Blog

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

Baseball fans of my generation tend to love the scene in Field of Dreams when James Earl Jones says, “People will come, Ray…” and then goes on to explain how baseball has marked the passage of American history. For me, it is impossible not to get chills just thinking about that speech.

In many ways, that moment in cinema serves as a condensed version of one of my favorite sports books, The Joy of Sports: End Zones, Bases, Baskets, Balls, and the Consecration of the American Spirit by Michael Novak. Although the book was originally published in 1976, I did not discover it until the 1990s. It remains one of those books I revisit whenever I become discouraged by some of the darker trends in modern sports.

Like many sports fans, I sometimes worry about where today’s sports landscape is headed. Yet last weekend provided one of those reminders of exactly why Michael Novak wrote The Joy of Sports in the first place.

The NCAA Women’s College World Series is currently underway. One of the programs missing from this year’s field is Oklahoma, a team that has become synonymous with excellence. If you appreciate greatness, you simply have to admire Oklahoma Softball and Coach Patty Gasso.

Coach Gasso’s Sooners have won eight national championships, including four consecutive titles from 2021 through 2024. In any discussion about the greatest coaches in softball history—or even the greatest coaches in sports history—her name belongs near the very top. She is unquestionably on the Mount Rushmore of college softball coaches. I have nothing but admiration and respect for what she has built.

That is why watching Oklahoma play Mississippi State in the Super Regionals last weekend was so compelling.

At first, I watched simply because I enjoy seeing elite athletes compete at the highest level. I had no rooting interest whatsoever. But as Sunday’s winner-take-all Game Three unfolded, I found myself cheering for Mississippi State—not because I wanted Oklahoma to lose, but because I wanted to see an extraordinary story unfold.

Sports fans often overuse phrases like “Cinderella story” and “David versus Goliath.” Those descriptions can become clichés. This felt different.

I wasn’t cheering for a Cinderella story. I was cheering for a great sports story—and an even better human story.

By defeating Oklahoma, Mississippi State earned its first-ever trip to the Women’s College World Series. Oklahoma, meanwhile, had appeared in each of the previous nine World Series. Adding another layer to the story, Mississippi State head coach Samantha Ricketts once played for Coach Gasso at Oklahoma. Sports always seem to create memorable moments when a former student gets the opportunity to challenge the teacher.

But the most remarkable part of the story was Mississippi State starting pitcher Delainey Everett.

In the biggest game in program history, Mississippi State handed the ball to a pitcher who had not started a single game all season. That fact alone is astonishing and speaks volumes about a coach’s trust in her player.

As someone who has spent much of his life coaching, I know there are few things more rewarding than placing your faith in an athlete and watching them rise to the occasion.

Rise to the occasion she did.

Everett threw a complete-game shutout against one of the most dominant programs in sports. Oklahoma had not been shut out since 2019—a span of 399 games. Think about that for a moment. Four hundred games without being shut out. It is almost beyond comprehension.

As if the story needed another emotional layer, Everett delivered this performance on her parents’ wedding anniversary, just over a year after losing her father.

Seriously, how can you not cheer for something like that?

There is certainly no shortage of reasons to be pessimistic about sports today. The economics of college athletics appear increasingly unsustainable. Major League Baseball may be headed toward a labor dispute after the 2026 season. Youth sports continue to struggle with escalating costs and overuse injuries.

Yet despite all of that, sports still possess a unique ability to give us moments that transcend the scoreboard.

The sustained excellence of Oklahoma Softball is a testament to human achievement. But Delainey Everett and Mississippi State remind us that sports can also become a form of human art.

Sports still have the power to surprise us. They still have the power to inspire us. And every once in a while, they still have the power to take our breath away.

As James Earl Jones reminded us in Field of Dreams:

“It reminds us of all that once was good, and it could be again.”

That’s the perspective this week, and hopefully we are all treated to a few more enriching moments from the world of sports as the College World Series unfolds.

Until next Friday,

Coach T

I have heard stories of musicians recording entire albums only to scrap them because the sound just didn’t feel right. I have also heard of writers deleting entire manuscripts because they were dissatisfied with the final product. Until this week, I could never fully relate to that feeling. 

I originally started writing about three issues that, while seemingly unrelated, felt deeply connected to me: our national debt now exceeding 100% of GDP, declining reading and math scores across the country, and the growing efforts by state legislatures to redraw congressional districts to benefit whichever political party happens to be in power. 

The essay was finally beginning to come together when I suddenly deleted the entire thing. 

Why? 

To answer that question, I think of a line from Wallace Stegner’s novel All the Little Live Things: 

“I am concerned with gloomier matters: the condition of being flesh, susceptible to pain, infected with consciousness and the consciousness of consciousness, doomed to death and the awareness of death.” 

