by Amy Dennis
Running, I turned onto the sidewalk along John King Boulevard. I cover this route a lot. It’s my only focused time outside, so I really should unplug and tune in to what’s happening around me: the sweet smell of cedars in the local park; gray rabbits scuttling under a brick wall as I trot toward them; school kids released to the wilds of a fenced playground for brief recess. These are the pretty little details of my otherwise cookie cutter neighborhood, and I appreciate their earthiness. But this whole running thing isn’t just about sucking up fresh air and spinning off calories. It’s my therapy time, think time, idea time. Sure, it looks like I’m just jogging along, but I may be mentally rearranging my living room, trying to remember how old my parents are, or praying (again) for courage. Almost always, though, on every run, I bring along the nearest set of cheap ear buds. I plug in, and most of the time, I let the music take me away somewhere else completely.
by Michael Morris
My brother was just sitting over in the corner of the floor by the front door. He had a stain on the front of his blue suit jacket from where I threw the beer at him. For the first time in my life, he was shutting the hell up. I guess I surprised him. He just sat there looking at me like was just too damned stunned to know what to say.
“So if you don’t mind, prick face, I’m going to try and watch the rest of my show.” And I did. I figured he’d leave. I didn’t care.
See, I was already having a pretty shitty day when he showed up, in the middle of my show, to “check on me.” He’s always doing that. Spending his lunch hour coming home, prying in my business.
by Billy Dennis
Billy Dennis Jr. 3-4 years old
Billy Dennis Sr.
Keeton Park Golf Course
I’ve tried to work out how old I was at the time. My best guess is that I was between two and three years of age. My father, Billy Dennis Sr., a legend of Dallas golf, brought home a 3-iron that he found discarded on the golf course. The club had been cut-down by cutting the middle section out and welding it back together. This was before they really engineered clubs for kids, so even cut-down, the club was so heavy that it almost caused me to fall over on my backswing. But I adored it. Golf quickly became my life. After all, it was my dad’s life and his looked pretty good. “It doesn’t matter if you’re three or ninety-three,” my dad would say as I swung away, “if you can stand, you can play golf.” Some kids have their security blanket. I had my 3-iron.