Wednesday, August 19, 2020

My Mayflower Grandparents: Stephen Hopkins, Thomas Rogers and Their Children

(This post is a follow-up to an introductory post about my personal genealogical journey.)

When do you think about your ancestors?

 I never thought much about mine until I got older in life. But now, I think about them often. Any time I face a challenge or a bit of misfortune, I use my thoughts of them to trigger an attitude adjustment. Microwave on the blink? Raining outside? Car refuses to start? Before I can fully form a proper curse word, I think first about the millions of people in the world who wish they had my problems. And then I consider my ancestors.

Oh, I realize they likely would smirk and maybe feel a tad embarrassed, comparing my troubles to the challenges they faced getting me where I am today. Fortunately, I’ve done enough genealogical research to know some of them pretty well, despite the distance of the ages. Many, of course, left no paper trail. But some have well-documented life stories. And four of them in particular always give me pause when I ponder the hardships and the terrifying challenges they most certainly endured.

On September 6 of 1620, those four were among 130 travelers crammed aboard a small vessel about the length of a Boeing 737 and only twice as wide headed west from Plymouth, England, into the Atlantic, well aware their departure had come too late in the season to provide high prospects of a successful voyage. They would almost certainly face some winter weather on the high seas. One of them had a second wife who was eight months pregnant, adding to the fears she would almost certainly give birth during the two-month trip.

Think about your last Southwest Airlines flight to Las Vegas, then imagine spending two months on that plane—but sailing on the ocean. And, instead of arriving at a modern terminal with food and lodging, all you could anticipate on the end of your voyage would be the unknown threats of a hostile new world. But they were eager to accept the risks for the potential reward of opportunity for a freer and more prosperous life.

My lineage from Stephen Hopkins as configured by the WikiTree Relationship Finder tool.

Heading my family’s representation were my two tenth great-grandfathers, Thomas Rogers and Stephen Hopkins. They didn’t know each other when they joined the expedition, and they had no way of knowing they would have grandchildren who would marry and bring their families together. Although both were religious like all men of their era, these two men boarded the Mayflower with dramatically different backgrounds.

Thomas Rogers, 49, was a legitimate Pilgrim separatist who had lived the last few years in Holland seeking religious freedom. He traveled with his 17-year-old son, Joseph Rogers, leaving his 47-year-old wife and my tenth great-grandmother, Alice Cosford Rogers to wait in Holland for Thomas and Joseph to establish a home in the new world. She would never see it, dying in Leiden, Zuid-Holland, the Netherlands in 1622. Ironically, Thomas was destined to precede her in death as one of the first to perish at Plymouth Colony during the harsh winter of 1621. But Joseph would survive to become my ninth great-grandfather. Joseph's son Thomas would marry Stephen's granddaughter, and their third child, Hannah Rogers, would become my seventh great-grandmother.

In contrast with Thomas Rogers, 39-year-old Stephen Hopkins boarded the ship as one of the adventurers using the Pilgrims to seek his fortune in the new world. He would be considered one of the “strangers” among the Pilgrim “saints”—as the crew of the Mayflower later described their passengers. And Stephen was leading an entourage. His group included his 14-year-old daughter Constance, who would become my ninth great-grandmother, her 12-year-old brother Giles and their pregnant stepmother, 35-year-old Elizabeth Fisher Hopkins. It also included his two-year-old daughter, Damaris, born after Stephen had married Elizabeth three years earlier following the death of my tenth great-grandmother, Mary Kent Hopkins at the age of 30. Besides his family, Stephen also accepted responsibility for two young indentured servants eager to learn his trade as a tanner: Edward Leister, about 20, and Edward Doty, 21.

But Hopkins was bringing more than a large family aboard the ship. He carried with him the priceless commodity of experience. Stephen was the only Mayflower passenger who had previously lived in North America, having sailed for England’s Jamestown Colony a decade before on a trip as famous for its mishaps as its successes. His knowledge of the land and its inhabitants would prove vital to the military and political leaders of the Mayflower expedition, Myles Standish and William Bradford, in the months to come.

Stephen Hopkins easily ranks as the most fascinating and inspiring member of my family tree. Although Stephen never wrote a memoir like Standish or Bradford, recent genealogical research has lifted the curtain on his exploits, prompting the publication of several books about his contribution to the creation of our nation.

Notably, Mayflower historian Caleb Johnson dug deep to prove that the Stephen Hopkins who arrived aboard the Mayflower in 1620 was indeed the same Stephen Hopkins who had been at Jamestown ten years before. Johnson’s 2007 book, Here Shall I Die Ashore, provides a detailed biography of Stephen and verification of the research. In addition, Johnson maintains a vital web site about Mayflower research at Caleb Johnson’s Mayflower History.

Although Johnson counts nine Mayflower passengers among his ancestors, Stephen Hopkins is not one of them. But Johnson’s meticulous research in the 1990s clarified a lot of information about Hopkins, and Johnson recounts his genealogical journey in the introduction to his Hopkins biography.

He describes the Hopkins personal adventure as “extraordinarily fascinating” adding: “He just seems to have been everywhere and experienced everything, whether it was a shipwreck in Bermuda, a near shipwreck on the shoals of Cape Cod, a shallop-wreck on Clark’s Island, a hurricane or a water spout, a death sentence, or a fine for selling beer too expensively, meeting Pocahontas or housing Squanto, signing up for the Pequot War, or heading off on a diplomatic mission to the great Wampanoag sachem Massasoit Ousemaquin.”

More recently, San Diego attorney and Mayflower history buff Jonathan Mack published another biography in 2020 entitled A Stranger Among Saints: Stephen Hopkins, the Man Who Survived Jamestown and Saved Plymouth.

Also this year, Stephen received the fictional treatment in The London Years of Stephen Hopkins, with retired police investigator Michael McCarthy imagining what might have happened in the years between 1615 and 1620 when Stephen returned to London from Jamestown to collect his children before returning to North America.

Grandmother Constance also has been fictionalized in a young adult romance novel entitled Constance: A Story of Early Plymouth by Patricia Clapp. And, when National Geographic produced its 2015 television mini-series about the Pilgrims, Saints & Strangers, Stephen emerged as a central character portrayed by the Irish actor Ray Stevenson.

Stephen Hopkins was baptized on April 30 of 1581 in the Church of All Saints at Upper Clatford in Hampshire, England, near the Anton River, born the son of John and Elizabeth Williams Hopkins. More details about his lineage and life are available with sources and discussion on his profile at the WikiTree genealogical web site and at the web site for his heritage society. Stephen had two half-siblings born to his father and first wife, but he was the first child of John and his second wife. Not much is known about the lives of those two half-siblings, William and Alice. Stephen also had a younger sister named Susanna, but not much is known about her either. The family had lived as farmers in this area for several generations. When Stephen was five or six, however, the family relocated to the city of Winchester, where John apparently served as an archer in the local militia, according to Johnson’s research. John’s sudden death in 1593 left Elizabeth as a widow to tend her four children.

