“GOOD MORNING BIG BLUE NATION!” That’s the greeting reverberating across the airwaves of Louisville Talk Radio every weekday morning at precisely 8:06 am. The booming voice and unmistakable laugh belong to Michael Bennett, host of the increasingly popular talk show, Just the Tip, spotlighting University of Kentucky sports.

Gregarious by nature, Michael wants to be everybody’s best friend. He describes himself as “happy go lucky,” and everybody who has met the former UK Baseball pitcher turned orthopedic neuro-spinal sales distributor turned radio talk show host, would be quick to agree. His jocular and jesting on-air banter with show producer and co-host Shannon “The Dude” Grigsby never fails to bring a big smile to anybody tuning in. Honestly, I don’t know anybody around who doesn’t love “jolly” Michael Bennett.

Appearances can be deceiving, and Michael Bennett—like 16 million other adults in the U.S.—struggles with the deep, dark side of a debilitating illness known as depression. Michael’s demon is just a small part of the larger spectrum of mental illness disorders, which affects nearly 44 million adults in this country. That’s one in five people—burdened and battered by a health condition which—even in 2018—remains so ridiculously stigmatized that many are fearful to admit they have it.

“This is something I didn’t want to admit to my family,” Michael recently acknowledged to me. “My wife knew about it, but my boys didn’t know about it. My dad didn’t know about it. I’m very close to my sister, and she didn’t know about it. To be able to say something about it to someone like you was a reopening—a rebirth.”

Michael Bennett and I have two things in common. The first is our love for University of Kentucky sports. We initially met at a football press conference at the beginning of the 2017 season, which triggered a series of serendipitous events and conversations that ultimately resulted in the unveiling of this very personal story.

The second commonality in our lives is that we’ve both been faced with the immense challenges of dealing with depression—Michael, directly as a victim—and me, through the suffering of my spouse (https://huangswhinings.com/2017/04/11/in-sickness-and-in-health) and another close personal friend.

As we’re sitting here and talking on a beautiful late-summer afternoon, looking down from the bleachers onto Kroger Field, I still can’t believe that someone so outwardly jovial could be depressed. And yet, I can fully believe it because depression is as sneaky as an onside kick in the gut. It lulls you into a state of denial, stiff-arms you into apathy or acceptance, and shames you to where you feel vulnerably exposed.

“I noticed depression coming in after my mom passed away,” Michael relayed to me as his voice began cracking. “I lost her 18 years ago, and I still get teary-eyed talking about her. I’m very close with my family. I’m especially close with my mom and dad. That’s when it hit. When my mom passed away, I disappeared for about four or five years.”

Disappearing meant being exhausted and tired all the time. It meant wanting to sleep all the time. It meant being numb day in and day out. Michael described it like being handcuffed to a wheelchair and not being able to do anything about it. It was debilitating. When friends asked if he wanted to talk, that just drove him further into seclusion. The saddest part of all was missing a lot of what went on in his children’s lives during those formative years.

“Looking back, I didn’t know anything was wrong at the time,” Michael admitted. “I just knew I didn’t want to be around anybody. I didn’t know anything about depression. I wasn’t even aware that I suffered and struggled with any sort of anxiety. The people that knew me knew that something wasn’t right. My wife knew it especially. I didn’t want to be around anybody.”

Michael’s wife, Patricia, is a real gem. People such as she—spouses turned caregivers, who must live with the daily emotional turmoil of watching their loved ones spiral into such depths of despair—deserve sainthood status. Balancing a career while raising a family isn’t easy. Doing it alone, while dealing with the flux and uncertainty of Michael’s depression, would drive many to the brink.

“I don’t know how someone like you or my wife overcomes living with a severely depressed spouse,” Michael said. “I’ve told her numerous times in the past, ‘Why do you stay with me?’ I don’t get it. I would have been long gone. I credit her a lot for getting us where we are. If it weren’t for my wife, my family, my boys…when I finally admitted it to them—they kind of understand now what I’m going through. They helped me out quite a bit.”

