Tim McGraw once infamously crooned a song with the same title as this column, noting that real men should never be ashamed to shed a tear over things that strike the emotions of their heart.
Yes, ladies, men like that do still exist.
I will admit to becoming a bit misty-eyed on back-to-back days last week – for two very different reasons.
The first instance came during the third set of the Robbinsville/Andrews varsity volleyball match on Oct. 6. A player for the Lady Wildcats collided with a teammate.
Everyone in the gymnasium collectively held their breaths as she was attended to by the coaching staff and Robbinsville’s athletic trainer. An ambulance was eventually called, but all indications the next day is that the player was good to go – albeit sore.
As I stood atop the gym behind the microphone for our livestream, I was at a loss on what to report to our viewers. We had silenced the audio and panned the camera away when it initially occurred, as injuries are nothing to glorify on a broadcast. As I turned the audio back up to provide a soft update, Robbinsville’s players – in a classy move – began walking toward the Andrews’ teammates who gathered in a circle to pray for their teammate. Moments earlier, both teams had been entangled in a heated battle. In the blink of an eye, on-court priorities changed.
In a world where public prayer is so often persecuted, mocked and sometimes banned – while the same decriers try to reprogram your beliefs with their own – the two teams uniting in prayer gave me confidence that the future still has hope. Proof that the next generation will still bear the torch, so to speak – even if that means it is inside a school. (Gasp!)
Tears welled up again the next day. I grabbed a copy of our sister publication from Murphy, the Cherokee Scout. I knew from social media that my boss had lost a furry friend the week before, but had no idea he had written a tribute column.
If you follow me on social media, you will quickly notice that my home life consists of Rascal, Buddy and Daffney. The constants. Often touted as my “three faithful, canine companions,” my furball trio – each with their own quirky personality traits – Rascal and Buddy were just pups when they came into my life in November 2009; Daffney joined the gang in 2014.
All three were given away by acquaintances and friends – Rascal and Buddy were a package deal – and have willingly resided at six (!) different addresses in the last 13 years.
This business makes for long, exhausting hours. And when you have nothing else breathing in your home when you finally walk in the door except three dogs that are overly thrilled at your very presence, you tend to get attached.
And the thought of their mortality is something I cannot comprehend.
Yes, I had to turn off the waterworks when I read the column. I had to power through play-by-play as I watched two opponents place well-being above competitiveness.
“And I don’t know why they say Grown Men Don’t Cry …”
Kevin Hensley is the publisher/editor of The Graham Star. Send your hate/ridicule concerning this column to editor@grahamstar.com. Then do yourself a favor: take a good, long look in the mirror and ask yourself, “Wait, am I the problem?”