Reviewing John’s estate records, Johnson concluded that the family likely lived comfortably enough but it is not clear what John did for work in Winchester. Because his stepmother did not remarry, 12-year-old Stephen likely became an apprentice of some sort. Although Stephen does not emerge into any written records again until 1605 with the baptism of his first daughter, Elizabeth, it is possible to conclude a few things about his character development during those missing 12 years based upon known facts about his later years. Elizabeth was destined to die in 1613, about the same time as her mother while Stephen was still at Jamestown.

Stephen obviously had ambition and curiosity because he somehow learned to read well enough to land a job as a minister’s clerk and psalmist on that 1609 voyage to Jamestown. He also was known to have a trade as a tanner by the time he joined the Mayflower expedition, so he must have learned that profession somehow in his youth. It is also clear that young Stephen learned to be articulate and likely boasted a quick wit, while also harboring an independent and rebellious streak. Let’s not forget courage, a quality assumed for anyone willing to accept the risk of the voyages he did.

Outspoken later when organizing a mutiny on Bermuda and convincing enough to talk his way off the gallows, Stephen also was known as enough of a Puritan to fit with the Separatist Pilgrims—the “Saints” of the new colony—and that distinction would have been a dangerous admission in the religious turmoil of early Seventeenth Century England. It also reveals a thoughtful side to Stephen because Puritans actually ranked as the intellectual skeptics of their time, challenging the established religious orders in the face of dangerous retaliation and conducting church services that often sounded more like philosophical lectures than religious zealotry.

Stephen also likely enjoyed strong drink and could resort to violence, based on later court records from Plymouth where he ran afoul of the law for battery on one occasion and was fined for overcharging on liquor as a tavern keeper of some sort. I have uncovered no known physical descriptions or portraits of Stephen, but it’s safe to assume he was athletic and imposing enough to attract followers for some of the more dangerous missions when he later served as a leader. He could not have survived Bermuda and Jamestown, for example, without an ability to handle physical challenges.

Jamestown called to Stephen Hopkins in 1609 in the form of an opportunity while he and his family were living in Hursley, Hampshire. His occupation there is unknown, but it is believed that his wife’s family had operated a tavern so he might have been involved as a shopkeeper. One record indicates an eviction by a “widow Kent” around this time, but no details have survived. He also might have been plying his trade as a tanner. But it was his ability to read that caught the eye of a local minister, Reverend Richard Buck, who was signed to join a relief mission bringing a new governor to Jamestown.

Buck needed a clerk and someone to read scripture—a “psalmist”—and he offered Stephen that job as a seven-year indenture. Although it meant leaving his wife and three children in England, the indenture also offered Stephen the opportunity for something he likely would never have by staying in England: The chance to become a landholder. So, he climbed aboard a ship called the Sea Venture on June 2, 1609, with Reverend Buck and Sir Thomas Gates, the new governor for the Virginia Company at Jamestown, established just two years before.

The fleet of seven ships plus the flagship Sea Venture encountered the storm on July 25, 1609, according to the journal of survivor Silvester Jourdaine, published in 1613. Separated from the fleet, the flagship floundered several days before running aground July 28 on one of the Bermuda islands. Thus, Stephen Hopkins also figures in the origin of one of our most enigmatic scientific questions: What is so dangerous about the so-called Bermuda Triangle, or the Devil’s Triangle as it’s also been known through the centuries since. Besides Hopkins, Buck, Gates and Jourdaine, the company of 150 included other notable individuals, including the admiral and privateer Sir George Somers, later acclaimed as the founder of Bermuda. It was Somers who had taken the helm during the storm and sought salvation by deliberately driving the ship onto the rocks of what would be called Somers Island.

While the rest of the fleet managed to sail on and reach Jamestown some 600 miles to the east, the Sea Venture, its crew and passengers found themselves stranded on the uninhabited island that had been discovered by the Spanish in 1505, more than 100 years before. Initially they must have felt deep despair at their plight, but that quickly changed to great relief, according to the most detailed account of this adventure provided in a lengthy letter sent in 1610 from Jamestown back to England by another passenger, William Strachey. Although never colonized by the Spanish, the island chain had become home to a vast community of wild pigs that descended from swine that had escaped from intermittent visits by ships headed to Spanish America. Besides the pork, the Sea Venture survivors discovered a bounty of food on Bermuda, ranging from sea turtles to birds and fish.

Under the leadership of the 55-year-old Somers and the 24-year-old Gates, the castaways quickly worked to build shelter and began construction on two small boats they hoped to sail to Jamestown once winter had passed on Bermuda. The group numbered about 150 and included women and some children. They found the conditions on Bermuda so welcoming that their leaders would face mutiny on three occasions during the next ten months while working for departure to Jamestown, according to Strachey’s letter. None of them wanted to leave!

They had heard stories about the rugged conditions in Jamestown and contrasted those with the life they suddenly enjoyed on Bermuda. In fact, those tales had not been exaggerated. While the Sea Venture castaways were enjoying their winter on Bermuda—dining on sea turtle, Red snapper and wild boar—Jamestown would see 400 colonists perish from hunger, disease and native hostilities. The colony was close to collapse, despite the arrival of the other ships from the relief fleet. It suffered a fundamental problem based on its very reason for existence.

The Virginia Company had not initially intended Jamestown to survive as a true colony. Rather than sending farmers and families, the investors filled the colony with adventurers determined to seek the kinds of gold and precious metals the Spaniards had been taking from Mexico and South America. By the winter of 1609, however, Jamestown’s leadership had finally concluded Virginia had no gold to offer.

In the meantime, the colony’s inhabitants had never learned to even feed themselves, relying instead first on trade with the natives and then theft or extortion for deliveries of food. Of course, relations with the tribes in Virginia quickly deteriorated. It proved dangerous for anyone to even venture beyond the palisades for firewood. Although Jamestown was destined to survive—barely—and become the oldest continuing English settlement in North America, its beginnings would contrast dramatically with those later established by the Mayflower voyage to Massachusetts where investors hoped to plant a true colonial outpost with families and industry. And Stephen Hopkins would be able to contrast his Jamestown experiences with those to come later in Plymouth, a decade into the future.

While Jamestown struggled in the winter of 1609, however, Stephen and his fellow Bermuda survivors grew restless. Very quickly one small group declared their independence from Gates and Somers, announcing their plans to move into the forest and establish a colony there. Gates elected to punish them with banishment, basically ordering them to go ahead and do it. For some reason unexplained in the Strachey account, the group decided to rejoin their comrades after a few days by themselves. Perhaps their lack of a blacksmith or carpenter among them had diminished their ambitions. But they had apparently provided Stephen with an idea that nearly led to his execution as the second mutineer.

“A fellow who had much knowledge in the Scriptures and could reason well therein,” wrote Strachey of my great-grandpa Stephen, identifying him as the next mutineer. The 28-year-old Stephen had teamed with two other confederates to argue against the continued leadership of Gates. They claimed his authority had ended with the shipwreck, freeing the group to establish its own colony on Bermuda. But these arguments failed to impress the governor, who ordered manacles for Stephen, placed him on trial and sentenced him to hang.