As I received concerning news about my mother’s health this week, I also found myself thinking about close friends who recently lost parents—one grieving the loss of his mother, another mourning the loss of her father. Watching my own parents navigate the struggles that often accompany old age can be emotionally overwhelming. My mother and father have lived long, rich, meaningful lives, yet seeing their physical challenges reminds me how fragile all of life really is. 

And honestly, when I find myself anxious or worried about my parents, I also think about those who no longer have the opportunity to call their mother or father. In those moments, I almost feel selfish for taking for granted that my parents are still here with us in their eighties. 

Those thoughts about loss, gratitude, and remembrance naturally led me to think about Memorial Day. 

Memorial Day officially became a federal holiday in 1971, though its origins trace back to honoring the fallen soldiers of the Civil War. At its core, Memorial Day exists to remember and honor the men and women of the United States military who gave their lives in service to this nation. 

Across America, communities still gather for ceremonies, parades, cemetery tributes, and moments of silence. Yet sometimes it feels as though we collectively drift further from the true meaning of the day. Somewhere between the backyard cookouts, mattress sales, and the unofficial start of summer, it becomes easy to forget the real reason the holiday exists. 

The political divide in our country is impossible to ignore today, and in many ways that was what my original essay intended to explore. But as my thoughts turned toward heavier matters this week, my mind instead returned to Abraham Lincoln’s words at Gettysburg: 

“It is for us the living, rather to be dedicated here to the unfinished work which they who fought here have thus far so nobly advanced. It is rather for us to be here dedicated to the great task remaining before us—that from these honored dead we take increased devotion to that cause for which they gave the last full measure of devotion—that we here highly resolve that these dead shall not have died in vain—that this nation, under God, shall have a new birth of freedom—and that government of the people, by the people, for the people, shall not perish from the earth.” 

Those words were spoken for the dead at Gettysburg, but they echo far beyond one battlefield and one generation. They speak to every American soldier, sailor, airman, marine, and guardian who has sacrificed in service to this country. They also challenge every citizen to think beyond ourselves and remember the responsibility we share to preserve what others gave everything to protect. 

Reciting Lincoln alone will not heal the divisions within our country. But perhaps remembering sacrifice, duty, humility, and gratitude is a good place for all of us to begin. 

To those who have served this country, thank you for your service. 

To those who gave their lives for this nation, we honor you and we remember you. 

And to the loved ones we have lost—those ordinary people who made their families, friendships, and communities better simply by being good people doing good work—we remember you too this Memorial Day. 

Please remember to keep the Memorial in Memorial Day. 

That’s the Perspective from Petenwell this week. 

Until next Friday… 

“Everything added meant something lost, and about as often as not the thing lost was preferable to the thing gained, so
that over time we’d be lucky if we just broke even. Any thought otherwise was just empty pride.”

That quote comes from the novel Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier. I can’t tell you much else from that book. I
couldn’t give you a detailed plot summary or describe all the characters because it has been nearly 30 years since I read
it. But for some reason, that one line never left me.

Those who know me well understand that I’ve always had an affinity for quotes. It probably started as a defense
mechanism when I was younger. Since I never viewed myself as the smartest person in the room, quoting people who
were smarter than me felt like a decent strategy. Borrow enough wisdom from other people, and maybe some of it rubs
off.

For years, I used that quote while teaching history to explain the idea of unintended consequences. Every major change
in history — political revolutions, industrialization, technological advances, social movements — creates winners and
losers. Progress often comes with a cost. Over time, though, I realized I wasn’t entirely being fair to the quote, or even
to the idea of progress itself. So eventually, I stopped using it and honestly hadn’t thought much about it for years.

Then recently I read Nexus: A Brief History of Information Networks from the Stone Age to AI by Yuval Noah Harari,
and suddenly that old quote came roaring back into my mind.

I cannot do justice to Harari’s book with a short summary. I simply encourage people to read it. Whether you agree with
all of his conclusions or not, it forces you to think — and right now, thinking deeply may be one of the most important
things we can still do for ourselves.

One point Harari makes that struck me was this: history is ultimately the study of change.

Simple idea. Profound truth.

In all my years teaching history, I don’t remember any professor putting it that cleanly or clearly. History is not really
about memorizing dates or names or battles. It is about understanding how human beings adapt — sometimes wisely,
sometimes disastrously — to change.

As a coach, I spent years asking athletes to embrace change. Adjust your swing. Change your mechanics. Improve your
conditioning. Sacrifice individual comfort for team success. Growth demanded discomfort.

As a history teacher, I taught students that America itself required constant change if it hoped to fulfill the promise laid
out in the Constitution “…in order to form a more perfect union.” The nation only became stronger when more people
became more free — free from slavery, free from segregation, free from discrimination, free from barriers preventing
education, property ownership, or the right to vote.