Depressive disorders have wrecked many a marriage, with the spouse bearing the brunt of the illness’s vicious attack. On the worst of days, you tell yourself that this is not what you signed up for—that you deserve to have a happy life with a spouse who is “normal.” Just seeing other couples out for a simple evening together triggers painful thoughts of what once was or could have been.

“Marriage is a promise, through sickness and in health,” Patricia clarified. “Everyone in the family who is affected by mental illness gets to a crossroads. And you stand at that crossroads, and you must make a decision that you’re going to go down one side or the other. It would have been so easy to just walk away from Michael. But then you realize all the people that would be undone by that.”

Patricia’s ever-present faith and tenacious character would not let her simply walk away. She continually lived on pins and needles, not knowing whether the next twenty-four hours would be good or bad, depending on how Michael was feeling that day. Not knowing how his illness would play out over the long haul also ratcheted up anxiety levels within her own mind. “I literally had to take it one step at a time,” she recalled. “I tried to take each day as a gift. I tried to find something good about every day. Sometimes I had to work really hard to find it. I took the boys to baseball games, was involved with the kids in school, and volunteered all the time. Looking back, that was my salvation—to get a chance to be around other caring adults and to see our kids flourish. That was the happiness that got me through.”

Finally, a breaking point came. Something woke Michael up. “Some people may roll their eyes,” Michael hesitantly confessed. “But it was the power of God, the power of my church, and the power of prayer. I firmly believe it was the power of my faith.” Michael Bennett can tell you exactly where he was the day he decided to go see a therapist. He knows the exact time. When he made that phone call, he immediately felt like a fifty-thousand-pound burden had been lifted off of him.

“This was about twelve to thirteen years ago,” he continued. “I credit a lady who was a good friend of mine. Her son and my son were very close friends. She started talking to me about how I was suffering from depression just as she had. Here was someone I trusted who had suffered just as I was suffering. She gave me the name and number of her personal therapist. That did it for me.”

Michael went through the usual series of prescribed counseling sessions. For the first year, he would just go in and sit and not say anything. He wondered what in the world he was doing there. Then, his natural frugalness kicked in. He started worrying that he was wasting money by just sitting there like a zombie during these sessions. He told himself, “Don’t waste money—talk.” Initially, his counselor would just ask him questions and wait him out for answers. She didn’t force Michael to talk. She said she was there to help him whenever he wanted her help.

Slowly but surely, the counselor started suggesting more things, and Michael started opening up. She suggested going to a psychiatrist who could prescribe medication. Michael agreed, and the medication immediately helped. He was on medication for five or six years. He tried to discontinue the pills for a time but found out he needed to go back on them just a few months later. That happens a lot in depression treatment. There’s a lot of trial and error, a lot of ups and downs, and a lot of recurring frustrations when dealing with unmapped areas of the human mind.

Successful treatment of depression requires a team-oriented approach. If not a village, at least an outpost or two. Michael has had two fantastic therapists. He thinks his endocrinologist walks on water. It took a while, but he thinks he’s also found the psychiatrist who fits him the best—someone with more of a holistic treatment approach. “Medication can be quite helpful, but why not supplement it with other methods as well?” he pointed out. “Just because you’re dealing with a mental illness, doesn’t mean you neglect the other physical aspects of your overall health.”

So why open up now about all of this? Why share his story when he knows the stigma associated with telling it could possibly alter the way people choose to interact with him, or worse—sabotage his career? Two recent encounters shaped his decision.

The first one was with Cameron Mills, the former UK Basketball star and current radio media personality. Earlier this spring, Cameron appeared on Michael’s show as an impromptu guest.