“But so penitent he was, and made so much moan, alleging the ruin of his wife and children in this his trespass,” summarized Strachey about Stephen’s pleadings that prompted forgiveness by Gates. For descendants like myself, I wish Strachey had provided a more detailed transcript. I suspect Stephen’s position as the minister’s clerk and his value as a psalmist must have helped sway his fate. Strachey emphasized how much the company appreciated their Sunday worship services along with morning and evening prayers. He must have presented a sincere image of repentance. And it seems clear from his later encounters with authority that this experience likely humbled him into a more diplomatic rebel. Whatever the case, Stephen dodged the hangman on Bermuda and would live on to join the Mayflower ten years later.

The third mutineer had no such luck. According to Strachey, this fellow provided lots of mischief on Bermuda that ultimately ended with a sentence to hang. Instead of begging for his life, he begged to be shot instead, and this time Governor Gates was happy to oblige. Shortly after that final incident, Somers and Gates completed the construction of two small boats capable of making the short hop from Bermuda to complete the voyage to Jamestown. While on Bermuda, the group had conducted one marriage and welcomed the birth of two children. They set sail on May 10, 1610, and arrived at Jamestown on May 24.

Immediately the group realized a serious mistake: They should have brought food with them from Bermuda. Conditions in Jamestown proved so disheartening that Gates very quickly made a decision to abandon the colony and take the 60 Jamestown survivors north to the fishing grounds off Newfoundland aboard the four vessels available. Just as they set to sail away, however, another relief fleet arrived from England with a new governor for the colony.

By the middle of June, Gates had surrendered his leadership to Thomas West, known as Lord De La Warr, the new governor sent from the Virginia Company with three ships and enough food for a year. Gates would remain in Virginia to explore, while Somers was dispatched back to Bermuda to gather wild hogs for supplementing Jamestown’s livestock. Somers would die of illness in Bermuda. And Stephen would remain to serve out his seven-year-indenture while becoming an eyewitness to a dramatic authoritarian transition at the colony by De La Warr—whose title would become the name of the state of Delaware—and his successors.

By May of 1611, the colony had a new governor in Sir Thomas Dale, sent there to govern with an iron fist. In the process Dale treated Stephen to a real show of power and authority, executing an estimated dozen colonists. Some of them burned at the stake and other starved to death while tied to trees. Dale punished minor infractions with whippings and the stocks.

At the same time, back in England, William Shakespeare had written The Tempest, possibly using the Strachey letter about the Bermuda shipwreck as an inspiration.  Stephen Hopkins descendants usually cite the Bard’s creation of the Stephano character in that play as a poetic reference to Strachey’s account of Stephen’s attempt at a mutiny on Bermuda. In Shakespeare’s shipwreck tale, Stephano is described as a “drunken butler” who plots to take control of the island. If that sounds familiar, you can see why Hopkins descendants enjoy The Tempest.

Of course, Hopkins was still in Jamestown while audiences in London sampled Shakespeare’s version of the Bermuda adventure. Continuing as the clerk and psalmist for Minister Buck, Stephen likely figured prominently in many famous events, including the marriage of John Rolfe to the native princess known as Pocahontas. Indeed, Rolfe had been with Stephen on Bermuda, so it seems likely they were acquainted. But the written record of Jamestown includes no mention of Stephen, so we are left to speculate on how events of those times affected his outlook on life. Then, when news of his wife’s death in 1613 reached him, Stephen won permission to return to England and resume care for his remaining children, Constance and Giles. It appears he departed in the Spring of 1616.

Back in England, Stephen left few official records to mark his movements. One record cites his marriage to Elizabeth Fisher on February 19, 1617. Researchers have not found any record of the birth of their first child, daughter Damaris, who also arrived aboard the Mayflower but died in Plymouth Colony in 1621. Despite the lack of records, novelist Michael McCarthy has offered a likely scenario for Stephen’s four years between Jamestown and the Mayflower in his speculative account about The London Years of Stephen Hopkins.

McCarthy assumes that Stephen’s two surviving children, Constance and Giles, would have taken residence with his brother pending his return from Virginia. The writer speculates that Stephen likely gathered them from the family home in Hursley, Southhampton before relocating to London where he hoped to use his connections to land another position aboard a mission back to Virginia. Besides working his trade as a tanner, Stephen also likely participated in trading deals while hanging around the port to gather information about future opportunities.

As a religious Puritan, he likely attended church with the London contingent of the group that had spawned a separatist movement with parishioners then living in Holland—the group that would eventually become known as the “Saints” aboard the Mayflower. McCarthy provides a speculative romance narrative in which the widower and single father Stephen meets Elizabeth when buying baked goods in London.

It is a matter of record, however, that Stephen and his entourage were aboard the Mayflower docked in Southampton by August of 1620, awaiting the arrival of another ship, the Speedwell, bringing passengers from the Holland group of Separatist “saints” to join the London-based group headed for Virginia. Researcher Johnson notes that Stephen’s large entourage of family and servants reflects both his status and his opportunity for success in the New World. Under the company’s partnership agreement, Stephen would receive title to more acreage for his wife, children and servants while adding young and capable colonists to the venture.

At the age of 39, Stephen would have been considered a prime candidate for joining the expedition. Of course, the Mayflower investors expected a financial return from this enterprise. Instead of seeking gold like those who financed the Jamestown adventure, however, the Mayflower backers expected their colony to prosper in natural resources, timber, animal furs and agricultural goods.

Eventually, the New England colonies would do exactly that, but the financial return would not come as quickly as anticipated. At any rate, the Hopkins gang waited in London for the group from Holland, which would include my other Mayflower grandfather, Thomas Rogers and his son, Joseph Rogers, destined to become my ninth-great-grandfather.

My tenth-great-grandfather Thomas Rogers was born about 1571 in Watford, Northamptonshire, England, the son of a William Rogers remembered as a farmer in the area. Records show no surname for William’s wife, Eleanor. But they do reveal a marriage in Watford on October 4, 1597, between Thomas and my tenth-great-grandmother, 24-year-old Alice Cosford. She was the daughter of another local farmer named George Cosford. Thomas and Alice had two children who died in infancy just after the turn of the new century. But Joseph’s 1602 birth in Watford would give them a surviving eldest destined to make his mark in the New World.

Information about the Rogers family has been spotty over the years, but recent research by members of the Thomas Rogers Society has filled some gaps. Although his English occupation remains unclear, he obviously became educated and religious as he grew to manhood in the village about 50 miles north of London. Although clearly connected somehow with the separatist Puritans, Thomas remained in Watford until at least 1613 as verified by the births there of three more children following Joseph: John in 1606, Elizabeth in 1608 and Margaret in 1613.