Progress matters.

Progress is necessary.

But even necessary progress deserves careful thought because every gain changes something else along the way.
Sometimes quietly. Sometimes permanently.

And now humanity stands at the edge of perhaps the biggest change we have ever encountered: Artificial Intelligence.

Harari argues that AI is fundamentally different from previous technological revolutions because for the first time
humans may be creating systems capable of making decisions independent of human thought. Not simply tools
controlled by humans, but systems that begin shaping outcomes on their own.

That idea should probably make all of us at least a little uncomfortable.

As someone who often struggles enough with regular human intelligence, trying to wrap my mind around artificial
intelligence can feel overwhelming. My natural instinct is skepticism. Maybe even fear. It is easy for me to wonder if
what we are about to lose will someday prove more valuable than what we gain.

Jerry Seinfeld may have summarized it better than anyone:
“We’re smart enough to invent AI; dumb enough to need it, and so stupid we can’t figure out if we did the right thing.”

That line makes me laugh every time, mostly because there is so much truth packed into the joke.

Still, I also know it is intellectually lazy to simply romanticize the “good old days.” Every generation tends to imagine
there was some magical point in the past when society had things figured out. But history tells us otherwise. The past
was not some perfect golden age. Human beings have always struggled with fear, conflict, inequality, greed, violence,
and uncertainty.

At the same time, human beings have also shown remarkable creativity, courage, compassion, and resilience.

If earlier generations had completely feared change, we would never have experienced the advances brought by science,
medicine, transportation, communication, or modern technology. We would still be living lives much closer to our Stone
Age ancestors than the lives we enjoy today.

That doesn’t mean every innovation is good. It doesn’t mean every step forward truly is progress. But it does mean fear
alone cannot guide us.

What concerns me most today may not even be AI itself, but our growing inability to slow down long enough to think
carefully about anything. We consume information constantly but spend less time reflecting on it. We react instantly.
We outrage instantly. We scroll endlessly. Somewhere along the way, depth started losing to speed.

Books fight against that.

Books force patience. Reflection. Attention span. Nuance.

Maybe that’s one reason I appreciated Nexus so much. It reminded me that understanding change requires more than
headlines, tweets, reels, or algorithms feeding us exactly what we already believe.

I don’t pretend to have answers about where AI leads us. Honestly, anyone claiming they know exactly where all this
goes is probably selling something. But I do know this: blindly worshipping technology is just as dangerous as blindly
worshipping nostalgia.

Both can distort reality.

From the beginning of civilization, humanity has always existed in a tension between creation and destruction, wisdom
and arrogance, hope and fear. That struggle isn’t new. The tools simply change.

I suppose in the end it comes down to this:
Do we face the future with fear or with hope?

If I’m being honest, some days I lean toward fear. I think a lot of people probably do right now. The world feels louder,
faster, and more uncertain than ever.

But I still want to be on the side of hope.

Maybe hope begins with staying curious.
Reading deeply.
Thinking critically.
Having real conversations.
Resisting easy answers.
And remembering that progress without wisdom can be dangerous, but fear without vision can be paralyzing.

This week’s Perspective isn’t really a perspective so much as it is me thinking out loud and trying to make sense of it all.

So keep reading books, my friends.
The future needs thoughtful people.
Until next week…
Chad

There were a few different books I had planned to write about this week, along with some thoughts on current events and politics, but with Sunday being Mother’s Day, those subjects can wait for now. It seems like the right time to write about mothers instead.

I should probably begin by admitting that I am not really qualified to write a proper tribute to motherhood. A poet, philosopher, psychologist, or perhaps a pastor would likely be far better equipped to explain the remarkable bond between a mother and child. Still, as I’ve grown older, I’ve come to appreciate motherhood in ways I never fully understood when I was young.

The curious thing about aging is that perspective changes. You begin to look differently at family, mortality, sacrifice, and love. Brenda and I are both watching our mothers navigate the challenges that come with growing older. While living a long life is certainly a blessing, it also brings health struggles, uncertainty, and difficult days. Yet even while dealing with those challenges, our mothers never stop being mothers.

Brenda’s mom still worries constantly about Brenda and her sisters, her grandchildren, and great-grandchildren. My own mother continues to care for my father through his health issues while still trying to mother me and my brother, despite the fact we are both long past childhood. I think one of the great realizations of adulthood is finally understanding that moms never stop being moms. That instinct simply never leaves them.

One of the only truly good presents I ever gave my mother was a sketch of Abraham Lincoln as a child with his mother. Underneath it was a quote attributed to Lincoln: “I sure was a lucky kid to have the mother I did.”

