Telephobia

My Google AI defines telephobia as "a specific type of social anxiety characterized by intense dread and avoidance of making or receiving phone calls." I looked it up after procrastinating for an entire morning: I'd chosen leg day at the gym, a thorough house cleaning, and a trip to Walgreens over a simple to-do list of phone calls. The behavioral symptoms made me laugh—they read like a confession. "Deliberately letting calls go to voicemail and only communicating via text." Check. "Procrastinating or completely avoiding necessary, task-oriented calls." Check and check.

I'm an extreme introvert, which explains some of the social anxiety. I've made the requisite adaptations for functioning in the world: first one in, first one out at parties (I circulate best in small groups), quick exits from gatherings, perpetual temptation toward the Irish goodbye rather than the honest farewell. In middle age I've learned to speak less and listen more—a strategy that reduces opportunities for overshare or what I'll euphemistically call "verbal diarrhea."

But here's what doesn't make sense: I don't mind public speaking. Give me a microphone and a crowd and I'm fine. It's disembodied voices through a receiver that make me want to hide. I prefer my people in the flesh—actual faces, actual presence. If we have to communicate at distance, I'll take text or email, where I can edit myself and control the pace. I can craft words on a screen.

What I've learned through hard self-awareness: I need three hours alone to recharge after every four hours of social interaction. I've stopped hoping this improves with age. If anything, I suspect the symptoms are worsening.

If I owe you a phone call, I apologize. Sincerely. A text will arrive soon—much sooner than the call, I can guarantee.

Playing by the Rules

When the kids were small, they learned to play games at their grandparents' table. Candyland and Chutes and Ladders gave way to Uno, which gave way to games of strategy and fierce competition in group Solitaire. They learned the speed and force required to slap a card on the stack, honed their split-second reaction times, respected the rules that made the game possible.

Daniel, in particular, struggled with the black and white boundaries of any game. When he perceived losing, he sought to amend the rules. Why couldn't he flip an extra card, sneak a peek below? If he didn't like the dice roll, shouldn't he try again? His grandparents were patient and unshakeable: no cheating. It's too bad if you don't like how the game is going. You don't get to ignore the rules.

Tears came. Game boards flipped. But Daniel learned.

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After this past week's events—the interference in the World Cup, FIFA's capitulation to demands from our national leader—I've been struck by how many adults never learned that lesson at their grandparents' knees. I know some believe playing by the rules is for suckers, that if you can leverage influence, money, or power to get what you want, you should. The rule is just an obstacle. An inconvenience.

Here's what else life teaches: actions have consequences. If you cheat and the world turns on you, rendering you a villain when you were the plucky underdog the week before, that's not persecution. That's a result. The players seemed uncomfortable with the interference - it wasn't their doing. The coach embraced it. What a sad and unnecessary ending to what had been a brilliant run by USA Soccer.

I hope when my kids have children, I can be patient and thoughtful enough to teach them what Bill and Connie taught ours. We are lucky to have their guidance.

Immersion

International swimmers gathered in Rome last week for the Sette Colli (Seven Hills) meet. Several visited the Vatican, where Pope Leo spoke about sports as an avenue for spiritual growth. He specifically blessed swimming:

"Swimming is practiced while immersed in an element, water, which surrounds the person. This symbolically recalls an aspect that has shaped us from our mother's womb: to live means learning to move in harmony with others and with the environment around us." — Pope Leo

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Though I'm no longer a practicing Catholic, reading the Pope's blessing on my favorite pastime thrilled me—especially his correlation between sport and harmony with others and the environment. When I immerse myself in water, particularly during summer heat, I find peace. I hear only the slosh of water in my ears, watch clouds through nose bubbles on my back, wash away anxieties with each bilateral stroke. My joy in the sport renews itself with every lap.

Pope Leo also noted that sport promotes individual values: commitment, solidarity, honesty—the watch never lies. I witness my swimmers demonstrate these qualities on the deck, and appreciate them in myself, in the young people I coach, and in my own children. The Pope said it best: "the age of competition passes, but those values remain."