By then, the first group of separatists had made their move to Holland some five years earlier, so the Thomas Rogers family would have been a late arrival, leaving descendants uncertain about the degree of his religious affiliation with the separatists. Did he join them in Holland more due to business interests than religious rebellion? Whatever the motive for his connection, it appears clear he had one when he purchased a home in Leiden, the Netherlands, in 1617, near the homes of separatist leaders and eventual fellow Mayflower passengers William Brewster and William Bradford. Unlike other separatists, Thomas Rogers also became a citizen of Leiden in 1618 where he apparently enjoyed a thriving business as a merchant dealing in high-end textiles known as “camlet.”

To fully understand the Rogers legacy, however, a little historical context should first apply to explain the religious and commercial issues that would have prompted a man like Thomas to abandon his homeland and seek opportunities in Holland, or later the New World across the Atlantic Ocean. The religious differences of the era were complex, to say the least, with controversies and violence raging for nearly 100 years. That upheaval stemmed in good part from invention of the printing press about 1440 and the subsequent availability of religious or philosophical literature to the middle classes. They read. They thought. They debated. And, then they started fighting.

You can spend endless hours researching all the twists turns of the Protestant Reformation movement that eventually spawned the Mayflower‘s voyage to what would become New England. I’ll provide a summary here—just enough to help readers understand the forces at play by 1620. The movement began a century earlier with growing disillusionment about the abuses and corruption in the Roman Catholic church. Given the power to read scripture on their own and interpret the so-called “Word of God” for themselves, groups of dissenters broke from the central Roman authority to create new Christian communities observing different and more localized traditions. In his break from Rome, England’s King Henry VIII added a new twist with creation of the Church of England.

By 1600, however, many English churchgoers had become disillusioned with the lack of true reform in the church. Although they never used the term themselves, these groups became known as the Puritans because they advocated the goal of purifying the English church of Roman Catholic practices. But they, too, had divisions. Some believed that separation from the church would prove the only way to practice their brand of religion. Others rejected these Separatists and sought to reform the church from within.

During the next half-century, however, both groups would find a more effective escape by moving to the New World, where they hoped to pursue the twin goals of religious freedom and commercial prosperity. The result was what’s known as the Puritan Great Migration, with 80,000 colonists leaving England for the New World between 1620 and 1640. The passengers aboard the Mayflower would serve as the vanguard for that relocation.

This map from the National Geographic Society illustrates the extent of the Puritan Colony.

Before attempting to tame a new and savage land, however, some of the English Separatists tried what must have seemed the simpler route of relocating just across the North Sea in Holland. Indeed, Holland must have loomed as an attractive alternative. Besides offering an already civilized society and culture, the nation practiced religious tolerance while becoming a commercial center for textiles and other industries. And the port city of Leiden had emerged as a magnet for commerce providing many Separatists with opportunities to evolve from their farming backgrounds into more urban trades. Textiles proved attractive with at least a dozen of the Mayflower pilgrims listing associated occupations.

As camlet merchants, grandfathers Thomas and Joseph Rogers were among them. Camlet is a fine, woven fabric originally made from combining coarse but tough camel hair with silk. By 1620, the Rogers family was among 300 Separatists thriving in Leiden but also considering the more dramatic change of relocating across the Atlantic Ocean. Coordinating with associates back in England, the Separatist leadership hatched a plan to sail two ships to a spot in the northern part of the Virginia colony. Leaders selected 45 members of the Leiden group to return to England aboard a ship called the Speedwell and rendezvous with the Mayflower for the voyage across the sea.

At the age of 49, Thomas Rogers ranked as the third eldest among those selected by leaders trying to fill the ranks with young and vital recruits. But Thomas had an eighteen-year-old son in Joseph, so possibly they joined as a package deal. The rest of the Rogers family remained behind in Leiden with plans to cross after establishment of a North American colony.  Records show that Thomas sold his Leiden house on April 1, 1620 for 300 Guilders, accepting a loss of 175 Guilders from the 475 he had paid three years before. Thomas and Joseph left aboard the Speedwell on July 22, 1620, to meet the Mayflower in Southampton, England. My great-grandmother Alice Cosford Rogers would die in 1622 in Leiden without ever making the trip to the colony her husband and son helped build.

Had the Speedwell been seaworthy, North American history might have unfolded very differently. At least the voyage of the Pilgrims would have unfolded very differently. For starters, the two vessels would have departed Southampton in good time to sail the Atlantic Ocean in summer. They likely would have managed to land at their true target of what is now the New York area, then in the northern section of the Virginia Colony. They would have arrived in time to build suitable shelter for the winter of 1620-21 and perhaps grow some quick crops to supplement hunting and fishing for food.

But those possibilities vanished on August 5 when the crew of the Speedwell discovered a leak shortly after leaving Southampton, forcing a detour to Dartmouth for repairs. They tried again on August 23, but only made it 300 miles before the leaking Speedwell forced them into Plymouth for further assessment. The leaders decided to abandon the Speedwell, allowing some passengers to crowd onto the Mayflower for a single vessel voyage that did not begin until September 6.

In an article in 2017, The Orange County (California) Register included this drawing to demonstrate the scene aboard the Mayflower as it crossed the Atlantic. And, in an August 2020 article about the voyage, the UK newspaper The Daily Mail offered this written description of the now-iconic vessel:

“Based on comparable craft of the day, it was probably about 80ft long and 24ft wide, with three decks: one for supplies, a gun deck and the remaining space for the passengers. To put this in perspective, one of the billionaire businessman Roman Abramovich’s superyachts is 590ft long — more than seven times the length of the Mayflower. Those on board would have slept on the floor, huddled together, unable to escape the stink of unwashed bodies and fetid breath, and the rank odours of vomit and stale wine.”

Abandonment of the Speedwell left 102 passengers crowded into a space about 50-feet by 25-feet, with another 20 crew members on board. By now, Elizabeth Hopkins was ready to pop, and she did give birth aboard the Mayflower to a son they named Oceanus. Although she lacked privacy for the birth, Elizabeth did enjoy an abundance of midwives, if you want to consider the silver lining. Thus, Stephen increased the passenger population to 103 while adding opportunity for further shares of what would become the Plymouth company.

It seems obvious that Stephen and my grandfather Thomas Rogers would become acquainted, as would my grandmother Constance Hopkins and grandfather Joseph Rogers. But the written record is devoid of such personal detail about the voyage. I must assume Stephen shared many tales of his previous Jamestown adventures with what would have been an intensely curious audience aboard the ship.

Things grew interesting when the group neared the coast of Cape Cod and realized they had arrived off course to the north of their target. They were somewhat familiar with Cape Cod because it had been mapped by exploration parties from Jamestown. But the sighting of land off course created political problems for the group.

They immediately realized they had no government approval to settle in this location. In his book about Stephen, Caleb Johnson speculates how this recognition must have affected him given his problems a decade earlier in Bermuda. In organizing the Bermuda mutiny, Stephen had argued that the shipwreck there had eliminated any order of authority from their governor because he only had jurisdiction at Jamestown. That situation had ended with him nearly hanged for mutiny in Bermuda.