“For a while I’ve thought about talking about my daily struggles on the air,” Michael explained. “For some reason, Cameron and I just kind of clicked. This happened to be the day that Anthony Bourdain, the famous chef, committed suicide. I was going to bring it up as one of my topics, and Cameron beat me to the punch. Cameron told me that it was something we don’t talk enough about, and he confessed that he himself had struggled with opioids while trying to recover from a back injury. When he admitted that on the air. I’m like ‘wow, this is the perfect time.’ I told him right then that I struggle with anxiety and depression—anxiety all my life and depression for the last 18 years. Then we kind of both looked at each other and said, ‘OK we need to talk about this.’ So that day we didn’t hardly talk about sports at all. That was a breaking point for me. Wow, I really admitted it. I admitted it on air…I admitted something that’s very private. And now I’m learning that it can’t be private. So many people are out there struggling that maybe as you said—and it hit me hard when you said it—we can do some good. I thank Cameron Mills for that.”

The second encounter involved overcoming the shame and embarrassment of admitting his struggles directly with people at work. Understand that Michael and Shannon, his co-host, have become really good friends through the show. “I’m leaving the studio after doing the show one day, and I told Shannon that you wanted to talk to me,” Michael said. “I confessed to Shannon that I suffered from anxiety and depression, and that you wanted to interview me about it. Please understand that I was hesitant to tell anybody at work about this because of how it may affect my job. I know in the past that depression has cost me parts of my career.”

Shannon—as he is apt to do a lot—said something that resonated with Michael. He said there may actually be a lot of sympathizers out there, and that getting the story out might just help a lot more of those people who are struggling. “Shannon’s a smart guy,” Michael continued. “He thought this could serve as a turning point for me if I shared it in the right way. He recommended that I do it. He said, ‘Michael, you’ve been successful in life. You’ve made money. It’s hard to believe someone of your stature—you have a beautiful home, you have a beautiful family—could be depressed. How is that? People need to know.”

To many of his listeners, Michael Bennett does appear to have it all. “I’ll tell you right now, I could give it all away if I could to be with my mom again,” he sadly acknowledged.

Commonwealth Stadium holds some incredible memories for Michael Bennett. He points to the corner where he and his family have sat for the past thirty-five years. He tells me he frequently comes here to relax more than anywhere else on campus. It’s a beautiful day, and we’re sitting in this incredible football stadium…and yet there are days where Michael would rather be sitting in his bedroom at home doing nothing. Sometimes, it still takes everything he has just to go outside. That’s the part of depression and mental illness people still can’t understand. It’s brutal, it’s sad, and it really could happen to anyone.

Although things are better now for Michael, depression never completely disappears. It’s always lurking, relentless, ruthless and sneaky, prowling around like a roaring lion, looking for someone to devour. Michael still struggles whenever his boys, now both in college, go back to school. “I have struggled with thoughts of suicide,” Michael sheepishly confessed. “That may be a little too much for you there, but I have. I haven’t gone out and sought to do it. I’ve gone through programs within Baptist Hospital in Louisville that have helped me out quite a bit. But I still get depressed. I still go through periods of anxiety—like when it’s 3:30 in the afternoon and I have to prepare for tomorrow’s show.”

So, what’s up next for Michael Bennett? He’s excited for what the future holds. A lot has transpired in the last eighteen months alone. Last spring, Michael was sitting at the Hooters on Johns Pass, in Madeira Beach, Florida—five minutes from his family home. He’d been in medical sales his entire professional career, and he’d been thinking of what else he could do for the rest of his life. For twenty-five years, he’d been rather successful, calling on orthopedic and neural surgeons, and selling spinal implants. Then depression kicked in, he stopped working, his company wasn’t happy, and he lost his job.

Out of the blue, Michael decided he wanted to host a radio show. Three months later, he’s in contact with people like Mike Pratt setting the wheels in motion. Kyle Macy then signs on for a stint as co-host, and the show is off and running. Next thing you know, he’s got Shannon “The Dude” for his producer and sidekick, as fans tune in and ratings take flight.

“That’s my dream coming true—being able to be a part of a university that I love—that’s near and dear to my heart,” Michael gushed. “Helping it out as much as I can. Promoting this university and the good people surrounding this university. That’s a dream come true.”

For anyone affected by the ravages of depressive disorders, that’s music to our ears. Godspeed, “jolly” Michael Bennett. May your road to recovery be filled with many more carefree days, bowl wins, and national championships.

