football

The Pendulum Swings: Charlie Kirk and the Turning Point of a Nation

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Watching my son’s football game, it felt as if there was an inflection point. The game got off to a rocky start—their offense stumbled on the first drive, the defense gave up a score, and that was the story of the first half. But in the second half, the game’s momentum changed—the defense sparked a three-and-out, their offense finally got on the board, and it was a whole new game. Even luck tilted in their favor, unlike the first half.

So what happened?

How does a team that gave up eight points rally to score fourteen in a comeback?

An inflection point is a change where it feels as if a giant pendulum has swung, reached a peak in one direction, and shifted to a new or opposite course. The momentum shift may become clear only afterward, but often it’s something detectable in the air—an event or palpable shift in attitude that changes the entire complexion. In the game, it could’ve been a small adjustment by the coaches or simply an opportunity to reflect on mistakes and correct them. It could be that the ball broke in the right direction, a matter of probabilities, with the change mostly an illusion. But football is an emotional sport, and even dumb luck can inspire better play from everyone.

We also witnessed a similar shift during the presidential election. Biden was apparently leading in the polls (if such things are to be believed), and then Butler happened. The event came after the disastrous first presidential debate, where Biden clearly was not as advertised, yet it was the image of defiance—“fight, fight, fight”—that sealed the deal. Elon Musk saw this as reason to put his full weight behind Trump, and with a few McDonald’s drive-through moments and photo ops with garbage trucks, the greatest upset win since 2016 was complete.

Love him or loath him, Butler should have been a warning shot for the left—trying to kill your political opposition only makes them stronger and Trump won with a younger browner vote.

The paragraphs above were written before the murder of Charlie Kirk. Over the past few days, he went from the “prove me wrong” guy debating college kids to the center of a national debate. Since his death, there has been a groundswell of support. As those on the left reveal themselves through celebrations of his death and mockery, Kirk’s Turning Point organization has been flooded with 54,000 requests for new chapters at high schools and colleges. His death is a catalyst, much like the two assassination attempts against Trump, and a potential inflection point in the national conversation.

Before the U.S. Civil War officially began, there was an early attempt to free the slaves. John Brown, an evangelical Christian, believed he was on a mission from God to end slavery in the U.S. and led an insurrection that ended with a raid on a federal armory at Harpers Ferry in October 1859. Even before this, the issue of legal slavery had resulted in violent confrontations. In 1837, the abolitionist Elijah Parish Lovejoy was shot while facing down a mob of pro-slavery vandals who were attempting to destroy his printing press. This event sent shockwaves through the U.S. and galvanized John Brown to publicly declare:

“Here, before God, in the presence of these witnesses, from this time, I consecrate my life to the destruction of slavery.”

John Brown fired the opening shots of civil war, his fierce opposition to slavery inspired by the murder of abolitionist Elijah Parish Lovejoy.

As a writer, I do not create the sentiment of my audience. I merely put into words what other people are thinking or help them organize their thoughts. In other words, if it resonates, it is only because I’ve stated something they’ve already noticed. It also emboldens—when people realize they are not alone in what they see—which is how regimes fall. When people know that others share their understanding and are given a means to articulate it, all it takes is a little push to turn popular sentiment into decisive action.

Synchronicity is one way to describe this. I have often observed many of my friends—likely tuned into similar sources and sharing the same basic assumptions—simultaneously reach an identical conclusion in response to events.

The assassination of Kirk is a moment that galvanizes. It has starkly illustrated how far apart the two partisan sides have become. Some celebrate the murder, spewing vile hatred for a man who was truly a moderate with views similar to those of many Americans. Others are rightly appalled, realizing there is no reasoning or unity with those who believe disagreement deserves a death sentence—that Kirk deserved the bullet.