All these years later, I’m fairly certain Abraham Lincoln never actually said those words. Most likely, the artist made it up entirely. But whether Lincoln said it or not, the sentiment has always felt absolutely true to me. I really was lucky to have the mother I did.

That doesn’t mean I always appreciated her properly.

Like most boys growing up, I spent plenty of years frustrating and aggravating my mother. She insisted on knowing where I was when I went out with friends. I preferred not to provide detailed updates on my whereabouts. She insisted I sit down and do my homework. I preferred sitting there pretending to do homework without actually doing it.

When I was in high school and thought I was clever enough to sneak back into the house after curfew, my mother would sometimes sit patiently in my room waiting for me to return so she could catch me red-handed. In fairness to my learning curve, it only took a couple of those experiences before I realized I wasn’t going to outfox my mother when it came to breaking the rules.

Mom baked cookies not only for me, but seemingly for half the neighborhood and all my friends. In fact, it is entirely possible that if not for my mother’s baking, I may not have had any friends at all growing up. Her cookies were highly persuasive. Before any of us had driver’s licenses, she also became the unofficial chauffeur for freshman basketball players and teenagers needing rides home. Looking back now, I suspect some of my friends weren’t even interested in the ride — they were just hoping my mom had snacks in the car.

The older I get, the more I realize my mother epitomized giving of oneself for the betterment of others. Logically speaking, she probably should have given up on me a few times along the way, but she never did. Because of a mother’s love, patience, and persistence, I eventually became at least a somewhat decent human being. I’m biased, of course, but I think my mom did a pretty great job raising me and my brother.

At the same time, I also realize my mother isn’t the only amazing mother in the world.

One of the dumbest debates in sports is arguing about the GOAT — the greatest of all time. People endlessly debate Michael Jordan versus LeBron James or Joe Montana versus Tom Brady, and the truth is nobody can ever definitively prove who was the best. It’s a pointless argument. Greatness should simply be appreciated when you see it.

I think motherhood works the same way.

Of course I think my mom was wonderful — maybe even the greatest ever — but I also know my aunts were wonderful mothers to my cousins. My Aunt Mary Lou was practically a second mother to me growing up. I’ve had friends with incredible moms. I’ve watched former coworkers become amazing mothers. I now watch my daughters-in-law doing remarkable work raising children of their own. I’ve seen former students and former softball players, people I still think of as kids, become loving and capable mothers themselves.

Sometimes when I see all of that, I think of Louis Armstrong singing, “…and I think to myself, what a wonderful world.”

Motherhood may truly be one of the forces holding civilization together. The world has always had problems, and we certainly have plenty of them today, but how much worse would this world be if biology, chemistry, psychology — and perhaps God Himself — had not hardwired maternal instinct into mothers?

Mothers shape us. They guide us. They sacrifice for us. They forgive us. They worry about us long after we think we no longer need worrying about. And in many cases, they love us even when we probably don’t deserve it.

So this weekend, I want to say thank you to my own mom for everything she has done for me throughout my life. I love you, Mom.

And to all the mothers out there trying every day to raise good sons and daughters in a world that often seems to work against your best efforts — thank you. The work you do matters more than words can properly express.

Maybe if all of us paid just a little more attention to what our mothers taught us, this world would become a little better place.

That’s the Perspective from Petenwell this week.

Until next Friday,
Chad

Two mothers and a father.

When I first kicked around names for this blog, one of my favorites was Tuescher’s Take.  This week, you’re getting exactly that.

Sports gambling is bad. If you are gambling on sports, stop it!

If that sounds blunt, good.  It is meant to be.

We’ve seen the headlines recently. College quarterback Brendan Sorsby seeking help for a gambling addiction. NBA-related gambling scandals making their way through the courts. And every time one of these stories breaks, I think of that famous line from Casablanca:

“I’m shocked, shocked to find that gambling is going on in here.”

The truth? No one should be shocked because we didn’t just allow gambling into sports, we rolled out the red carpet for it.

The NFL, NBA, MLB, NCAA… all of them have partnered, promoted, and profited from an industry that used to live in the shadows. What once required a whispered conversation on a street corner is now an app on your phone, a commercial during halftime, or a scrolling ticker during the game.

It’s everywhere, and that’s the problem.

Now, I know what some of you are thinking, “Wait a second, you go to Las Vegas.”

You’re right. I do. I enjoy a little blackjack, and I’ll sit down at a video poker machine now and then. That’s entertainment. That’s me versus the house.

But sports gambling? That’s different, because now you’re not betting on a game of chance. You are betting on people.

Sport, at its core, is about human excellence. It’s about preparation, discipline, sacrifice, and the pursuit of greatness. It’s a pitcher grinding through the late innings. A point guard managing the final possession. A kicker trying to make the game winning kick as the final seconds tick off the clock.

