas was especially difficult.

After some time had passed, my sons and several close friends began encouraging me to move forward.

“Mom, it’s time.”

One of my boys even suggested online dating.

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Chad Begins to Mature

I have never been able to explain my emotional constipation, and I certainly never wanted to do a deep dive into my true psychological nature. But after years and years of putting on my big show about how happy I was leading a solitary existence, I finally had to admit something to myself.

While I wasn’t unhappy…

I also wasn’t fulfilled.

The M*A*S*H and Seinfeld philosophies no longer carried the weight I had always tried to pretend it did.

The question looming in front of me became,

“Now what?”

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Brenda Takes a Step

When my son first suggested online dating, my first thought was,

“Oh, No! Not Going To Happen!”

I thought it was an absolutely terrible idea; a horrible idea.

However, after enough nudging from family and friends, I created a Match.com profile.

I immediately hated it. I hated building the profile. I hated describing myself. I hated the entire online dating process.

Most of all, I hated the parade of awkward first dates.

During the next year and a half, I met seven different men. I referred to every one of them as “One-and-Done Dates.” No second date required.

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As Chad Tries to Mature, He Goes Back in Time

Realizing the life I was living was not producing meaningful relationships, I was finally coming to grips with the idea that I might have to do something I never wanted to admit I would do.

As the saying goes,

“Desperate times call for desperate measures.”

My desperate measure?

Creating a Match.com profile.

Ugh.

For those who have never gone through the ordeal of online dating, let me paint you a picture.

It’s like being in middle school all over again. It’s amazingly awkward. You become judgmental even when you don’t want to be. You’re left wondering,

“Why does this person like me when I don’t like them…and why doesn’t this person I like like me?”

Isn’t that middle school?

Even building your profile is strange. You want to make yourself look good without looking too good. You want to create an impressive image while still looking authentic, or at least mostly authentic.

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Brenda’s Brave Act

It was Christmas week.

I was lying on my couch feeling a little sorry for myself when I came across a picture of a guy driving a boat while wearing a Cubs cap.

I remember thinking,

“Well…at least he owns a boat.”

So I did something incredibly brave.

I clicked “Like.”

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Chad…What Did You Say About Authenticity?

This is the part of the story where I have to come clean. My Match profile picture was genuine. The Cubs hat was mine, and I really was driving the boat. But did I own the boat?

Not so much.

I was driving a friend’s boat that day, and I had enjoyed enough sips of Jack Daniel’s that day that I didn’t even remember the picture being taken until I found it on my phone while building my Match profile.

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Back to Brenda

A short time after “liking” the picture of the boat captain, I received a message.

“Hi. Thanks for liking my picture. I’ll get back to you later.”

Seriously?

I remember staring at my phone thinking,

“What does that even mean?”

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Chad’s Response

In fairness to me, I had just gotten to my parents’ house on December 23. I simply wasn’t in the mood to deal with the middle-school quality of Match.com during the holidays.

Looking back, I can’t believe Brenda didn’t move on immediately.

Thank God she didn’t.

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Brenda’s Patience and Grace

After Christmas, Chad and I started texting.

Several days later, Chad suggested dinner.

If you know Chad, it won’t surprise you that his first suggestion involved a beautiful Italian restaurant, white tablecloths, and candlelight.

Formal dinner for a first date?

No. Absolutely not.

I countered with a sports bar where we could watch college football bowl games while we ate.

---

Chad’s Response

This lady has definite possibilities!

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Brenda’s Experience

I arrived early and sat in my car waiting.

Then I saw a tall man walking across the parking lot.

I remember thinking,

“Boy…I really hope that’s him.”

It was.

He was waiting in the lobby when I walked in.

First impressions matter.

The impression he gave me simply by waiting there was a wonderful start to the evening.

We spent the entire night talking.

We talked about family…

Life…

Loss…

Teaching…

Coaching…

And how much we both hated online dating.

To this day, neither one of us remembers a single thing about the football game.

Was there even a game on the televisions?

The next day Chad invited me to Greg and Cyndy’s home to watch the Badgers.

You might say the Jones seal of approval was the end of our beginning…

and the beginning of our ever after.

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Chad’s Gratitude

It may be a little cliché to quote a movie when talking about love, but Jack Nicholson said something in As Good As It Gets that perfectly captures how I feel.