Dr. John Huang is a retired orthodontist and a volunteer teacher for NAMI (National Alliance on Mental Illness). He currently serves as a sports columnist for Nolan Media Group. If you enjoy his writing, you can reach him at www.huangswhinings.com or follow him on Twitter @KYHuangs.

If you, or someone you know, is suffering from depression and mental illness, please don’t hesitate to seek immediate help. Don’t know where to start? Check out your local NAMI chapter https://www.nami.org/ for resources and contacts.

I’ve been a retired orthodontist now for nearly three years. During that time, I’ve moved from creating beautiful smiles in people’s mouths to—hopefully—creating even more smiles with my passion for writing. My two worlds are not mutually exclusive, so it’s not surprising that occasionally someone I know occupies a spot in both sectors.

Everyone in central Kentucky knows Alan Cutler. Most of you know that, like me, Alan recently retired from the working world. Although outwardly we appear different as night and day, there’s one big part of our lives that we do share in common—our connection to Kentucky and the sporting events which have defined our beloved state. It’s only natural, then, that we join forces to tell our story. When our retired worlds collide, it certainly has the makings for a darn good book.

My first memory of Alan Cutler was seeing him on a local Lexington newscast. Even then, he appeared larger than life to me. His cartoonish Groucho Marx mustache and his brash reporting style screamed stardom from the very beginning. I knew right then that Alan was a master of his craft—a talented sports personality with an uncanny gift for relating to people. Plus, he seemed to be a fantastic storyteller, a vital coup de grace for the making of a book people would flock to read.

Many years later, I had my first personal encounter with Alan when I put braces on his son. For a year and half, I got to see the personal side of the guy that I had previously only known as that dude inside my TV screen. Looking past the theatrics of his outward celebrity mask, I saw instead a caring, compassionate, and concerned parent that only wanted what was best for his son. It was at that point that I knew his life story would definitely make for an interesting read.

“You should write a book,” I casually mentioned to Alan during my first year on the UK media beat. “And I’ll be glad to help you put it together.” He brushed me off immediately with his usual bravado and machismo. In his direct and emphatic style, he implied that no one would be interested. Plus, in my own insecure world, I thought that he felt my opinions had no credibility. I believed that, in Alan’s mind, I was a rich retired orthodontist, conducting bad interviews and writing impertinent columns.

Over the next year, I persisted in badgering Alan to start putting his thoughts together for the book. Imagine my surprise, then, when he finally agreed to do it. Don’t get me wrong, he still had his doubts about the number of interested readers, but I’m glad I finally convinced him that he owed it to the people of Kentucky, to all of BBN, and to all his adoring fans and faithful followers to chronicle his over forty years of dedicated sports coverage.

As devoted retirees, Alan and I want not only to put something together that we’ll both be proud of—but also something that will resonate with YOU, the reader. Sure, we’ll include well-known stories such as his infamous chasing down of Billy Gillispie, but we also want to share some never-before-told tales that’ll leave you surprised, stunned, and perhaps even shocked. I guarantee you’ll bust a gut laughing at many of them. You may even shed a tear or two. But through it all, you’ll finally get that much awaited glimpse of the wacky world according to Alan.

I’ve learned over the years that projects like this take a ton of time and effort. Sometimes they pan out and sometimes they fizzle. In order to have any chance of success, I want to hear from all of you. Over the next several months, I need you to tell me your best Alan Cutler stories. They don’t necessarily have to be funny, or important, or memorable, or even clean for that matter. They just have to be genuine and real. They have to be Alan. Just don’t be surprised if you suddenly see them in print.

John Huang is a columnist for Nolan Media Group. You can reach him by email at KYHuangs@aol.com or on Twitter @KYHuangs. If you enjoy his writing, you can read more at http://www.huangswhinings.com.

 

 

As the old saying goes, “When you have your health, you have everything. When you do not have your health, nothing else matters at all.” In my mind, there are still some virtues in life—such as honor, nobility, and courage—more significant than a healthy heart or vital lungs, but good health is pretty darn important on everyone’s grand scale.