It’s competition at its purest.

And when we reduce that to point spreads, prop bets, and parlays, we cheapen it. We turn something meaningful into something transactional.

We stop watching the game for the game, along with all the beauty that the game provides, and we simply start watching it for the bet.

Even worse, we’re creating an environment where the integrity of competition is constantly under pressure. When money is attached to every play, every call, every outcome, the temptation—and the consequences—grow.

Let’s be clear about this, ESPN and the major networks aren’t helping. When pregame shows start sounding more like betting analysis than sports coverage, we’ve lost the plot.

Now, I will admit that there is a libertarian streak in me. I don’t love being told what I can and can’t do by the government.

But just because something is legal, that does not make it right, and we don’t have to make something illegal to do the right thing.

We’ve normalized something that shouldn’t be normal.

We’ve commercialized something that should be respected and re.

In the process of making sports gambling ubiquitous, we are losing a lot of what makes sports special in the first place.

We can do better.

We should expect better.

Because sports deserve better.

That’s my take.

—Coach T
Perspective from Petenwell

Until next Friday…

A Personal Intersection of Education and Technology

As spring seems to have sprung here at Lake Petenwell, my work shifts from being a substitute teacher to working in caddie services at Sand Valley Golf Resort. As my work transitions, it seems proper to tell the story of my transition back into the classroom after nearly two decades away.

When we moved back to Wisconsin, I quickly realized something important: winter and golf are not exactly compatible here. To fill those winter days (and perhaps to feel useful), I decided to step back into education and work as a substitute teacher. I was confident that I still had the requisite skills to teach. After all, it had to be like riding a bike, right?

My first assignment was to be a junior high social studies teacher.  Perfect! Or at least so I thought. Could there be a better way for me to get back in the teaching game than as a social studies teacher? No way.

When I arrived for the first day, I had to laugh because I genuinely had “first day of school” jitters.  Suddenly, I realized just how long it had been since I had taught. As a coach, you always consider yourself a teacher, but the fact is coaching is different from classroom teaching.

I checked in with the office staff and was greeted warmly. They gave me a rundown of the things I should know since I was new to the school, and they showed me to the classroom where I would be teaching that day.

Taking a seat at the teacher’s desk, I read the sub notes and lesson plans. I instantly became excited because the lesson that day was about Ancient Rome. “What luck!” I thought, “These kids don’t know how lucky they are to have me come in and teach them about the how Rome went from Republic to Empire.” I was feeling confident, perhaps a little too confident.

As students started to enter the room, I greeted them warmly, trying to create a favorable first impression. Some students seemed curious by this new person standing in their classroom, while others looked at me with an expression of indifference more than curiosity.

After the bell rang, the morning announcements read, and The Pledge of Allegiance recited, I introduced myself to the first period class. As I was giving the students my mini biography, I quickly ascertained they were not interested in my past life as a teacher, so I decided it was best to jump right to the lesson.

The lesson plan clearly stated to read these instructions, “Take out your notebook and start working on…” so I read those instructions. Suddenly, I realized there was a genuine problem. The students, in mass, all started to take out computers, not notebooks. My mind started racing. “What do these kids think they are doing?” I thought, “They must think they can pull one over on this “new” substitute. Well, they’ve got another thing coming.”

“Stop!” I yelled.

At that moment the students, taken by surprise by the tone and volume of my voice, stopped and looked at me with mass confusion.

“I told you to take out your notebooks,” I said, determined to establish an orderly classroom. 

As the bulk of the classroom still looked at me in stunned silence, one young lady slowly raised her hand.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Mr. Tuescher, the assignment is in our Chromebooks. That’s how we do the work… and that’s how we turn in the assignment.”  

At that moment, the Roman Republic didn’t fall, I did. I went from confident teacher to historical artifact.

“Of course you do,” I replied because what else could I say.  The class resumed getting their Chrome Notebooks out and I recalibrated. The rest of the day went surprisingly normal.

That moment has stuck with me. As I have subbed through the year, I have realized that while aspects of teaching feel exactly like it did two decades ago, other parts, especially technology, has changed.  Maybe, I need to be more open to changing as well. Maybe.

Besides this moment of personal embarrassment, my biggest take away from being back in the classroom is how much excellent work teachers are doing out in this world.  To those teachers who I worked with in the past, and to those teachers I have been able to meet this year, I commend you. Keep fighting the good fight.

That’s the perspective from Petenwell this week, and hopefully day one at Sand Valley doesn’t involve me yelling at golfers for no apparent reason. If you enjoyed reading this, please pass it along. I am confident former coworkers, former players, and especially former students will enjoy my moment of misery.

