I'll Call It Like I See It

by sheila morris

Category: sports

  • if the answer is a bridge too far, the question is what is a welcome diversion?


    The Russians are coming, the Russians are coming – down under to the 2021 Australian Open Tennis Tournament that began with high hopes for real live fans in the stands but now those stands have been emptied for a five day Covid lockdown that began Friday night and will hopefully end this week on Tuesday or Wednesday depending on where you (and/or Elmo) are in the complicated time zones that disturb my already disturbed sleep patterns for two weeks every year. Thank goodness for the World Time Clock Converter that promises me it’s really eight o’clock tomorrow night when I wake at 4 a.m. to watch a featured match I must see “live” in Melbourne, Australia. Thank you, ESPN, for your ongoing coverage which may be the death of me.

    Unless, of course, the death of me comes from the unraveling of democracy that I watched during the days that were the actual days for me and the rest of the world as we observed in real time 100 United States Senators who served as jurors during the past week at the impeachment trial of former president Trump for inciting the January 06th. insurrection that was a final desperate attempt to overturn the 2020 election results through mob violence which interrupted a joint session of Congress charged with counting the individually certified state electoral votes that provided for the transition of power to the Biden/Harris administration. The violence resulted in the death of one Capitol police officer beaten to death at the scene, physical injuries to 140 other law enforcement officers, the desecration of the Capitol building, the attempted murder of former vice president Mike Pence and Speaker of the House Nancy Pelosi.

    No World Time Clock Converter was available to transport me to a different day or a different outcome of the trial. Not Guilty by reason of insanity – oh yeah, the insanity was my judgment of the 43 Republican Senators who voted to acquit the man who didn’t care whether they lived or died during the attack on January 06th. Whoa. Lead me not into temptation to wallow in depression, but deliver me from the evil of self-righteous power hungry Republican Senators including Graham and Scott of South Carolina. You see, this is why I needed the welcome diversion of the Australian Open tennis, regardless of time zones.

    I gratefully turned my attention to Russian names like Rublev, Medvedev and Karatsev who will be part of the men’s draw as the Australian Open moves into the second week. While #1 seed Novak Djokovich nursed an oblique abdominal issue requiring a large taping he displayed with great fanfare for the cameras as he changed shirts between sets the first week, and #2 seed Rafael Nadal reported the back problem he had at the beginning of the tournament felt better with each match, the younger guys were feeling fit as a fiddle, eager to take the court. The Russians are definitely there, and they’ve brought their best games with them.

    Can one of the Russians spoil the dreams of Djokovich for a 9th Australian Open title, the hopes of Nadal for his second Australian Open title that would put him at the top of the all time men’s tennis Major winners with number 21 ahead of the tie he now shares with Roger Federer at 20? On the other hand, is this the year either Dimitrov, Tsitsipas, Zverev, Berrettini, Fognini – names that have floated as possible usurpers to the thrones of Federer, Nadal and Djokovich for several years – finally break through to win the men’s singles title along with the $2.75 million prize money?

    The Americans are coming, the Americans are coming. In the women’s singles draw for the second week twenty-five year old Jennifer Brady from Harrisburg, Pennsylvania who played for UCLA in her college career; twenty-six year old Jessica Pegula from Buffalo, New York; twenty-eight year old Shelby Rogers who comes from Mount Pleasant, South Carolina down the road from where Pretty and I live; and thirty-nine year old Serena Williams who continues her quest for the elusive Major title #24 in her amazing career that has kept her at the top of women’s singles tennis for the past twenty-five years.

    Serena and her sister Venus Williams have carried the weight of American tennis on their remarkable shoulders for more than two decades while the tennis careers of other American women- and men – have crashed and burned. Can one of these four, I repeat four, American women bring home the Australian Open title, the first Major of 2021? As Martina Navratilova said during her television coverage of the Open, women’s tennis is back in America.

    Let’s hope democracy never leaves us.

    *********************

    Stay safe, stay sane and please stay tuned.

  • dear Santa, send boxing gloves

    dear Santa, send boxing gloves


    Before you ask yourself whether you’ve read this story before, I can say possibly – it’s a seasonal favorite of mine.

    *********************

    “Dear Santa Claus, how are you? I am fine.

    I have been pretty good this year. Please bring me a pair

    of boxing gloves for Christmas.  I need them.