I thus find it hard to believe that in the United States of America—the greatest civilized nation on the face of the earth—a debate still rages about whether or not its citizens deserve basic healthcare. If we believe in supporting public education, roads and infrastructure—then why not something as important as our own health? At its core, the question is this: Is receiving medical treatment a fundamental American right, or is it still only a privilege for those lucky enough to have insurance to pay for it?

When I was in dental school back in the early eighties, just the mention of universal health care sparked outrage among my colleagues. We questioned the wisdom of government regulation in something so specialized. Selfishly, we didn’t appreciate Uncle Sam capping our earning potential, but we also knew how inherently difficult it would be to implement the dreaded single payer system. We used the same arguments that you’re hearing today—quality of care will plummet, wait times will become interminable, individual choices will all but disappear, doctors will become disgruntled, costs will skyrocket, and our economy will collapse!

Fast forward four decades and the dispute rages on. Understandably, my thoughts on the matter are bit different now than before. Through personal circumstances and shared experiences, I’ve witnessed the devastating effects of preexisting conditions on one’s ability to obtain affordable coverage. I’ve felt first-hand the frustration of having to pay exorbitant out-of-pocket costs due to the routine exclusion of vital mental health benefits. Year after year—as a small business owner—I’ve footed the bill for employee health plans while watching helplessly as benefits decline and premiums soar.

Meanwhile, out-of-touch politicians personally protect themselves and their families with their fancy, gold-plated health plans while slashing the coverage of those who need it the most. Where’s the compassion, care, and concern? Where’s the kind-heartedness and gentleness? Where’s the HUMANITY? How can anybody in their right mind campaign against basic human decency and dignity? When those on Capitol Hill vote to dismantle their own individual health plans, then I’ll listen to what they say. Until then, I want exactly what they’re having.

I’m thoroughly convinced now that basic healthcare should be a right of every single American. The Affordable Care Act in its current form has many flaws, but we must adhere to the premise that all Americans, regardless of health and preexisting conditions are entitled to a basic, life-enhancing level of medical care in this country. Settling for anything less flies in the face of our Judeo-Christian roots.

In order to keep any healthcare system financially sustainable, compromises are required, and expectations will need to be tempered. If we want the system to work, we may need to wait a bit longer for non-urgent services. So what if we have to occasionally swallow a generic pill. Those who desire upgrades can pay for them accordingly. In the meantime, fraud and abuse will need to be curbed, tort reform enacted, and individual accountability ramped up. More educational programs will need to be instituted. We simply can’t let the neglect of a vital issue like basic healthcare lead to the deception, division, and destruction of our great nation. After all, every other developed country on this planet has found a way to provide for their own. If the United States of America can put a man on the moon, surely we’ll be able to find a way to take care of people closer to home.

In the gospel of Matthew, Jesus says “Truly I tell you, whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers or sisters of mine, you did for me.” As a democracy tasked with putting the right people in office, we’d be wise to take heed. Our nation’s health is hanging in the balance.

John Huang is a retired orthodontist. He currently serves as a sports columnist for Nolan Media Group. If you enjoy his writing, you can read more at www.huangswhinings.com or follow him on Twitter @KYHuangs.

The word fan is short for fanatic. With that being said, most fans know there are still both acceptable and unacceptable methods of expressing your fanaticism for your particular team. It’s OK to prioritize never missing a UK basketball game for nineteen straight years ala the late “super fan” Bob Wiggins. It’s also fully justifiable to get a championship 40-0 tattoo even before your team wins the championship as did Rock Wright in 2015. What isn’t acceptable, however, are egregious acts such as an Alabama fan poisoning the oak trees on Toomer’s Corner in retaliation for perceived affronts by rival Auburn fans. Kentucky fans allegedly making death threats against referee John Higgins for disputed calls he made in the North Carolina game also cross the proverbial line of decency.

I experienced my own mini version of “fandom run amok” after UK’s big victory over USC this past weekend. As a member of the media, I opted to take advantage of a post-game stadium-to-parking lot media shuttle the University of South Carolina was providing for all working members.