“Stephen Hopkins must have had some serious déjà vu when this began to unfold,” Johnson writes. He continues: “With Stephen’s consultation no doubt, the Pilgrims arrived at a very novel solution.”

That solution was creation of the Mayflower Compact, now considered one of the most important documents in North American history and a prelude to both the Declaration of Independence and the Constitution of the United States. Drafted November 11 on the ship before any landing, the Mayflower Compact was a simple legal contract between the signees and their elected leadership acknowledging their authority to construct a government in their new colony. Details of that government were left for later, but the contract of self-government would become a landmark for colonial organization. Stephen was the fourteenth passenger to sign it, and Thomas Rogers the eighteenth out of 41—all of the adult males. As part of the deal, the group elected 36-year-old John Carver to serve as their first governor. He signed it first. Like my grandfather Thomas Rogers, Carver would not survive the first year.

Anchored off the tip of Cape Cod aboard the Mayflower with winter already under way, the group knew they needed to explore the area to locate the best spot for building shelter. Stephen played a crucial role in several small exploration expeditions. The group’s military commander, Myles Standish, led a squad of 16 men into the forest on November 15 with Stephen appointed as advisor. They would quickly learn that the native tribe at this initial location—the Nauset—already had experienced European contact. And they hadn’t liked it! 

Several had been captured six years before and taken as slaves to Spain. The Nauset had avenged the kidnappings in 1617 with the massacre of the crew aboard a French ship that had stopped to trade. Now the Nauset watched as another group of armed Europeans began nosing around in their territory. Tensions increased more dramatically when the group chanced upon a hidden stash of Nauset corn and took it, knowing they would need more food to survive the winter. But the natives decided to bide their time before organizing a strike.

In the meantime, under the deadline pressure of increasing winter weather, the group debated its best options for location of a colony where they could build shelter and enjoy access to fresh water at a minimum. From their headquarters aboard the Mayflower, the group dispatched eighteen men on December 6 in a small boat to circle Cape Cod in search of the best spot. That group included Stephen and one of his servants, Edward Doty. After the group came ashore in one spot and camped for the night, the Nauset struck at first light, sending a barrage of arrows into the camp. The Pilgrims fired muskets and fled. None of the 30 natives nor any of the 18 Pilgrims sustained an injury in this first confrontation.

By December 12, the group had suffered through a storm and a small wreck that required repairs to their boat. But they also had come ashore at what is now Plymouth Harbor and decided this location could serve them best. The Mayflower followed on December 15 and anchored there while the group began its rigorous job of creating a home on the shore. Because Plymouth had been their final English port before departure, they adopted that for the name of their new home. By December 23, a construction crew had come ashore, and the hard work began. Although the group’s Pilgrim contingent refused to work on Sundays, they also refused to celebrate Christmas as any kind of holiday considering it a creation of the Pope and his Catholic Church.

The group divided their townsite into 19 plots, based on family size, in two rows of houses with a street between. Since standard lots measured 50 feet in depth with 8 feet of length for each family member, the biographer Johnson calculated that Stephen likely received an initial house and garden plot of 64 feet by 50 feet to accommodate him, his wife, his four children and his two servants. But first they all pitched in to build a common house that measured 20-by-20. Finished by the middle of January 1621, that structure would serve as storage, hospital and shelter while individual homes were built.

As they continued to build, the weather grew worse and food supplies grew short. By end of March, half of the Mayflower’s passengers had died—including my great grandfather Thomas Rogers—due to a combination of ailments including pneumonia and scurvy. Burials occurred after dark to prevent any natives from realizing the vulnerability of the group, even though the group had not seen any sign since landing. Stephen’s losses that first winter included the children Damaris and Oceanus. By March 21, however, the group had managed to deliver all passengers from the Mayflower into the shelters ashore. By then, some of them had been living aboard the ship for nine months!

With the weather starting to warm, it was inevitable they would have contact with the natives. On February 17, Stephen accompanied militia chief Myles Standish on a brief trip to attempt a meeting with natives they had spotted from the camp. But those natives fled into the woods. Then, on March 16, they received a thorough shock when a solitary native entered the camp carrying a bow with two arrows, walked down the street and spoke in spotty English: “Welcome Englishmen.”

His name was Samoset, a chief of the Sagamore tribe who had learned some English from trading vessels that had reached the area sporadically. Attracting a crowd, he was about to provide a history lesson with tales about the area they now claimed as their colony. He spent that first night in the Hopkins home as a guest of the only colonist with previous experience in the New World. Samoset would become one of two natives crucial to the success of the colony, and both would forge important ties with Stephen.

From Samoset, the Pilgrims learned they actually had landed in a place known as Patuxet to the natives. It was vacant because its previous inhabitants all had died of disease just four years before. Samoset also identified their nearest neighbors as the Wampanoag tribe. Their leader was named Massasoit, and he commanded a force of about 60 warriors. The Pilgrims did not know it yet, but this location and their timing would serve them well because the diminished Wampanoag felt vulnerable to attack from other regional tribes. Quickly, Massasoit would decide to use them as powerful allies, rather than enemies, based on the scouting report returned by Samoset about the weapons in the Pilgrims’ camp.

As a result, Samoset returned March 22 with another native who would become even more vital in the colony’s future: Squanto. This 35-year-old native boasted a dramatic personal story that sounds like the plot for a good adventure film—and that occurred in 1994 with production of Squanto: A Warrior’s Tale. It also left Squanto as the perfect ambassador between the Pilgrims and the Wampanoag.

Kidnapped in 1614 and taken to Spain as a slave, Squanto had lived in England for a while after his escape, learning to speak reliable English! He had returned to the area just the year before on a trip to Canada. Patuxet had been his village before the disease killed everyone there. Essentially, he joined the Pilgrims as an English-speaking, Patuxet orphan volunteering to help its new inhabitants in creation of their colony. The day would end with Massasoit’s arrival to negotiate a mutual assistance treaty that included plans for Squanto to stay and help them out.

Biographer Johnson speculates that Squanto likely joined the Hopkins household for a while, since Stephen served as the colony’s de facto native ambassador given his Jamestown experience. But the record is well-documented about Squanto’s contribution, particularly in teaching the colonists best methods for growing corn, beans and squash in this region. 

When the Mayflower finally sailed home on April 5, however, its cargo holds were bare. The Pilgrims had been too busy surviving the winter to fulfill any obligations to their investors for export of valuable trade goods like furs, lumber, dried fish or food. Food? At that point the Pilgrims barely had anything to eat for themselves. But their investors would have little sympathy after financing the voyage.

Eventually, the Plymouth Colony and its offshoots during the Puritan Great Migration of 1630-1650 would pay off handsomely for investors in England once those colonies began to exploit the natural resources available in New England. But the first few years of Plymouth would be marked by constant bickering between the colonists and their benefactors back home. Of course, their debts weighed little on their minds in the summer of 1621 as they focused with Squanto on the basics of survival there. 