“You make me want to be a better man.”

That’s it. That’s the truth of it.

I’m still flawed, but ever since I met Brenda, I’ve wanted to become the man worthy of her love.

She has never asked that of me, but it is a daily exercise to make it so.

The other quote that has always summed it up for me belongs to Lou Gehrig:

“Today, I consider myself the luckiest man on the face of the earth.”

That’s me.

One lucky guy.

Every good thing in my life has been made better because Brenda is in it.

Life has a funny way of surprising us.

Two people who had convinced themselves that love had either passed them by—or simply wasn’t in the cards—somehow found each other because one woman took a chance on a guy wearing a Cubs hat while driving someone else’s boat.

Seven years later…

We still laugh about it.

We still thank God for it.

And if there’s one lesson in our story, maybe it’s this:

Don’t assume your best chapter has already been written, sometimes it’s simply waiting for you to click “Like.”

Chad’s Final Lesson

The lesson I have learned, if I have learned anything at all, is the simple fact that sitting at the table talking about your day with the person you love is truly “as good as it gets.”

That’s the perspective this week.

Until next Friday,

Chad and Brenda

This is the picture I don’t recall. Thanks for snapping the photo Mr. Puent.

A warning: this week’s blog attempts to connect two dots that may not have been meant to be connected. As a writer, I am probably biting off more than I can chew and punching above my weight class at the same time—if you’ll forgive the mixed metaphors.

I recently finished reading Inside the Box: How Constraints Make Us Better by David Epstein, and I immediately knew I wanted to write about it. After all, one of the primary reasons I started this blog was to share thoughts on the books I am reading.

At the same time, Father’s Day is this weekend. Thoughts of my own father—and of all the fathers quietly doing the hard work of raising good kids—have been occupying a lot of space in my mind.

David Epstein belongs in a category of writers that I believe should be read by everyone. His books consistently challenge conventional wisdom and force readers to look at the world differently. Inside the Box is no exception.

The central argument of the book is surprisingly simple: constraints are not always obstacles. In many cases, they are the very things that develop focus, innovation, and growth.

One example that particularly resonated with me was the story of Sheila Taormina. A college class project forced her to rethink her entire approach to training. What followed was extraordinary. She went from being a good, but not elite, swimmer to becoming the first and only woman to compete in four Summer Olympics in three different sports.

Her story reminded me of some of my own experiences in coaching.

Like many coaches in northern climates, I spent years working around constraints that coaches in warmer states never had to consider. Softball teams in Wisconsin and Minnesota don’t always have access to fields in February and March. Weather, facilities, and budgets create bottlenecks that require constant adaptation.

I still remember, while coaching at the high school level, moving every desk and table out of my classroom one afternoon so our players could work on footwork and glove drills because we had absolutely no other place to practice. Looking back, it sounds a little ridiculous. At the time, it probably was. But we didn’t have another option.

Epstein’s book argues that limitations often force us to become more resourceful than we otherwise would have been. Reading it made me realize that some of the most creative coaching moments of my career happened precisely because we didn’t have ideal conditions.

Oddly enough, thinking about constraints also made me think about fathers.

For many of us, our first hero is our dad.

As we grow older, our heroes become athletes, movie stars, musicians, or other public figures. Then something interesting happens as we get even older. With enough life experience, we begin to understand that real heroes are not celebrities.

Real heroes are often ordinary men who get up early, go to work, pay their bills, keep their promises, and put their families ahead of themselves.

My dad certainly fits that description.

I have often said how fortunate I was to have the parents I did. Close friends and family know that my father has faced significant health challenges over the last couple of years. Watching him confront those challenges has only strengthened my admiration for him.

Age has a way of revealing strengths that youth often takes for granted.

Marcus Aurelius once wrote:

“Waste no more time arguing what a good man should be. Be one.”

In today’s world, there seems to be endless debate about masculinity, fatherhood, and what it means to be a good man. For me, Dad was a living example of what Marcus Aurelius wrote.

And maybe that’s where David Epstein’s book and Father’s Day unexpectedly intersect.

Good fathers understand constraints.

Not the constraints imposed by budgets, weather, or facilities.

The constraints that shape character.

