tupaview: Fame and a game of catch

By Mike Tupa

February 20, 2025

BARTLESVILLE AREA SPORTS REPORT

I never wanted to be a bachelor.

There are benefits. I can cook my crazy meals (mashed potatoes mixed with chicken pieces and catsup), stay up one night until 4 a.m. watching old “Perry Mason” episodes and try to go to sleep at 9 p.m. the next night, wash my dishes in cold water, cut my own hair, let empty toilet roll cardboard middles pile up like a pyramid, keep my BYU commemorative socks permanently hung over the top edge of my bedroom door and view the movie “Once Upon A Time In the West” whenever I want.

There are certain symptoms of those infected with older man bachelor-itis.

You know you’ve got it got this disease hard when 

— the highlight of your week is waiting for the “Lawrence Welk Show,” at 7 p.m. every Saturday, repeated at 5 p.m. on Sundays;

— you fry up 10 pounds of hamburger or 16 hot dogs at one time to save time in preparing future meals — and soon have a freezer full of semi-burnt meat.

— you never take a list to the supermarket. If you want it you throw it in the basket.

— you consider canned chili or baked beans God’s greatest gift to humankind and consider toasted tuna fish sandwiches, hot dog sauce or corn dogs as the stuff of which is considered gracious dining.

— you consider most vegetables and greens other people’s problem.

— Scotch or cloth tape — or iron-on patches — are your favorite clothes mending accessories.

— you have enough holey socks to fill a drawer-and-a-half that you can’t bear to throw out and you hold on to in case of an emergency.

— you’ve watched every rerun of “Monk,” “Diagnosis Murder,” “Coach,” “Murder She Wrote” and “Colombo” at least 10 times — and counting.

— you cry during “Father Knows Best,” strain your eyeballs during “I Dream of Jeannie,” or immerse yourself in “The Big Valley” until you have saddle sores from your couch.

Yep, it’s a great life.

Every time you come home you know there’s no one on the other side of the door waiting for you. You put up a respectable smattering of Christmas decorations in your apartment knowing only your eyes will see them. You go to the store alone. You go to church alone. You go to doctors' appointments alone. You have no one to help you at home to get you a drink of water or fix your meals or put a new disc in the DVD player when you’re sick or just home from a hospital stay. You cry alone at the end of the movie “Secondhand Lions.” You laugh out loud alone when you watch the movie “No Time For Sergeants,” or “What About Bob.” You have no one with whom to discuss politics, no one to drive you to the polling place on election day. You have no one with which to share spiritual insights or questions. You have no one to bolster you when you make a fool of yourself or to give you a loving but firm shove when you need it. You have no one with which to discuss vital decisions such as Social Security, Medicare and healthcare.

The dream for which I’ve yearned for during my life — with all my heart and soul — is this: To play a game of catch in the front yard with my children. 

I don't remember for sure if my dad and I ever had a game of catch. He was gone for a few years during my boyhood and left for good when I turned 11. Of course during the years, I enjoyed tossing the football or softball around occasionally with a friend or even once with an uncle. Prior to Bartlesville football games, I used to throw the ball around with the waterboys or other guys on the sideline.

But that' s not the same thing.

It's highly unlikely I'll ever realize what it's like to sit in the stands at Little League games and know one of those dusty-uniformed, tousled-hair, warriors-in-miniature was mine. 

No one will ever ask me advice before a first date, I'll never feel a swell of pride at a school graduation, I'll never have anyone to help learn from my mistakes or with whom to share my diversity of experiences, I'll never have anyone call me dad.

It's not the way I wanted it. I tried hard — no one else but God and perhaps my deceased mom and sister — will ever know how hard I tried to write a different script for life, how many times my heart was broken, how many mistakes I've made in my effort.

But mine has not been an unhappy or unfilled life so far — and I hope not until the end.

I'm overwhelmed with the blessings and opportunities that filled the minutes, the hours, the years.

I'm grateful for my faith, my friends, for health, for my jobs, for my education, for the incredibly interesting and kind people that brightened my journey and lifted me, for being an American, for those that have challenged me to be better, for the bullies and detractors that inspired me to be stronger and develop character and discipline.

Near the top of the list has been my 37-year-career — and counting — as a sportswriter. I had to claw and scramble and overcome much discouragement before I landed my first full-time newspaper job, just four months prior to my 32nd birthday. I know what it's like to see an almost impossible dream come true — and know I had higher help to do it.

When I was 16 my mom said she thought I should be a sportswriter. I believed then no one would ever want to read anything I had to say. But fate kept nudging me that way — albeit through some huge detours, including four years of active service in the Marine Corps.

Finally someone gave me a chance with a small Nevada newspaper. Since then — back in 1987 — I’ve lived in a daze. I shared a back seat ride with former NFL owner Bud Adams; interviewed my boyhood sports idol (Joe Kapp) for an uninterrupted hour; obtained a sideline photo pass for a NFL game (San Francisco vs. Houston, Christmas Day 1993); shook the hand of former president Ronald Reagan; covered with pen and camera several major college, NBA and MLB games; been inducted into the Bartlesville Athletic Hall of Fame; been honored by multiple government proclamations from the local to the state level; been nominated as the Oklahoma Sportswriter of the Year; befriended a pro wrestling legend (Rey Urbano — the “Great Kabooki”), who trusted me with his house key so that I could feed his dog (Eric) while he attended wrestling conventions; been within just a few feet of sports legends Charles Barkley, Spud Webb, Jerry Sloan, John Stockton, Danny Ainge, Wally Joyner, Chris Berman, Dale Murphy, Brett Butler, LaVel Edwards, Mark McGwire, Rickey Henderson, Jason White, Bob Kurland, Steve Young, Jerry Rice, Archie Griffin and others. 

(Archie Griffin sent me a “thank-you” letter on Ohio State stationery for an article I wrote about him — a career souvenir I treasure.)

Other experiences: I’ve stolen pizza from ESPN, interviewed the senior vice-president of the Baseball Hall of Fame, witnessed the moment a young athlete suffered a spinal injury that made him a quadriplegic and developed a friendship with him that lasted nearly 25 years, been within a quarter-mile of a devastating tornado outside our newspaper office in a northern California town — and many others.

I lived in Italy for nearly two years while serving a church mission, earned an honorable discharge from the Marines, had more than 30 poems published, excelled for five years as a distance runner, been bitten by a savage dog and been treed by another dog, known poverty with only popcorn to eat, played Gandalf the Wizard in my junior high’s version of “The Hobbit,” served as the waterboy on our state championship high school football team, endured four knee operations, delivered the newspaper to the grandmother of the singing Osmond family — and felt the presence of God in my heart and mind and His protection — and more.

But I would have traded most of that — and the fame — for a successful family in a life in the shadow of a quiet mountain of content.

Next time you think of it, I hope you'll ask your children or children to go outside on a warm day to throw a ball around.

Have a game of catch on me.