Just after departure of the Mayflower, Stephen’s de facto responsibility as native ambassador assumed a more formal position with his appointment to accompany Edward Winslow with Squanto on an exploration and negotiation mission into the wilderness. It’s a shame that Stephen never kept a journal or penned a memoir like several other notable Mayflower passengers, particularly William Bradford, Myles Standish and Winslow. Stephen’s book might have been the most dramatic of all, given his earlier years in Jamestown. But thanks to Winslow, we do have a colorful record of the trip they took in the Spring of 1621 to explore the Pilgrims’ new world and hammer down more details of their alliance with Massasoit. And biographer Johnson devoted an entire chapter of his book to this journey.

With Squanto to serve as guide and translator, they had several immediate goals. Since the colonists had hunkered down all winter, they still needed to survey the surrounding countryside and record the location of rivers, timberlands, hunting grounds and signs of other natural resources. But they also needed to create trading relations with Massasoit and the villages under his control. They also wanted to establish some ground rules for visitation from those villages, wary that they did not yet have enough food to offer unexpected guests stopping by to gawk at the new arrivals from across the ocean. They also hoped to trade for a larger supply of seed corn to enhance their prospects for the next winter.

On the exploration front, Stephen and Winslow apparently found much to admire. And Winslow’s account provides interesting tidbits of information about life in the woods. In one village, for example, they dined on “spawn of shad”—a local version of caviar! They learned about cornbread and edible acorns. They saw several places where land had been cleared and then villages abandoned, with Winslow declaring it a “pity.” They attracted small crowds in their travel, as curious natives joined them for short distances. They found rivers and fresh water sources. They demonstrated the power of their firearms, and in one village staged a target contest of guns against bow-and-arrow. They saw “much good timber” that included oak, walnut, fir, beech and chestnut. When Stephen fired a salute in the air to welcome Massasoit to their powwow, Squanto had to intervene and explain to frightened villagers about this English custom for honoring dignitaries.

Once they sat with Massasoit, they accomplished their goal. They presented him with a copper chain he could give to messengers for use as a badge to ensure welcome into Plymouth. They also asked Massasoit to help them find the natives they needed to repay for that theft of native seed corn when the group first landed in December. Informed of the Pilgrims’ desire to trade with local villagers, Massasoit made what Winslow called a lengthy speech to the villagers, urging them to bring skins for trade and keep the peace.

In return, Stephen and Winslow shared stories of their homeland in England and described King James I. Massasoit warned them about some of the rival tribes in the area, sharing his suspicion that the Narragansett were allies of the French, who had established bases to the north in Canada. Stephen and Winslow slept that night in a small bed—with Massasoit and one of his wives! Later, Winslow complained that fleas and lice had bothered them that night, but called it an improvement from the mosquitoes that would have devoured them outside. Massasoit provided two large fish for a meal the next day. Still hungry, Stephen traded for a small bird and shared it with Winslow.

EdwardWinslow would live on to become a prominent figure in New England, serving a term as governor at Plymouth and returning to England for a visit. He is acknowledged as one of a handful of Pilgrims responsible for success of the colony and his initial mission with Stephen ranked as a milestone event.

Following that trip, Stephen likely was called again to join another expedition in June dispatched to find a 16-year-old boy who had wandered off and gone missing. The colony sent a group of ten to search, with no list available among the records. But biographer Johnson wrote he could not imagine Hopkins being left behind, given his experience and his relationship to Squanto who served as the translator. Traveling by boat, the group managed to recover the boy, who had been staying with the Nauset tribe as a guest. Although wary of the Nausets—the tribe that had attacked them a year before—the group turned the meeting into a successful trade mission. But the Nausets also provided some disturbing news destined to send Stephen on one of the most celebrated military missions recorded in Pilgrim lore.

While the English were searching for the boy, they heard the Narragansett tribe had somehow kidnapped their ally Massasoit as part of a revolt among the Wampanoag leadership. Recognizing their duty to support their ally, the group dispatched Squanto and another Wampanoag warrior as scouts to determine their next move. When the other warrior returned to Plymouth alone, they feared Squanto had been captured or killed and decided to act. What transpired next was likely the first military commando mission conducted by the English in North America, led by Myles Standish with Stephen and Edward Winslow among the raiders.

The squad of about a dozen men stormed the village of Nemasket, about 15 miles from Plymouth. Taking control, they discovered Squanto still alive and asleep in one of the houses. No one died in the battle, but the Pilgrims conducted a meeting to make sure those natives understood their alliance with Massasoit would not be disrupted. They threatened the villagers with death in the event of any further attacks.

Again in September, Standish led another mission designed to further fortify the Wampanoag alliance. Stephen likely joined this trip, as well, but Johnson could find no records listing the names of the participants. On this trip, Standish traveled north to what would become Boston Harbor to visit the Massachusetts Tribe. That trip apparently ended without any serious confrontation and helped forge a new alliance in that direction. But peace with the natives would prove short-lived.

There’s been a tendency to imagine the Pilgrims as persecuted victims seeking refuge among the natives who teach them to plant corn while they pray and sing hymns. But it’s more realistic to recognize them as hardy pioneers quite capable of intimidating native populations and establishing themselves through aggression.

Known as much for his brutality as his military leadership, Standish accomplished the ultimate act of regional intimidation in March of 1623 when he brought the severed head of a hostile native chief back to Plymouth for positioning on a pike near the village gate. There’s no record of Stephen joining him on that expedition, but it is clear that Standish’s tough policies with the natives likely kept the colony safe in its formative years. Eventually, New England colonists would find themselves mired in one of history’s bloodiest native American wars from 1675 to 1678 with several of my other ancestors seeing action in that conflict, known as King Philip’s War. Ironically, it was Massasoit’s son who would lead the natives in that war—known by the English name he adopted, King Philip of the Wampanoag.

By then, however, the English colonial presence would have grown to an extent that the natives never could prevail. I don’t believe the natives of first-contact like Massasoit could even imagine the kinds of numbers the English would send in such a short period of time. Beyond their technological advantages, the Europeans also brought the ultimate weapon of diseases that could ravage the native population while Europeans enjoyed generations of immunity.  To succeed, any vulnerable colony likely needed a man like Standish to handle the dirty jobs required to provide initial stability. Stephen and Standish apparently remained friends throughout the growth of the colony.

This graphic from the Plimoth Plantation Museum booklet depicts Plymouth in 1627.

During those developing years, Stephen took full advantage of his opportunities in Plymouth. But his legacy still holds something of a mixed message for his descendants. He won elections on the governing council, served as an advisor to the governor and on the tax assessment committee, and apparently grew quite prosperous though land and livestock divisions. Stephen joined other members of the colony in buying out their English investors in 1626, accumulating debt in the form of bonds but also seizing the opportunity to divide the land and livestock into larger private ownership plots. Biographer Johnson considered Stephen among the most prosperous of the village based on his tax records and holdings when he died on June 16, 1644 at the age of 63. Besides furniture, property and livestock, Stephen’s estate also included what Standish listed as “diverse books” so he must have been a reader. Second wife Elizabeth had preceded him in death about three years before.