Remember, while empires and republics fall, so do substitute teachers that don’t understand Chromebooks.

Until next Friday,

“Mr. Tuescher”

Lake Petenwell v. Lake Michigan
Aldo Leopold v. Carl Sandburg
Sand County v. City with Big Shoulders

The perspective from Lake Petenwell shifted this week.

Brenda had to attend a work conference in Chicago, so I took on the role of her Uber driver and joined her for a couple of days in downtown Chicago.

As a lifelong Cubs fan, I’ve always loved the city. As a student of history, I appreciate its past—from the nomination of Abraham Lincoln to the Great Chicago Fire to Al Capone and everything in between. And as a lover of deep-dish pizza and Chicago hot dogs, I’m always happy to spend a few days eating my way through the city.

But this trip felt a little different.

Driving Brenda downtown and walking the streets, I was struck by the contrast between our life on the shores of Lake Petenwell and the constant motion of Chicago. That contrast brought to mind two writers who shaped my journey as a reader: Aldo Leopold and Carl Sandburg.

Growing up, the only thing I read with any consistency was the sports section—mostly Cubs box scores. Through high school, I don’t think I read a single assigned book cover to cover. I was never diagnosed with ADHD, but it’s fair to say my attention was… selective.

That started to change in college.

A geography professor, Professor Studnicka—one of my all-time favorites—recommended Aldo Leopold. It wasn’t an assignment, which made it even more unusual for me to pick it up. But if he thought everyone should read Leopold, I figured I should at least give it a shot.

Around the same time, one of my favorite history professors, Dr. Paula Nelson, suggested I read Carl Sandburg’s three-volume biography of Abraham Lincoln. Again, not required—just a recommendation when I was struggling to find something for an independent reading component.

Those two authors changed everything for me.

Reading was no longer something to avoid—it became something to seek out. I started looking for books that could move and inspire me the way Leopold and Sandburg did.

Now, living on Lake Petenwell—not far from where Leopold wrote A Sand County Almanac—and then finding myself in downtown Chicago, the city that inspired Sandburg’s famous poem, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of nostalgia… and a deep appreciation for the contrast between rural and urban life.

If you’ve never read Aldo Leopold, you should. Not because I say so—but because Professor Studnicka would.

To keep it simple, I’ll share my favorite passage from February of The Sand County Almanac:

“There are two spiritual dangers in not owning a farm. One is the danger of supposing that breakfast comes from    the grocery, and the other that heat comes from the furnace.

To avoid the first danger, one should plant a garden, preferably where there is no grocer to confuse the issue.

To avoid the second, he should lay a split of good oak on the andirons, preferably where there is no furnace, and let it warm his shins while a February blizzard tosses the trees outside.  If one has cut, split, hauled, and piled his own good oak, and let his mind work the while, he will remember much about where the heat comes from, and with a wealth of detail denied to those who spend the week end in town astride a radiator.”

This passage has become a bit of a running joke between Brenda and me.

I like to tell her I’m going to plant a garden—mostly inspired by Leopold—but she knows the truth: I lack both the ambition and the skill to make that happen in the sandy soil around Lake Petenwell.

As for cutting, splitting, hauling, and piling my own oak… splitting and piling is about where my energy runs out. Still, there’s something about putting wood in the fireplace on a cold winter night that brings Leopold’s words to life.

I’ll never claim to be a great naturalist. But I don’t think it’s possible to read Leopold—or spend time in nature—without feeling a sense of wonder. I may not be able to identify every tree or bird, but I can still appreciate the complexity and beauty of what’s happening around me in a “sand” county.

And yet, that same sense of wonder shows up in a completely different form in a city like Chicago.

It was Sandburg’s Lincoln biography that introduced me to him, but it’s impossible to walk through Chicago without thinking of his poem named for the city:

“Hog Butcher for the World,
Tool Maker, Stacker of Wheat,
Player with Railroads and the Nation’s Freight Handler;
Stormy, husky, brawling,
City of the Big Shoulders…”

The world has changed since Sandburg wrote those lines—but Chicago still feels stormy, husky, and a little brawling.

I’ll admit, I’m never completely at ease in big cities. There’s too much traffic, too much noise, and too many people moving too fast.

But there’s also something remarkable about it.

The same sense of awe I feel in nature shows up in a different way—in the scale, the movement, the logistics of it all. Steel and concrete replace trees and water, but the complexity is just as impressive.

I’ve never understood the idea that one place—or one type of person—is more “American” than another.

Cities showcase human achievement in art, science, and innovation. Natural spaces reconnect us to something more basic and enduring. Both offer something valuable. Both are worth appreciating.

I’m grateful for our life on Lake Petenwell.

And I’m grateful for the chance to experience what the “City of Big Shoulders” still has to offer.