    Your friend, Sheila Rae Morris”

    “That’s a good letter,” my grandmother Dude said. She folded it and placed it neatly in the envelope. “I’ll take it to the post office tomorrow and give it to Miss Sally Hamilton to mail for you. Now, why do you need these boxing gloves?”

    “Thank you so much, Dude. I hope he gets it in time. All the boys I play with have boxing gloves. They say I can’t box with them because I’m a girl and don’t have my own gloves. I have to get them from Santa Claus.”

    “I see,” she said. “I can understand the problem. I’ll take care of your letter for you.”

    Several days later it was Christmas Eve. That was the night we opened our gifts with both families. This year Dude, Mama, Daddy, Uncle Marion, Uncle Toby and I went to my other grandparents’  house down the hill from ours. With us, we took the See’s Candies from Dude’s sister Aunt Orrie who lived in California, plus all the gifts. I didn’t like to share the candy, but it wouldn’t be opened until we could offer everyone a piece. Luckily, most everyone else preferred Ma’s divinity or her date loaf.

    The beverage for the party was a homemade green punch. My Uncle Marion had carried Ginger Ale and lime sherbet with him. He mixed that at Ma’s in her fine glass punch bowl with the 12 cups that matched. You knew it was a special night if Ma got out her punch bowl. The drink was frothy and delicious. The perfect liquid refreshment with the desserts. I was in heaven, and very grownup.

    When it was time to open the gifts, we gathered in the living room around the Christmas tree, which was ablaze with multi-colored blinking bubble lights. Ma was in total control of the opening of the gifts and instructed me to bring her each gift one at a time so she could read the names and anything else written on the tag. She insisted that we keep a slow pace so that all would have time to enjoy their surprises.

    Really, there were few of those. Each year the men got a tie or shirt or socks or some combination. So the big surprise would be the color for that year. The women got a scarf or blouse or new gloves for church. Pa would bring out the Evening in Paris perfume for Ma that he had raced over to Mr. McAfee’s Drug Store to buy just before he closed.

    The real anticipation was always the wrapping and bows for the gifts. They saved the bows year after year and made a game of passing them back and forth to each other like old friends. There would be peals of laughter and delight as a bow that had been missing for two Christmases would make a mysterious re-appearance. Ma and Dude entertained themselves royally with the outside of the presents. The contents were practical and useful for the adults every year.

    My gifts, on the other hand, were more fun. Toys and clothes combined the practical with the impractical. Ma would make me a dress to wear to school and buy me a doll of some kind. Daddy and Pa would give me six-shooters or a bow and arrows or cowboy boots and hats. Dude always gave me underwear.

    This year Uncle Marion had brought me a jewelry box from Colorado. He had gone out there to work on a construction job and look for gold. I loved the jewelry box. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any jewelry.

    “Well, somebody needs to go home and get to bed so that Santa Claus can come tonight,” Daddy said at last. “I wonder what that good little girl thinks she’s going to get.” He smiled.

    “Boxing gloves,” I said immediately. “I wrote Santa a letter to bring me boxing gloves. Let’s go home right now so I can get to bed.”

    Everybody got really quiet.

    Daddy looked at Mama. Ma looked at Pa. Uncle Marion and Uncle Toby looked at the floor. Dude looked at me.

    “Okay, then, sugar. Give Ma and Pa a kiss and a big hug for all your presents. Let’s go, everybody, and we’ll call it a night so we can see what Santa brings in the morning,” Daddy said.

    *********************

    “Is it time to get up yet?” I whispered to Dude. What was wrong with her? She was always the first one up every morning. Why would she choose Christmas Day to sleep late?

    “I think it’s time,” she whispered back. “I believe I heard Saint Nick himself in the living room a little while ago. Go wake up your mama and daddy so they can turn on the Christmas tree lights for you to see what he left. Shhh. Don’t wake up your uncles.”

    I climbed over her and slipped quietly past my sleeping Uncle Marion and crept through the dining room to Mama and Daddy’s bedroom. I was trying to not make any noise. I could hear my Uncle Toby snoring in the middle bedroom.