I knew something was a bit amiss when the golf cart shuttle driver drove right past me with a distinctly unwelcome scowl on his face. Regretfully, I never noted his name, so from here on I’ll just refer to him as Mr. Scowly-face. I caught up with Mr. Scowly-face as he stopped to pick up a couple of other media types. I asked him if he were going to the media lot, to which he abruptly replied, “Yes, but not for you.” After a brief moment of confusion, I realized he was staring directly at the UK logo plastered on my blue UK shirt. This guy was a die-hard Gamecock fan and he was mad as heck that we had just crushed his team.

I’m not a mind reader so I can’t say with absolute certainty I knew exactly what he was thinking. Maybe he was just tired, or perhaps he was having a terrible day, or maybe he just had a very warped sense of humor, but I doubt it. Mr. Scowly-face seemed dead serious about NOT giving me a lift. I promise you I didn’t do anything to provoke him. My immediate post-game smugness had long since dissipated. I was no longer fist pumping or chest thumping. There were no “Go Big Blue” or “How ‘bout them Cats” chants coming from my mouth. I was just one exhausted dude looking for the quickest way home. My only indiscretion was foregoing my customary suit and tie and wearing my casual team colors into hostile enemy territory.

As I headed on foot toward the parking lot, Mr. Scowly-face apparently changes his mind, tells me to hop on, and blasts out of the shuttle stop like Apollo 13 on liftoff. I remember immediately feeling an impending sense of doom as to how fast we were traveling—almost as if Mr. Scowly-face was on some sort of Kamikaze mission to dispose of an enemy journalist. Right before impact, I hear a “WATCH OUT” from one of my fellow riders at which time we crash head-on into another unsuspecting golf cart.

I’m immediately jolted out of my Twitter-induced reverie by the suddenness of the impact. My left knee took a bit of a hit, but otherwise all fingers and toes are accounted for. Fortunately, no one else appears seriously hurt either as Mr. Scowly-face inspects his golf cart for any potential damage. Forgive me for being a bit melodramatic, as one of my best friend’s mom was killed when her golf cart flipped over– but I’m praising God that we managed to somehow stay upright. Miraculously, his cart remains functional and Mr. Scowly-face proceeds on to our intended destination. “Well now you’ll have something exciting to write about,” are his parting words to me. Be careful what you ask for.

King Solomon once said, “Better a patient person than a warrior, a person who controls his temper than one who takes a city.” Solomon could have been talking to Mr. Scowly-face or to all sports fans in general. When the Cats lose, I’m often ready to blow a gasket. Ironically, that’s also why sports are so great. We can be passionate. We can be intense and emotional. We can get mad and vent because at the end of the day, it’s all just fun and games for us fans. It’s only when we take a crushing defeat on the field or court and confuse it with the important events in our real lives, that we end up doing stupid and hurtful things that violate the rules of common sense and decency.

I’m not mad at Mr. Scowly-face. In fact, I feel kind of sorry for him. But bad choices come with consequences. The reality is that if one of those carts did flip over, this commentary would have taken on a completely different tone. I’ve been told that the University of South Carolina is investigating this incident. Ray Tanner, the director of athletics has been informed and the department promises that it will be appropriately addressed. In the meantime, for my next shuttle ride in enemy territory, I’m going back to my neutral-colored suit and tie.

If you enjoy my writing, please visit me again at Huangswhinings.com or follow me on Twitter @KYHuangs.

Check out my most recent UK Sports coverage at http://www.themanchesterenterprise.com/category/uk-live-breathe-blue/

Check out my most recent Cincinnati Bengals coverage at http://www.bluegrasssportsnation.com/category/writers/john-huang/

Like Lebron returning to Cleveland, I’m coming home. Home in this case is Columbia, South Carolina, my first home away from home. I’ve got some pretty fond memories of my years spent in the Palmetto state three distant decades ago—a bachelor pad overlooking a lake, a red Chevy Camaro, a stereo tape deck, and fledgling cable TV—everything a twenty-something dude earning a real paycheck could want or need living out on his own for the very first time. I eventually met my wife and got married in Columbia, in the shadows of Gamecock football and the hundred-degree heat of the basic training brigades at Ft. Jackson. But unlike Lebron, I’m not returning to the adoring cheers and accolades of my hometown fans. I’m returning in a far less celebratory and festive role. I’m coming home to bury my mother-in-law.