Good fathers understand that children need freedom, but not unlimited freedom. They need opportunities, but also expectations. They need encouragement, but also accountability.

A father who never says “no” does not prepare a child for life.

A father who establishes boundaries teaches something far more valuable than obedience. He teaches responsibility. He teaches self-discipline. He teaches that freedom only has meaning when paired with accountability.

In a culture that often views limits as something negative, good fathers understand that some of life’s most important lessons are learned by staying “inside the box.”

The box teaches respect.

The box teaches resilience.

The box teaches gratitude.

The box teaches us that not getting everything we want is often what prepares us for the things we truly need.

Looking back, many of the values that have served me best in life came from boundaries my parents established long before I understood why they mattered. The very constraints I occasionally resisted became some of life’s greatest gifts.

For that, I am deeply grateful.

To all the fathers out there working hard to raise the next generation in an increasingly complicated world, thank you. That work is often unnoticed, frequently exhausting, and always important.

To all the readers out there, I highly recommend David Epstein’s Inside the Box.

And to my dad, thank you for everything you have done for me and our family. I appreciate the example you have set and continue to set every day.

Currently, you are the embodiment of the words from Dylan Thomas:

“Do not go gentle into that good night…
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.”

Happy Father’s Day.

That’s the perspective this week…

Until next Friday,

Coach T

There are some topics that make me feel a little inadequate as a writer. This week is one of them.

Historian Gordon S. Wood died earlier this week after being struck by a vehicle in a grocery store parking lot. He was in his ninth decade of life, so while his death is certainly sad, it does not fall into the category of tragedy that accompanies the loss of someone whose life is cut short. Even so, I fear that too little attention has been paid to the passing of one of America’s greatest intellectual minds.

Too often, we celebrate greatness only on athletic fields, movie screens, concert stages, or social media. While excellence in those arenas certainly deserves recognition, we do not spend enough time honoring intellectual greatness. We do not spend enough time celebrating the scholars, teachers, scientists, writers, and thinkers who dedicate their lives to expanding human understanding.

Gordon S. Wood was one of those people.

Professor Wood was among the foremost experts on early American history. His books may not have achieved the commercial success of some popular historians, but anyone serious about understanding the American founding eventually encounters his work. His scholarship helped generations of readers understand not only what happened during the Revolutionary era, but why it happened and why it still matters.

I can proudly say that I was reading Gordon Wood long before Matt Damon made him famous in Good Will Hunting. For the record, Damon’s reference was not a particularly accurate characterization of Wood’s views. Still, it introduced many people to a historian whose work deserves far more attention than it receives.

As a middle school history teacher, I often found myself drawing from Professor Wood’s research when teaching early American history. What made his work so valuable was not simply his knowledge, but his commitment to nuance. In an age when both liberals and conservatives often attempt to use history as a weapon in political arguments, Wood reminded readers that history is not partisan. It is a serious academic discipline that requires careful study, thoughtful interpretation, and intellectual honesty.

Of all the things Gordon Wood wrote, one of my favorite passages did not come from one of his books. It came during an interview with American Heritage magazine.

He was asked:

“Can you give me the most cogent reason there is for us, at the close of the twentieth century, to understand that period of creation back two hundred years ago?”

His response was:

“Historical knowledge is essential for understanding yourself in the present. It’s like an individual without memory. A person suffering from amnesia is a scary, lost person. And a society that doesn’t understand its past, and doesn’t understand it correctly, is going to make all kinds of mistakes in the present.”

“I don’t think there are particular lessons to be learned from any particular event in the past. But what the past does teach you is wisdom—the sense of being part of a larger process. There are circumstances, cultural traditions, histories that impinge on you and prevent you from doing certain things. To be aware of those conditions, to be aware of those circumstances, is important for decision makers in the present. They’ve got to know and we as a public have got to know what our past was like if we’re going to be functioning citizens in the present.”

That answer rings just as true today as it did when he first gave it more than a quarter century ago.

We live in an era of endless information and remarkably little wisdom. People spend hours scrolling through social media, consuming opinions in thirty-second clips, while rarely taking the time to engage with serious scholarship. We increasingly seek entertainment when what we often need is understanding.

Professor Wood spent a lifetime creating a body of work that helps provide that understanding. He taught history, but more importantly, he passed on wisdom. He helped us see ourselves as part of a larger story and reminded us that our present circumstances cannot be understood apart from the past that shaped them.