That’s the perspective from Petenwell this week… even if part of it came from downtown Chicago.

Until next Friday,
Chad Tuescher
aka Coach T · aka Tish

As the calendar has flipped from March to April, and spring continues to wrestle winter into submission here on Lake Petenwell, I’ve been thinking about the idea of excellence.

Spring provides countless opportunities to reflect on excellence in athletics. March brings its customary madness with championship seasons for winter sports at both the high school and college levels. Spring Training baseball gives way to Opening Day, and early April delivers the NCAA men’s and women’s basketball national championships. And now this weekend, “a tradition like no other,” The Masters.

Beyond the examples of athletic excellence, which I’ve simply enjoyed as a spectator, two additional influences have shaped my thinking. The first is a new book by Brad Stulberg, The Way of Excellence: A Guide to True Greatness and Deep Satisfaction in a Chaotic World. The second is NASA’s Artemis II lunar mission. It’s hard to imagine a more powerful example of human excellence than the astronauts on that mission, as well as the engineers and scientists responsible for ensuring its success.

Before going further, I should acknowledge that those who have known me for a long time may find it somewhat amusing that I’m writing about excellence. As a kid, many of my friends were smarter than I was, so I certainly wasn’t an excellent student—by definition, I was below average. As an athlete, as much as I respected the coaches I played for, I don’t think any of them would have used the word “excellent” to describe my abilities. And as a teacher and coach, while I had the privilege of working alongside truly excellent professionals, I never felt I had reached that level myself.

So yes, I’m fascinated by excellence, but I also understand why some might find it ironic that I’m the one writing about it.

I read The Way of Excellence shortly after its release, as I’ve long appreciated Stulberg’s earlier work, along with that of Steve Magness. In many ways, all of their books explore excellence through the lens of human performance and growth. In a world filled with books on wellness, sport psychology, and self-improvement, their work consistently stands out.

What I particularly appreciated about this book is that it isn’t simply about becoming great at a specific activity. It’s about becoming a more fully formed human being.

Stulberg approaches excellence through three lenses—biological, psychological, and philosophical—before diving into the mindsets, habits, and practices that have helped people across disciplines achieve meaningful levels of excellence. What’s especially powerful is how accessible these ideas feel. You don’t need to be a world-class performer to apply them. Instead, they guide you toward becoming a better version of yourself.

Even small improvements, applied consistently, create a sense of growth that leads to mastery, and ultimately, a more fulfilling life. In a world where we’re constantly bombarded with distorted images of success online, Stulberg reminds us of what genuine excellence really looks like.

Closer to home, Wisconsin residents and Badger fans have once again witnessed a remarkable example of excellence: the Badger Women’s Hockey Team. With this year’s national championship, the program has now won three of the last four titles and nine overall since its inception in the 1999–2000 season.

While I’ve never had the opportunity to meet Coach Mark Johnson, from a distance he appears to embody many of the principles Stulberg describes. It’s easy to admire the program’s success, but more than that, it’s inspiring to observe the culture behind it.

I’ve also been fortunate to witness excellence up close through my experience with Coach Mike Turgeon, Director of Track and Field and Cross Country at Minnesota State University. During his time at Winona State, I had the opportunity to observe his work firsthand, and he is, without question, the best coach I’ve ever seen in any sport.

His impact extended far beyond athletic performance. He developed student-athletes who excelled in the classroom and in life. In many ways, he modeled the very path Stulberg outlines, one grounded in purpose, discipline, and perspective.

While it’s easy to celebrate excellence in sports, we must also be mindful of its potential pitfalls. The pursuit of excellence can sometimes blur into something less healthy. We saw glimpses of that during the NCAA Women’s Basketball Final Four. There’s no need to revisit the specifics, but the situation highlighted a challenge all coaches face: managing ego.

Most coaches genuinely care about their athletes and want what’s best for them. I believe that wholeheartedly. But after spending three decades coaching, I also know how easy it is to wrestle internally between doing what’s right for your athletes and being driven by the desire to win.

Competition itself isn’t the problem, it’s necessary. But the line between healthy competition and ego-driven decision-making isn’t always clear.

Coaches must constantly ask themselves: Am I pushing this athlete for their growth, or for my own validation?

The best coaches navigate that line with intention and humility. I’d like to believe I did that most of the time, but I also know how difficult it can be.

That’s why leaders like Mark Johnson and Mike Turgeon deserve recognition. And it’s why voices like Brad Stulberg and Steve Magness are worth listening to.

That’s my perspective from Petenwell this week. Keep striving for excellence. Keep learning. And if this resonated with you, I hope you’ll come back next Friday.