Thongkrue “Jenny” Contreras died peacefully on the afternoon of July 4. During her time here on earth, she was as kind and as loving a person as anyone could have hoped for (Sorry, they’ll be no mother-in-law jokes here). Born in Bangkok, Thailand, she overcame tremendous odds, somehow made it to the United States, and carved out a living for her family with minimal financial resources or English skills. She loved her son, daughter, and granddaughter with unfailing passion. I remember her being as generous as she could be, always welcoming people into her home and volunteering her fabulous Thai meals to whatever worthwhile charity that beckoned. It seemed she forever had a special place in her heart for the downtrodden and sick. Even in death, she selflessly continued to give by donating her body to scientific research.

Standing by her bedside, listening to the rhythmic hiss of the life support ventilator, I felt many of the usual emotions experienced when watching a parent die—sadness and sorrow, gratitude and gratefulness, remorse and regret—wishing that I could have spent more time in her presence, getting to know her better, and telling her I loved her like a dutiful son-in-law. As I held her hand and kissed her forehead for the final time, I also felt an unexpected surge of confusion and uncertainty, bubbling over into a sentiment of exasperation bordering on outrage. My mind races and head spins. I’m upset and embarrassed as I find myself shaking my fist at a suddenly distant and uncaring God.

For Jenny was a devout practicing Buddhist—through death, supposedly confined to an endless dark cycle of hopeless reincarnation. As immediate family members gather around to stare at her lifeless body, I silently pray for the Holy Spirit’s mighty presence to allow me to minister to her the Blood of Christ and His Eternal Kingdom before her last breath passes. As she lays there unresponsively, I’m torn inwardly, secretly wondering how such a loving and benevolent God could possibly allow her soul to so unfairly perish. For the reality is that Jenny was born into a culture where being Thai is synonymous with being Buddhist. Let’s face it—had we been born in Thailand, all of us would most likely also be burning incense and seeking enlightenment from Lord Buddha.

According to the tenets of the Christian faith, the only way to eternal life is through Jesus Christ. As I sit in Sunday School class with other believers, it’s quite easy for me to accept this reality as truth. We banter freely about predestination, free will, salvation, and damnation on an intellectual plane. We’re grateful for the saving grace of our privileged lives and are quick to acknowledge our role in spreading this privilege to others. We go on mission trips, sharing our faith and resources with those who are hungry and thirsty. Everything seems crystal clear as we nod our heads in agreement and praise God for his goodness, grace, and mercy. We feel good about ourselves. It’s only when we are forced to reconcile the tenets of our faith with the reality of the eternal lives of our unsaved friends and family members that those irritating seeds of doubt and frustration begin to creep in.

LORD, WHAT IN THE WORLD IS GOING ON HERE? Jenny identified far more with her faith than many of the Christians here in America. She led a far more virtuous earthly existence than most professed Christ followers I know. She prayed and attended temple worship far more frequently than I’ve ever spent in church pews. She definitely displayed more generosity than I could ever muster in ten lifetimes. And yet, she (and 33 million other Buddhist) are doctrinally damned to eternal hell. WHERE’S THE JUSTICE IN THAT?

I know in my head that Christians are saved by faith and not by pious works. I know in my heart that I’ve probably sinned more than Rick Pitino on a Vegas bender. I don’t really want JUSTICE. What I really want is MERCY! Honestly, I can’t profess to know who God chooses to save and who he allows to perish beyond the veil of death. I can only hope and pray that his mercy and grace extends to other “non-believers” in the same compassionate and loving manner that none of us “believers” deserve.