I saw those same values again last week, watching World Cup soccer fans fill stadiums across North America. Different countries, languages, colors, passions—all immersed in the same experience. Norwegian fans thundering their rows, Argentine supporters dancing in the stands, French crowds erupting together. The solidarity was palpable. Spectators chose which matches to watch based not just on the game itself but on the electricity of the crowd, the singing and emotion that filled the stands.

Both immersion in water and immersion in community seem to offer the same thing: harmony with others, commitment to something beyond ourselves, the feeling of being held by something larger. Maybe that's what we're starved for—these moments when individual joy becomes collective, when the watch stops mattering and only presence counts.

The Mountains are Calling

We've tipped over the solstice and now roll downhill toward Independence Day, which always marked the unofficial end of summer's beginning—back when my kids were pint-sized swimmers with goggles too big for their faces and hair bleached pale from chlorine. The Fourth meant one more week of swim league, one more week until family vacation, and a prompt to schedule back-to-school shopping and medical checkups.

We're past that stage now. This year, the Fourth signifies something different: William's week-long company holiday and his return home to adventure in the mountains with us. Saturday we saw a mountain portrait captioned with John Muir's words: "The mountains are calling, and I must go." The phrase keeps circling through my mind, a siren song for cooler weather, leg muscles screaming through miles up of steep incline, panoramic views of the Rockies spreading endlessly beneath us.

But I'm reading something that throws a spoke into that wheel of anticipation. Via audiobook, I'm moving through The Correspondent by Virginia Evans—told entirely through letters, emails, unsent journal entries. Different voices and perspectives charm and beguile me, and the novel reminds me of my father's letters to my mother during his months in Vietnam. Letters, a lost art, reach the highest planes of literary expression in this book. I found myself longing for that form—the deliberate slowness of writing a letter, the care it requires, the permanence of ink on paper.

This morning, driving home from the pool, listening to the audiobook, I felt regret about not having letters from my own life. Then I remembered this blog—seventeen years of writing things down that might otherwise disappear. Not the same as a handwritten letter, but something. The mountains are calling. William's coming home. And somewhere in between, I'm writing it all down.

Collective Joy

 "It was an overwhelming sense of joy and solidarity and diversity and community and a good amount of crying and a lot of contact high." - Jon Stewart on NYC celebration after Knicks win

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Living his best sports-fan life in New York City, our older son spent Saturday night in a Financial District bar watching the Knicks win the NBA title for the first time in 53 years, then Tuesday afternoon cheering France to a 3-1 World Cup victory. From shouts of "Knicks in Five!" to "Allez le bleu," he's ping-ponged from one joyous, dance-filled mosh pit to another. The rest of us live vicariously through his videos and photos. One clip lurches from one exuberant group of patrons to another—all jumping, cheering, sloshing their expensive alcohol right out of their cups.

Watching the outdoor Knicks watch parties across the five boroughs filled my heart and made me cry. How often do we witness collective joy that transcends socioeconomic, racial, and gender lines? New York City survived 9-11, was hardest-hit by the pandemic, seems ground zero for big city struggles. To see its people embrace a common victory lifted something in me. The last Knicks championship happened the day after my younger brother was born. I joked with Mom yesterday that Dad was home supposedly watching me while she was in labor, but really watching the Knicks game on TV.

I crashed briefly after realizing basketball was finished, only to realize a wave of near-manic religiosity from World Cup fans had crashed on our shores. Scottish supporters took over Boston Common with bagpipers marching to Fenway. French crowds thronged Central Park. Norwegians "rowed" their way up escalators. Argentine fans partied in Kansas City. Surreal. Joyful. A life-long sports fan, I'm thrilled that so many came to our country to share their passion with us.

I know sports won't fix inflation or water security or the weight of real struggle. But collective joy—the kind that spills across neighborhoods and unites strangers from different countries and backgrounds—that matters too. It's practice. It's proof we're capable of standing together and wanting something.