Recommended Reading by Brad Stulberg & Steve Magness

• Master of Change — Brad Stulberg
• The Practice of Groundedness — Brad Stulberg
• Win the Inside Game — Steve Magness
• Do Hard Things — Steve Magness
• Peak Performance — Brad Stulberg & Steve Magness
• The Passion Paradox — Brad Stulberg & Steve Magness

Until next Friday…

We all have light bulb moments at times in our lives.  Those moments—big or small—when you suddenly say, “A ha.”  That happened to me recently, and this blog comes to life because of my “A ha” moment while reading on the shore of Lake Petenwell.

I was reading Blue Highways: A Journey Into America, by William Least Heat Moon, and on his journey, he encountered a man by the name of Mr. Watkins.  As William Least Heat Moon and Mr. Watkins talked about their lives, their travels, and their work, Mr. Watkins stated, “A man’s never out of work if he’s worth a damn.  It’s just sometimes he doesn’t get paid… A man’s work is doing what he is supposed to do…” That was my light bulb moment.

Since leaving the coaching profession, I have aspired to be a writer.  I have worked on a couple of different ideas for books; I have written a series of essays on various topics; and I write in a journal almost every day.  The books are still in a very early rough draft stage, honestly, more of a development stage than even a rough draft.  The essays sit on my hard drive and have never been submitted for publication, and the journal remains private.  Like the old philosophical riddle of, “If a tree falls in a forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?”  For me, am I really writing anything if I am not asking a reading audience to read what I wrote?

As a teacher and a coach, my occupation was very much at the heart of my identity.  Since leaving the coaching profession, I still exchange my labor for wages in a variety of ways.  I will continue to exchange my labor for wages, but Mr. Watkins reminded me of what I really think of as my work at this point in life.  My work is to read and to write.  I don’t need to get paid for that work to still make it my work. Currently I am a far better reader than a writer, but like with any skill, I hope that my writing continues to improve with practice.

The greatest opening sentence to any book I ever read was Daniel Boorstin’s opening sentence in The Discoverers.  “My hero has always been man, the discoverer.”  As a boy, my heroes were ball players.  As a young adult, my heroes were great coaches.  As an old man, my heroes are writers.  Kurt Vonnegut wrote, “We are what we pretend to be, so we must be careful about what we pretend to be.”  All the hours I spent pretending I was a ball player as a boy never made me a major leaguer.  The hours spent coaching (pretending I was great) never really made me a great coach, probably fair to say average at best.  However, I have never regretted those hours pretending/working because they made me who I am and created relationships that I will cherish forever.  So now I pretend to be a writer, and I think of that as my work, and I hope through trial and error to write some things that are worth reading.

You might be wondering—why a blog and not Substack?  One reason is that while there are several writers on Substack that I read on a regular basis, it seems to me that we all get too many emails already.  I don’t want to ask you, the reader, to grant me permission to send you more emails.  If you find what I am writing worth your time to read, I hope you will come back again to my blog, but I will not be adding more clutter to your inbox.

Another reason for using the blog format is that most of the writers I read on Substack are narrowly focused on the topics they are writing about, whether that be about health and medicine, sports, or politics.  They are writing from a level of expertise on a specific subject area, and they stick to their area of expertise.  I am not an expert on any subject area, but I am curious and fascinated by a wide range of topics, so blogging seems to fit me better than Substack.

Finally, I am always behind the times when it comes to technology.  I did not start buying CDs for music until the rest of the world had already quit using CDs and were streaming music online.  My first “smart” phone was a Blackberry, but I didn’t get that until Blackberry was already becoming obsolete because the rest of the world had already transitioned to the iPhone.  For me, using a format that started in the 1990s feels more in line with who I am compared to trying to use 21^st century technology.

The original name for this blog was going to be “Tuescher’s Take.”  The problem with that is it makes my opinion seem far too authoritative.  The reason I chose “Perspective from Petenwell” is because I am writing to crystallize my own thinking more than to offer you my opinion.  There are things in sports, education, and yes, politics that I want to write about.  However, I also want to write about funny stories that happened when Brenda and I travelled.  I want to write stories about my time as an Uber/Lyft driver, as well as my adventures as a substitute teacher now after being away from the classroom for two decades.  These stories are meant to amuse more than inform or persuade.  Time will allow for writing about the serious and the trivial. Whether a topic I am writing about is significant or not, everything I write about is simply me trying to make sense of the world around me while living my life on the shore of Lake Petenwell.

It is my intent to offer a new essay each Friday.  If my writing ability improves to where I can get multiple essays out in a week, I will do that.  Currently, my writing process is slow and laborious, so for now, I would rather focus on trying to get one good essay out a week.  As the saying goes, “quality over quantity.” If this resonated with you, I would love for you to come back next Friday for a new Perspective from Petenwell.