As we approach the 250th anniversary of the United States, there may be no better time to revisit the people, ideas, and documents that created our nation. We do not all need to read every book Gordon Wood ever wrote. But we would be well served by reading at least some of them and by reflecting on the lessons they contain.

More importantly, we should take a moment to recognize a man who spent his life pursuing truth, expanding knowledge, and enriching our understanding of the American experience.

We often mourn celebrities when they pass away. Perhaps we should spend a little more time mourning the loss of people who dedicated their lives to helping us think more clearly and understand our world more deeply.

Gordon S. Wood was one of those people.

He was an American scholar of the highest order, and we are all better off because of his life’s work.

That’s the perspective this week.

Until next Friday,

Mr. Tuescher
Retired History Teacher

This week’s topic makes me a little nervous.

I am trying to pay tribute to a good neighbor, but I worry that somewhere along the way I am going to sound like Mister Rogers singing, “Won’t You Be My Neighbor?” or perhaps like a State Farm commercial.

Still, some ideas are worth risking a little sentimentality for.

The truth is, I am not a particularly good neighbor.

I am not a bad neighbor, either. I can be a friendly neighbor. A pleasant neighbor. A neighbor who waves from the driveway and enjoys a conversation at the mailbox. But when it comes to the practical skills that often define great neighbors—fixing things, building things, repairing things—I fall woefully short.

I am not especially handy.

In fact, if a project requires tools, measurements, mechanical knowledge, or anything beyond locating the correct end of a screwdriver, I am usually in trouble.

And that is why I am so grateful for people who possess those skills.

Recently, Brenda and I found ourselves on the receiving end of a neighbor’s generosity.

This year we installed a new boat lift at our slip on Lake Petenwell. As we carefully guided our boat toward the lift for the first time, we quickly discovered a problem.

The side rails were too narrow.

The boat wasn’t going to fit.

As Brenda and I stood there trying to determine what to do next, our neighbor noticed our predicament. The remarkable thing was that he was already entertaining guests of his own. He could have easily offered a quick wave of sympathy and returned to his company.

Instead, he came down to help.

After surveying the situation, he disappeared into his garage and returned with a collection of tools and a confidence that immediately suggested he knew exactly what he was doing.

An hour later, the lift was adjusted, the boat was properly positioned, and our problem had been solved.

Throughout the entire process he remained cheerful, patient, and encouraging. Not once did he make me feel foolish for lacking the skills necessary to fix the problem myself.

To be fair, I spent plenty of time making fun of myself on his behalf.

What struck me most wasn’t simply that he had the ability to help. It was that he chose to help.

That choice matters.

One of the things I have always appreciated about boating is that the boating community often operates according to an unwritten code. Boaters help stranded boaters. They stop to check on people. They lend a hand at boat launches. They share tools, advice, and expertise.

In short, they act like neighbors.

Which brings me to one of the most misunderstood lines in American literature.

In Robert Frost’s famous poem Mending Wall, Frost quotes a neighbor who repeatedly insists, “Good fences make good neighbors.”

The line is often cited as proof that boundaries, divisions, and separation are what allow people to get along. But when you read the poem in its entirety, it becomes clear that Frost is asking us to question that very idea.

The poem isn’t celebrating walls.

It is examining why we build them.

Yet every year, someone inevitably invokes Frost’s line to justify another fence, another division, or another reason to keep people at a distance.

My recent experience on Lake Petenwell reminded me that the opposite is usually true.

Good fences don’t make good neighbors.

Good neighbors make good neighbors.

Good neighbors are the people who stop what they’re doing to help when they see a problem.

They are the people who share their time, talents, and knowledge without expecting anything in return.

They are the people who remind us that community isn’t built by property lines, fences, or walls.

It is built by people.

I may never become the kind of neighbor who can repair a boat lift, wire a garage, or fix an engine.

But I can certainly aspire to be the kind of neighbor who shows up when someone needs help.

And maybe, even at the risk of sounding a little like Mister Rogers, the world could use a few more people trying to do exactly that.

For now, I simply want to say:

Thank you, neighbor.

That’s the Perspective from Petenwell this week.

Until next Friday,

Chad

Mending Wall | The Poetry Foundation