In a civil society, matters can be debated. If a person says things we don’t like, we still honor their human rights and show respect despite disagreement. But to those on the far left, a statement of fact or an opinion they hate is declared “hate speech,” and saying it out loud constitutes a crime of “spreading hate” that deserves death. This is not an embellishment—a direct quote: “Let this be a lesson to all those conservative freaks, all those weirdos… you’re next in line.” This is a threat we must take seriously when the other side laughs and mocks Kirk’s death—they are not like us.

This is an inflection point, one of those culminating moments where conservatives are independently reaching the same conclusion, and a movement can become galvanized. It will arm Trump to crack down on Antifa and the left-wing in ways he could not have before, with the critical mass of public support he needs.

Freedom of speech doesn’t mean people must associate with you.  I’ve never seen the ‘right’ react with such energy before.

In reality, Charlie Kirk wasn’t an extremist leading anything; he represented the quiet majority who are still able to appreciate the difference between men and women and who want laws applied equally for the protection of all Americans—not favoritism or special preferences for some based on identity or political ideology. They are Charlie. He did not radicalize anyone. All he did was try to explain his perspective and articulate what many believe. But he will now be a rallying cry—like the death of Lovejoy that led to John Brown’s vow—that point in a conflict where the tolerance has been exhausted and it is necessary for the sane to make a stand.

Even for me, as someone who attempts to stake out a position independent of both popular sides, I must go with the side least likely to kill me as a default. There’s nothing I share in common with those who are gleeful and cracking jokes about a man deliberately killed in front of his fans, wife, and young daughters. Cheering for domestic terrorism cannot be tolerated. The backlash against those who couldn’t show civility even after a man’s murder will be a turning point, like the momentum shift in a football game—the people are done playing nice with these monsters.

RIP Charlie Kirk

Path of [Least] Resistance…

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One of my favorite players, while coaching ‘semi-pro’ was a guy named Jerry. The league knew him as this out-of-control and sort of dirty player. He would get wound up with his asthma attacks and get into verbal altercations on the field. But to me, despite his reputation as a loose cannon, he was actually more coachable than many on the team. The guy could’ve easily ripped my head off, he was a fairly large guy (playing defensive end) and a physical force on the field. However, in the few times when I did need to directly to intervene, he was surprisingly respectful. I mean, he would address me as “coach” and, every time, after a few mumbles, he would back down. He would even often apologize later.

Only once, with a little alcohol involved, did I catch a small glimpse of what was driving him. At the time, in his late forties or early fifties, he recalled how his own dad had pushed him. He was abusive and never satisfied. And football was the direction his dad was pushing him in. Jerry had D-1 offers as a younger man. Yet, ultimately, he walked away from the sport at that level and much to do with the pressure he had felt. Obviously, he was still very conflicted over all of this. He played as if a demon were biting at his ankles, a man on fire, and probably pushing a little too hard for a man his age. I’ve lost contact with him, not even sure if he lives in the area anymore, but his story is a cautionary tale for me as I try to navigate my son’s current involvement in athletic endeavors.

I love sports as a training ground for life. It is an opportunity for character development, to learn lessons about work and reward, teamwork, etc. I had my own regrets for having started competing only very late in high school and, therefore, have been very pleased that my own son wrestled over the winter and has been practicing for football season. He’s an amazing athlete for his age. He won his bracket in wrestling, his first year out, with a combination of will, natural strengths, and things learned from his coaches. It has not taken much encouragement to keep him going. He is an enthusiastic participant and seems to really enjoy himself with other kids his age. There have been a couple of times when he was upset and seemed ready to quit, but the next day he has always come back for more.

Desirous Distractions

Of the things I hate most, his tablet is probably in the top ten. We had successfully hidden it away (he didn’t miss it after a week or two) and yet brought it back out due to some current circumstances that make it better to keep him occupied. The result has been like an addict, or binge, where he would use the device non-stop if we allowed it. It turns him from an active and engaged kid, who loves to swim in the local pool and requires a ton of attention, to a slug barely moving for hours. It’s not healthy and that’s the reason why I’ve fought back against this and haven’t minced my words on this topic with him either. I’ve been glad that we had football practices to give that indisputable non-negotiable reason to separate him from the screen. However, the other day, after practice, he confessed that he wished that he didn’t play football so he could be on his tablet more!