The usual words of comfort just don’t quite cut it in my bereavement. I want so badly to believe that Jenny’s no longer suffering, that she’s in a better place, and in the glorious presence of saints. Rather than basking in the streets of gold, however, it terrifies me that she just might be undergoing torture in a burning lake of fire. For many of you, a mother-in-law in hell is the ultimate answer to prayer. Not for me. I’d love nothing more than to be eternally reunited with mine in heaven. Jenny Contreras, one of these days, I’m coming home for good. I hope you’re there to greet me.

If you enjoy my writing, please continue to visit me at http://www.huangswhinings.com and follow me on Twitter @KYHuangs

Everyone loves a winner. The Cincinnati Reds are currently on a surprising uptick, and just like Manager Bryan Price, I want to ride this wave of improbable victories for as long as I can. That’s why I’m headed to the Queen City to watch the Reds before they plummet into the abyss of seasonal obscurity. This unexpected surge of momentum will no doubt fade into the stark reality of mediocrity, so I want to catch the Redlegs while they’re still pumping life and before the remaining games this year become totally meaningless.

You see, it wasn’t always this way. I fell in love with The Big Red Machine growing up in the 70’s. Rose, Morgan, Griffey, Bench, Perez, Foster, Concepcion, Geronimo…I had the entire lineup down. I knew all the stats and kept every single box score before anything was remotely electronic. The love affair with my beloved team was not only intense, lustful and steamy—but both of us were also committed and sacrificial. I rooted like crazy for the Reds, and in return they filled me with unsurpassed contentment and joy. I vividly remember Pete Rose hitting the game winning homerun in the face of the Met’s fans in game four of the 1973 playoffs in New York, Joe Morgan’s back to back MVP awards in ’75 and ’76, and of course, George Foster and all his towering, game-winning homeruns. Can anyone say “Yahtzee”?

When the Red’s fortunes subsequently went south, though, my obsession with Major-League Baseball did likewise. I still watched with great interest as Pete Rose broke the all-time hits record, I still occasionally tuned in to Marty and Joe broadcasts during the dog days of summer, and I still felt glimpses of pride when the Reds resurfaced to win the World Series back in 1990. But it was never the same. Something was terribly missing, especially after Sparky got fired and Pete became a Philly.

I guess you could say that our relationship wasn’t an actual breakup. I didn’t start dating the Cubs or Cardinals. There was no infidelity or cheating on my part. I think we simply drifted apart, the initial spark and exuberance of youth gradually extinguished by the passage of time. I still cheered half-heartedly for Eric Davis, Barry Larkin and Ken Griffey Jr., but by that time, the passion had soured. It wasn’t genuine, born more out of a sense of filial responsibility rather than true love.

I want to recapture that passion of yesteryear, but I know that reconciliation often takes an arduous path—especially when dealing with unknown entities. I’ve got a bit of a jump start as I’m already somewhat familiar with Billy Hamilton, Zach Cozart and Joey Votto on the current roster. However, I know I’m also going to need some help as I probably couldn’t distinguish between Eugenio Juarez or Jose Peraza if my life depended on it. I still know more about Julio Iglesias’ song lyrics than Raisel Iglesias’ ERA. You mean Bronson Arroyo is still pitching? You have to be kidding me. Are Jack Billingham and Don Gullett still available also?

I do know one thing. Relationships take time to repair, and you have to start somewhere. Great American Ballpark provides the perfect setting to reconnect for an amorous tryst—the surrounding riverfront promenade and postgame libations beckoning to this love-starved geezer. Even though I’m older, more jaded and weathered this time around, if given a chance I know I can still hang with these youthful Cincinnati hipsters. I’m not talking about a short fling with a little blue pill. I’m talking about falling in real love again—the type of love that’s patient, kind, trustworthy and everlasting. It’s exactly the kind of love I expected from The Big Red Machine the first time around. Hey Cincinnati Reds, I’m coming for you again.

This blog posting was originally submitted as an exclusive column for Bluegrass Sports Nation publications.

If you enjoy my writing, please continue to visit me at http://www.huangswhinings.com and follow me on Twitter @KYHuangs.