    “Daddy, Mama, wake up,” I said softly to the door of their room. “Did Santa Claus come yet?” Daddy opened the door, and he and Mama came out. They were smiling happily and took me to the living room where Mama turned on the tree lights. I was thrilled with the sight of the twinkling lights as they lit the dark room. Mama’s tree was so much bigger than Ma’s and was perfectly decorated with ornaments of every shape and size and color. The icicles shimmered in the glow of the lights. There were millions of them. Each one had been meticulously placed individually by Mama. Daddy and I had offered to help but had been rejected when we were seen throwing the icicles on the tree in clumps rather than draping them carefully on each branch.

    I held my breath. I was afraid to look down. When I did, the first thing I saw was the Roy Rogers gun and holster set. Two six-shooters with gleaming barrels and ivory-colored handles. Twelve silver bullets on the belt.

    “Wow,” I exclaimed as I took each gun out of the holster and examined them closely. “These look just like the ones Roy uses, don’t they, Daddy?”

    “You bet,” he said. “I’m sure they’re the real thing. No bad guys will get past you when you have those on. Main Street will be safe again.” He and Mama laughed together at that thought.

    The next thing my eyes rested on was the Mr. And Mrs. Potato Head game. I wasn’t sure what that was when I picked it up, but I could figure it out later. Some kind of game to play with when the cousins came later for Christmas lunch.

    I moved around the tree and found another surprise. There was a tiny crib with three identical baby dolls in it. They were carefully wrapped in two pink blankets and one blue one. I stared at them.

    “Triplets,” Mama said with excitement. “Imagine having not one, not two, but three baby dolls at once. Two girls and a boy. Isn’t that fun? Look, they have a bottle you can feed them with. See, their little mouths can open. You can practice feeding them. Aren’t they wonderful?”

    I nodded. “Yes, ma’am. They’re great. I’ll play with them later this afternoon.” I looked around the floor and crawled to look behind the tree.

    “Does Santa ever leave anything anywhere else but here?” I asked. Daddy and Mama looked at each other and then back at me.

    “No, sweetheart,” Daddy said. “This is all he brought this year. Don’t you like all of your presents?”

    “Oh, yes, I love them all,” I said with the air of a diplomat. “But, you know, I had asked him for boxing gloves. I was really counting on getting them. All the other boys have them, and I wanted them so bad.”

    “Well,” Mama said. “Santa Claus had the good common sense not to bring a little girl boxing gloves. He knew that only little boys should be fighting each other with big old hard gloves. He also realized that lines have to be drawn somewhere. He would go along with toy guns, even though that was questionable. But he had to refuse to allow boxing gloves this Christmas or any Christmas.”

    I looked at Daddy. My heart sank.

    “Well, baby,” he said with a rueful look. “I’m afraid I heard him say those very words.”

    *******************

    (This is an excerpt from my first book Deep in the Heart: A Memoir of Love and Longing  published in 2007 when I was 61 years old. The following Christmas one of my best friends Billy Frye gave me a pair of boxing gloves – better late than never, Santa.)

    From our family to yours, wherever you are and whoever you call family, Pretty and I send our hope for some moments of joy during this remarkable 2020 “holiday” season tainted by the loss of loved ones, physical separation from friends and family, and an ongoing war with an unseen enemy that attacks us with seemingly random ruthlessness.

    Stay safe, stay sane and please stay tuned.

  • cross over the bridge

    cross over the bridge


    In June, 2015 two separate events captured the attention of not only the United States but also countries on other continents. Yes, indeed. We were part of the good, the bad and the very ugly. I wrote this piece the day after the Supreme Court ruled same-sex marriage was the law of the land,  the day of the funeral for the Reverend Clementa Pinckney who was one of the Emanuel Nine in Charleston, South Carolina.

    *****************************

    Traveling to East Tennessee last week, Pretty and I listened to a collection of Patti Page hits. One of the songs she sang in this album which was recorded at Carnegie Hall in 1997 was Cross Over the Bridge – a song I hadn’t heard since 1954 when Patti originally recorded it –  but one I remembered singing while my mother played the yellow piano keys of the ancient upright piano in our living room in the tiny town of Richards in rural Grimes County, Texas. My mom bought sheet music like some people bought cigarettes back then…she was addicted to it. One of her favorites was Cross Over the Bridge so naturally eight-year-old me learned the lyrics as my mother sang and played which meant I was able to sing along with Patti in the car while Pretty and I rode through the gorgeous vistas of the Upstate of South Carolina toward the incredible views of the mountains in East Tennessee. Mine eyes did see the glory.