One of my successes, so far, as a parent was to keep sports as his idea. Sure, I want him to play, I have done my part to facilitate his involvement as well, but I’ve mostly let him lead in what direction he wanted to go and was glad that his own desires lined up with my own. I’m sure my own hopes and expectations have found their way to influence, children likely know their parents better than their parents know them and generally want to please them. He knows that I’m a Penn State football fan and that, Charlie, the elementary wrestling coach was an old teammate. So it isn’t really surprising that he went down this path similar to my own. Still, I didn’t want to be one of those dads, the kind living vicariously through their son and putting undue stress on him. It does seem we’re too sports-obsessed, where youth leagues are year-round, there is this camp and that camp, which is driven by parents with glowing ambitions more than it is by the children themselves. I wouldn’t be all that surprised if many of these overworked and pushed too hard will quit. At the very least, it won’t be enjoyable.

The big question for me is what would I do if my son said “I don’t want to play anymore.” I’ve already assured him that not playing doesn’t mean he would get more time with his tablet and that he would probably be bored. And he seems to understand that he needs to finish what he started as far as the current season. Nevertheless, the chill I felt, all of my own dreams of watching him now threatened, could easily lead to my being more controlling. It is scary to me that a tablet, this path of least resistance, has so much appeal that he would sacrifice all for it. I’ve also had to question my own motives. Am I doing what is best for him? When I restrict access, when I push him to do things that make him uncomfortable, that’s the reason why I do. But as a parent, we really need to be careful not to project our own desires onto our children so much that they are stifled and not free to be themselves.

The Elusive Balance

My son would likely be completely happy if I just let him play on his tablet nonstop. Maybe he would eventually get over it on his own if we didn’t interfere? I mean, I doubt it. There are always new games to download and more distractions to occupy for hours and hours. And that’s my concern, that the hours he spends vegging out could be put to much better use. It would be negligence, on my part, to simply give him what he wants and never resist his short-sighted perspective. It is my job to develop him, to make him ready for life and sports are one of those tools used towards that end. I don’t want him to develop character, not to be a character in a video game. I want him to get exercise, experience the tactile and real world, and not just live in the fantasies that others created for him. I must resist him.

That said, football is also just a game. I don’t want to be that dad who ended up putting so much pressure on his son to be successful that it ruined our relationship and he quits in frustration. There is much more to life than statistics or the accomplishments that the world will notice. Yes, I would beam with pride if my son were to score a touchdown, be on a state championship team, and be good enough to compete at the next level. A college scholarship, of course, would be great. He doesn’t seem to be the type that will get that in the classroom, so why not encourage the path that he does have? Still, that is exactly the problem. I quickly get way out ahead of reality and with that could quickly destroy even my own enjoyment of the moment. He should, as a child, be involved because it is fun. Certainly, I must coach a little, put some restrictions here and incentives there, but ultimately he needs to choose.

I don’t want my son to go down the path of least resistance. I want him to be resilient, a leader, involved, pushing back, and growing his abilities rather than comfortable. I truly want him to be better than me in all regards. Or, at the very least, to be better for having had me be a part of his life. Sometimes this will require me to bump against his will, dig in my heels a bit, and not let him rest on his laurels or waste the opportunities he has. Other times I will need to step back, let him go his own way, learn at his own pace, and accept that his goals for life may not align with my own. The real struggle is the wisdom to know when to intervene and how. Hopefully, he knows my heart is oriented towards his good even if my execution is flawed. And, actually, I’m okay if we’re not always friends so long as what I’m offering him is a way to go beyond my own limits and reach his full potential as a man, that’s my reward.