While the Plymouth records paint a picture of Stephen as a community leader, there’s also evidence he remained quite a roguish rebel. He operated a tavern in his home, and records show fines for price gouging on liquor sales and other items. I guess the Puritans believed in price controls.

My favorite court document involves his 1636 conviction for battery stemming from a fight with a newly arrived colonist named John Tisdale. The 55-year-old Stephen apparently beat the hell out of the 21-year-old Tisdale, leaving him “dangerously wounded,” according to the court record. I guess that old goat still had some kick left in his legs. I wish the court record included more of a transcript because the cause of the confrontation is left to the imagination. Stephen was fined five pounds and ordered to pay Tisdale 40 shillings.

In another unusual legal confrontation, the court was forced to order Stephen in 1639 to fulfill his agreement to continue care for a female servant who had become pregnant out of wedlock. The child’s father had been executed for the murder of a native before the birth, and Johnson describes Stephen as “furious” to learn that the servant, Dorothy Temple, was pregnant while her lover hung on the gallows. Stephen refused to comply, and the colony jailed him four days for contempt. He managed to negotiate his freedom by persuading another colonist to accept 5 pounds and assume the two years remaining on Dorothy’s indenture.

Stephen appears also to have been a bit of an entrepreneur, investing in real estate in nearby Yarmouth in 1638 and construction of a fishing boat in 1641. Biographer Johnson also reports a civil dispute involving some sort of failed business deal. Johnson also cites Stephen’s quasi-adoption of a troubled teen in 1642 as another sign of his strong character. That youth, Jonathan Hatch, went on to marry and help found the neighboring town of Falmouth, possibly under the influence of Stephen in his few years left after Elizabeth’s death.    

In his 1848 history on Lives of the Colonial Governors, author Jacob Bailey Moore offered this final assessment on Stephen’s historical place: "Of the Pilgrims who remained in 1634, Stephen Hopkins, Miles Standish, and John Alden were the most prominent individuals. Hopkins was the one of the principle magistrates...Stephen Hopkins was not only one of the first men among the Pilgrims, but he had extraordinary fortune in being concerned with many of the first things that happened to the colonists, whether for good or for evil.”  And Stephen’s profile on WikiTree provides rich detail with references about all aspects of his life.

While her father spent time strengthening the colony, my grandmother Constance Hopkins likely focused on becoming a young lady. Only four of the 18 adult women aboard the Mayflower survived that first winter. Of the four teenage girls, 15-year-old Constance was the only one not orphaned by 1621. In her fictional treatment of teenage life in the new colony, Patricia Clapp portrays Constance as a typical flirty young girl and constructs several romantic scenarios in imagining her emergence into an eligible wife.

During the next few years, additional ships arrived to re-stock the colony with residents both male and female. Plymouth and surrounding New England would rank as the first example of a true colony for families in contrast with other ventures focused on harvesting resources rather than creating a new homeland. Arrival of the Anne in 1623 brough the young man destined to become her husband four years later. My grandfather Nicholas Snow was six years older than Constance, and he appears to have worked as a carpenter. He owned books and he held some minor positions in Plymouth such as highway surveyor.

For a while it appears that Stephen served as patriarch of an extended family that included Nicholas and Constance. But the couple decided to move in 1643 to the town now known as Eastham on Cape Cod. Nicholas served the community there as constable and surveyor, while also managing his farm with the help of their children, including my grandmother, Elizabeth, born February 25, 1640.

Author and descendant J.A. Snow has written a series of novels about the Snow family, drawing on genealogical research all the way back to the Fifteenth Century. The third book of the series, Pilgrim Girl, covers the couple from the arrival of Nicholas in 1643 until their deaths. Constance died on October 15, 1677, at the age of 71—about a year after the death of Nicholas, both of them in Eastham. She is buried in Eastham’s Cove Burying Ground, along with my other Mayflower grandfather, Joseph Rogers.

Joseph was about 18 when his father perished during that first winter at Plymouth. At that point, he became the ward of one of the most important men in American history, William Bradford, who would serve as the colony’s governor for most of its first three decades. Records show Joseph taxed as a freeman by 1633 in Plymouth following his marriage to a woman named Hannah with her last name lost to time.

His family moved around, and by 1639 he was serving as a constable in Duxbury after operating a ferry on the Jones River there in 1636. By 1647, he also had moved to Eastham where he was appointed a lieutenant in the militia. He died in January of 1678, at the age of 75. His second son, Thomas Rogers, married Constance’s daughter, Elizabeth Snow on December 13, 1665, to complete my circle of Mayflower passenger ancestors, joining the Hopkins clan with the Rogers family.

Nearly 400 years after my Mayflower grandparents came ashore and started building their colony, I visited the recreated Plymouthvillage in 2017 and walked down the single dirt avenue separating rows of small houses recreated by the museum there. I went inside the house identified as home to Stephen and Elizabeth. I marveled at the small spaces that would have been divided among the family and servants. And I wondered what Stephen would think of me, could he visit my house in Houston, Texas. Of course, he’d be stunned with the technological advances since his first steps onto the Massachusetts shore. But what about my character? Would he be as proud to consider me a descendant as I have been to think of him as my ancestor?

It is strange that I may know more about Stephen Hopkins than my own father, and certainly all of my other grandfathers, except for Peter Hobart (1604-1679) who followed Stephen to Massachusetts in 1635 and JohnLibby (1610-1681) who came to Maine that same year as a fisherman. But my readings about those family lines will allow me to file additional posts in the future so that my descendants can continue to learn about their deepest roots.

Wednesday, August 5, 2020

The Art of Winning

(This post was inspired by a recent question from my oldest daughter. She asked a simple question. But, of course, I delivered a more complicated answer.)

 Have You Ever Won Anything?

I’ve never been one to brag. And I consider boastfulness a vice in other people. When someone launches into a recitation uninvited about their accomplishments, I immediately conclude they must be insecure. I think, “This guy wants to impress me so he must feel unimpressed with himself.” Of course, if someone asks about a contest or competition, I have nothing to hide.

 Now you say you want to know if I have ever won anything. Should I be offended that you haven’t been keeping score on your own? How did you miss all these things I have won? Oh, yeah, I’ve been winning things for 73 years and you’ve only been around for half of that, so I have to excuse you. Moreover, I hope you’ve been concentrating for all those years more on winning some things for yourself instead of a thinking about me. So, since you asked, let me catch you up. My turn to brag?

 But first, let’s really examine the question of winning. Canadian singer-songwriter Joni Mitchell examined that question in 1967 by writing what ranks among my ten most favorite songs: Both Sides Now. Folk rocker Judy Collins covered the song two years later and made it a national hit. I remember analyzing it as a soundtrack inside my head while it played constantly on the radio when I was about to graduate from the University of Missouri in 1969. In Both Sides Now, Mitchell reviews her intellectual development from childhood to young adult as a series of revelations. In the first part, she remembers clouds that resembled “row and flows of angle hair, ice cream castles in the air” and recalls how she first “looked at clouds that way.” But later, she writes, “they only blocked the sun, they rained and poured on everyone, so many things I might have done but clouds got in the way.” As a result, she concludes she had looked at clouds from both sides now, from up and down and still somehow “it’s clouds’ illusions I recall, I really don’t know clouds at all.”