    Cross over the bridge, cross over the bridge…Change your reckless way of living, cross over the bridge…Leave your fickle past behind you, and true romance will find you, Brother, cross over the bridge.

    Admittedly this is a love song in the tradition of the 1950s favorite sentiments, but as I was trying to digest and cope with the overwhelming seesaws of emotion I felt yesterday, crossing bridges came to mind.

    Yesterday morning I woke up in a new world…truly a new world for me and my family. The Supreme Court of the United States lifted my status as a citizen. I was no longer “lesser than.” I was a person who mattered. By recognizing the fundamental right to marry for all same-sex couples in every state in the nation, SCOTUS recognized me as a person who was entitled to my own pursuit of happiness with life and liberty guaranteed as a bonus.

    Two years to the day after the favorable ruling in the Edie Windsor case that gave equal federal treatment to the same-sex marriages recognized in twelve states and the District of Columbia at the time, the Supremes crossed a bridge to leave a fickle past of outright discrimination behind all of us and yes, to allow true romance for whoever we love. We crossed a bridge to walk a path toward full equality for the entire LGBTQ community because of the efforts of people who worked at coming out to their parents, friends, co-workers – everyone in their daily lives – to reveal their authentic selves.

    It was a day of rejoicing for Pretty and me in our home; we were beside ourselves with an emotional high as the breaking news unfolded on the television before our eyes. To hear a Gay Men’s Chorus sing our national anthem outside the building in Washington, D.C. where history was being made brought chills and tears to our eyes. We savored the moment together.

    But the celebration was cut short by the next four hours of the television coverage of the funeral of the Reverend Clementa Pinckney, one of the Emanuel Nine slain in his church in Charleston, South Carolina the week before when he was leading a Bible Study group at the church. The celebration of his life was a long one for a man who had lived the relatively short life of only forty-one years. But this man’s life had counted for more than his years.

    He began preaching at the age of thirteen and was a pastor at eighteen years of age. The men and women who reflected on Reverend Pinckney’s life did so with exuberance and humor as they told their personal stories of interacting with him as friends, family and co-workers. The picture that emerged was that of a good man who loved his family, his church and his country with its flawed history of systemic racism. He was a man on a mission to make life better for those who felt they had no voice to speak about their basic needs of food and shelter, their educational opportunities, a flawed criminal justice system. He was a man who cared, he was passionate about making a difference.

    He was murdered by another kind of man who had a reckless way of living and a disregard for the sanctity of human life. He was murdered by a white man who was taught to hate the color black as a skin color in a society too often divided by colors, creeds and labels. We need to change our reckless way of living as a people.

    We need to open our eyes and our hearts to see glimpses of truth, as the old hymn admonishes. Open our eyes that I may see glimpses of truth thou hast for me. And may we not just see the truth, but may we speak and act as though the truth is important because it is. When our eyes are opened, for example, to the pain the Confederate Flag flying on the public state house grounds inflicts on a daily basis to many of our citizens, we must make every effort to take it down. We must speak up and act out. (the flag came down on July 10, 2015)

    President Obama spoke in his eulogy about the grace that each of us has from God, but that none of us earned. Regardless of our concept of God, we know grace is unmerited favor. We live in a country of contrasts and  sometimes conflicts, but for those of us to whom grace has been given, we are compelled to share this bounty with everyone we encounter – whether they agree or disagree with us in our political ideals. This is harder to practice than preach. Reverend Clementa Pinckney both preached and practiced grace  in his life as he crossed another kind of bridge – a bridge we will all cross at some point.

    The tragedy of his untimely crossing took Pretty and me on a roller coaster of emotions as we watched the funeral yesterday. From the euphoria of the Supreme Court ruling early in the morning to the depths of despair as we remembered the losses of the Emanuel Nine during the funeral of Reverend Pinckney to the stirring tribute filled with hope by President Barak Obama that raised our spirits once again to believe in the possibility of grace; we crossed over two bridges in one day that we will never forget. Patti Page had none of this in mind when she sang her love song in 1954, but I’d like to  think my mother would be happy to know her music inspired more than a little girl’s learning to carry a tune.