Too little [but never] too late…

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I have always been a late bloomer, for my stature dubbed with nicknames that included ‘micro’ in them by classmates and stood only 5′-3″ on my first driver’s license.  In my class of over one hundred I was simultaneously second oldest and also, of the guys, the second smallest.  I was too light weight to even donate blood until my junior or senior years of high school.

Beyond that, I was also a little behind in motor skills and sorely lacking in coordination; it was as likely in my early teens that a football would hit me in the face rather than be caught by my hands.  It probably didn’t help anything that I didn’t grow up tossing a ball at home, my dad was equally undeveloped athletically, he did not follow professional sports and we just weren’t a sports oriented family.  It all added up to me often being close to last picked in gym class, which wasn’t much of boost of confidence to say the least and perhaps explains the antipathy I had towards athletic pursuits.  For the time I had concluded athletic competition was for big dumb brutes, not me.

Then, somewhat inexplicably, I became interested in the high school football team.  I do not recall what started it.  There may have been a combination of factors, I do not know for sure.  But, my junior year, I started to attend games (even hitched a ride with the team to an away game) and around the same time began to lift weights and imagine myself on the field.  Football, I discovered, was about more than one guy being able to run over another; football was also a chess match of strategy involving slight of hand trickery and all trying to gain an advantage or out smart an opponent with misdirection, formations and plays.  So, at 5′-8″ tall and 112lbs, I decided I would go out for the team despite my late start and my shortcomings of natural raw abilities understood.  I wanted to try.

Over the summer I practiced with the team, but the real commitment began with the ‘two-a-day’ practices and with the start of my senior year.  It was hard work physically.  I can remember a time in practice a collision that I had thought for a second had collapsed my entire spine like an accordion.  I also recall the sheer terror of having to occasionally face padded behemoths who were close enough to double my weight.  I have not forgot being ran over by a fellow senior in a tackle drill an act I imagine included a big grin on his face.  Had I known some of the bruises and pain beforehand I might have second thoughts about my decision to play, but once started I was determined to endure to the end whatever it took.  From the onset I knew I was not likely to play much due to inexperience and size, yet I was a competitor all the same and wanting to make the team better if only with a winning ‘no quit’ attitude.

There was plenty of reward.  After weeks of practice there was the proud moment of wearing your game jersey on Fridays at school before game night.  Football made me part of something when I saw teammates in the halls or got ‘good luck’ wished upon me by random students.  I was a warrior, a representative of my school and had earned the team colors that I wore on my back.  I was #13 (I figured an unlucky number fit an unlikely player and couldn’t hurt) and now called ‘Stoltz’ or ‘Stoltzy.’  Those nicknames were the chant of teammates on the sidelines when I stepped onto the field for those few last plays that iced a blowout win.  I belonged.

But the biggest reward was the handshakes and hugs of coaches at the end of the season.  It was after a disappointing loss that ended our season in the first round of playoffs.  We lost to a team we had beaten prior in the regular season.  It was a very emotional moment to be at the end of my first and last season as a player.  Nevertheless it was satisfying to have finished, having survived from the blistering heat and throbbing shin splints of preseason camp to outlasting the bone chilling *shivering* cold of late season practices.  I received a varsity letter for my efforts and with it memories to last a life time.

If I would have any regrets it would be declining my chance to play in the waning minutes of that decisive last game.  An assistant coach had tapped my shoulder telling me to go in the game.  But, because I knew my entering the game was a tacit admission of defeat and keeping the starters in would increase the unlikely chances of victory, I refused saying, “I don’t want to play, I want [us] to win!”  I regret my choice, but only because the sophomore who went in my place caught my favorite route (a deep post) and seemingly could’ve scored with just a bit more heart; he came up a yard short.

I graduated from high school, but to me there is still nothing like a crisp fall night under the lights and watching those bright green jerseys take the field one more time.  And now I have another loyal fan who often accompanies me, who also (less inexplicably) began to love the sport he once thought was silly and that fan is my dad.  We sit there, it is our yearly ritual, we share memories of past games, talk about life and cheer on the team…

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