    **********************

    Five years later we continue to cross over the bridges of systemic racism that divide us in this country. The murder of George Floyd in May of 2020 ignited marchers in the streets around the world to cross bridges for civil rights with similar passions to those of  John Lewis and the others who crossed the Edmund Pettus Bridge in Selma, Alabama in 1965. I believe the Black Lives Matter movement along with the passing of civil rights icons Congressmen John Lewis and Elijah Cummings were the beginning of the end for a Trump presidency that failed spectacularly to successfully combat an enemy known as Covid 19 in 2020 – an administration committed more to the stock market than  the welfare of its citizens, a presidency that encouraged politics of divisiveness over unity, a political party with ongoing threats to democratic cornerstones. The loss of nearly 300,000 American lives was, and continues to be, a bridge too far of failed leadership that resulted in the contentious removal of a one-term impeached president  by 81 million plus voters in the November election; 74 million people voted to re-elect him. But that’s a topic for another day.

    Stay safe, stay sane and please stay tuned.

  • Happy Holidays! Clearance!

    Happy Holidays! Clearance!


    my books

    I have signed new copies available of several nonfiction titles of mine that will make great holiday gifts for yourself or someone you love:

    Get ’em while they’re not hot for $5. each plus shipping cost of $3.99. You can send $ through paypal.me/SHEILARMORRIS

    Pardon the interruption for this shameless self promotion. As my daddy used to say, whosoever tooteth not his own horn, the same shall not be tooteth. That was my dad.

    Stay safe, stay sane and please stay tuned.

  • say her name: Breonna Taylor


    The 2020 WNBA season consists of twelve teams living and playing together since July in the IMG Academy in Bradenton, Florida for a shortened 22-game schedule followed by the traditional playoff series that began on September 15th. The bizarre season is notable not only for its Covid restrictions regarding players and personnel living in the Bradenton Bubble without any fan support during their games but also is notable for the players’ dedication of their season to Breonna Taylor, a black woman who was killed in a raid on her apartment in Louisville, Kentucky  March 13th. All the  players have worn Say Her Name Breonna Taylor uniforms in every game, had observations of silence to honor her memory before games, been vocal as a players’ association about police brutality in the systemic racism exemplified by the treatment of black women everywhere.

    Two days ago, a Louisville grand jury failed to indict any of the officers for criminal behavior resulting in the death of Ms. Taylor who was shot five times and received no medical attention for more than 20 minutes after she was struck according to reporting by the NY Times yesterday.

    Prior to last night’s playoff game between the Minnesota Lynx and the Seattle Storm, Lynx player Napheesa Collier read the following statement on behalf of all the players in the league (Jasmine Thomas of the Connecticut Sun read the same statement before their game against the Las Vegas Aces):

    “Our hearts are with Ms. Tamika Palmer. It has been 195 days since her daughter, Breonna Taylor, was killed. One-hundred and 95 days and still today, no one was charged for her death. We strongly support the sentiment expressed by the family of Breonna Taylor. The result is outrageous and offensive. No one needs to live in the commonwealth of Kentucky to understand this case. We won’t stop pressing for full transparency and full and complete justice. There are far too many questions left unanswered.

    “Justice is on the ballot. Please register today and vote on or before Nov. 3.”

    In another voice with a different platform Oprah Magazine explained the remarkable cover of Breonna Taylor for their September, 2020 issue as follows: “For the first time in 20 years, @oprah has given up her O Magazine cover to honor Breonna Taylor. She says, Breonna Taylor. She was just like you. And like everyone who dies unexpectedly, she had plans. Plans for a future filled with responsibility and work and friends and laughter. Imagine if three unidentified men burst into your home while you were sleeping. And your partner fired a gun to protect you. And then mayhem. What I know for sure: We can’t be silent. We have to use whatever megaphone we have to cry for justice. And that is why Breonna Taylor is on the cover of O magazine. I cry for justice in her name…”

    Congressman John Lewis issued a moral imperative for all of us. When we see something is not right, not fair, not just – we have a moral obligation to do something about it. I salute the courage of the players in the WNBA for doing something about the death of Breonna Taylor in their 2020 season, and I thank Oprah for the empathy she has for the family of Breonna Taylor in their unspeakable loss.

    Adding our voices to cry for justice in the name of Breonna Taylor – we are no longer lone voices crying in the wilderness of separation and fear. Together we stand for Breonna Taylor, her family, for justice.

    Say Her Name: Breonna Taylor and plan your vote for November 3rd.

    Stay safe, stay sane and stay tuned.