 Next she tackles love, I suppose as a teenager recalling that “dizzy, dancing way you feel as every fairy tale comes real” then contrasting that with the other side that’s made love just “another show, to leave them laughing when you go”—undoubtedly recalling her first heartbreak. She learned to appreciate love from both sides now, she concludes, “from give and take and still somehow, it’s love’s illusions I recall, I really don’t know love at all.”

 Love, of course, is just a part of life, so Mitchell’s third verse addresses the two sides to that bigger picture of life. She concludes: “Well, something’s lost but something’s gained in living every day. I’ve looked at life from both sides now, from win and lose and still somehow, it’s life’s illusions I recall, I really don’t know life at all.”

 Thus, like everyone, I’ve had a life of both winning and losing. Reviewing the big picture, I won by fulfilling my potential with a career that both contributed to society and generated economic security. I won by raising two incredible daughters to independent adulthood. I won by helping other people who might not have made it without me. But along the way, I experienced plenty of losing, too. I suffered times when winning in that particular moment seemed more of an illusion for others to enjoy. When I review my life in my memories now, I can’t really find the recollection of a pleasing event that doesn’t also include a twinge of regret, an aspect of failure. But the overall result should still register as a win—and I am recording it as such.

Beyond these intellectual gymnastics about the big picture, however, I do find it appealing to recall more singular contests and competitions where I have won. On several occasions, I won first place when I didn’t even understand I had entered a contest. On other occasions I won by finishing higher than I might have normally expected, going “deep” as they say in a poker tournament for example. Those are wins for me, too. And every time I have been in a competition, win or lose, I’ve endeavored to learn something about myself from each experience. If you can do that, I believe, you’re a winner even when you lose.

But your question obviously focuses more on singular victories, rather than big picture philosophical achievements. Yeah, you know I won the walk of life, but what about that darts tournament in 1983? So, let’s ramble back across the years, have some fun and revisit those golden moments when I did manage to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat and savor the adulation of the multitudes while avoiding social scorn. I’ll organize these events in three categories: childhood, professional and individual athletics. Yes, you’ll be sick of all this winning by the time you read to the end.

KID STUFF

Although I don’t recall the sensation, I’m sure competition began for me officially on October 17, 1949—the day my sister was born to start stealing the spotlight in which I had basked as an only child for the previous two and one-half years. So, I’m sure I generated lots of wins in the next few years any time I attracted hugs and kisses away from her. I probably became more aware of my competitive drive about the time I lost interest in winning hugs and kisses, and I recall the thrill of winning a spot as the starting shortstop on a little league team by the age of ten. I also recall the heartbreak of leaving that team before the playoffs due to a severe allergy attack that generated small blisters inside my eyelids that refused to go away. About that same time during elementary school, I collected more wins from my ability as an author of several original plays produced in a primitive way during the fourth and fifth grade. In addition, I also won a fistfight with a bully named Lloyd Weeda during recess, and that made me feel tough. In the summer between my fifth and sixth grade school years, my family moved to a new school district and I found myself winning in the new neighborhood where several little girls confessed to their parents they had crushes on me and were vying for my attention. One of the dads shared this information with my father and started referring to me as “the Sheik of Warson Meadows.” One of those girls lived next door, and she taught me to play chess. So, I also added some wins to my record on the chess board that year.

But my most impressive childhood win by far occurred when I started my new school, Mount Pleasant Elementary, as a sixth grader that fall. This experience would mark the first time I would win first place without even knowing I had entered a contest. As the new kid in a school with two sixth grade classes, I had to make new friends and learn to get along in a new social structure. Despite my reputation as the “Sheik,” I felt the fear and pressure. I maintained a nervous silence while sizing up my new classmates. One big guy tried to bully me until I told a joke that made him laugh. We would go on to become friends for life, so I guess I scored another little win with that confrontation because he certainly would have kicked my ass. But my big win occurred about a month into the year on that day when I had felt so depressed about my new school that I had begged my mother to let me stay home. I told her I wasn’t making any friends, everyone disliked me and I was scared to go.

She sent me anyway, and once I had arrived, I learned we were having an important election for officers of the Schoolboy Patrol. I did not even know about the patrol or what it was supposed to do. When the teacher wrote my name on the board as one of the class nominees, I had to leave the room while she counted votes. When I returned, I learned I had won election as the new Captain of the schoolboy patrol! Several others had been elected lieutenants, but I was chosen to be their boss. I learned my duties would be to organize assignments for guarding the crosswalk between the school and a store across the street during the hours before school and after. I also would be part of the three-person honor guard raising and lowering the American flag on the lawn every day. My bully friend was the elected lieutenant who blew the bugle for the ceremony every morning. When I came home, my mom asked about my day.

“I don’t believe this,” I told her. “They elected me captain of the patrol.”

She smiled and said, “See. Sometimes you really don’t know what people are thinking at all.”

Throughout junior high and high school I had other wins in sports like basketball and football. Of course, I missed a lot of shots, too. I scored a win in the ninth grade when I was selected as editor of the junior high school newspaper. That same year, I also had another win for a contest I did not know I had entered. This occurred during a ninth-grade dance when I finally had the courage to ask a blonde crush named Sharon to slow dance. I know, I was the “Sheik” after all, but I was still pretty shy. Sharon gave me a funny look, but agreed. I noticed during the dance that other couples were leaving the floor until only we remained—but I didn’t understand. We danced to the rock classic In the Still of the Night. And, when it ended with the requisite dip, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder and heard a teacher-chaperone congratulating me on our win.

Sharon started giggling and said, “You didn’t know this was a contest, did you?”

I confessed, “If I did, I probably would not have asked you to dance.”

In high school, I played on a basketball team that lost 20 games. Even as a member of that team, however, I now feel I won by learning about perseverance. Try to imagine the difficulty of continuing to practice and attend games knowing your team is the worst in a league. The award-winning American writer Pat Conroy actually wrote a best-selling book about his experience as a point guard for a college basketball team that also lost 20 games, acknowledging that every day presents a challenge that you can win just by showing up. In My Losing Season, Conroy recalls finding solace in appreciating the small triumphs that happen every day even when a season is lost.

Despite my experiences in organized sports, my most memorable athletic win of high school occurred in an oddball event that likely would be banned if attempted now. It occurred on a rainy day when my sophomore physical education class was forced inside, stuck in the high school gym with many students eating lunch in the bleachers. Struggling to find a suitable activity that might allow him to leave the gym and go to his office for a smoke, our football coach-teacher initiated a game of dodgeball with no rules. He simply threw four volleyballs into the crowd of about fifty boys and said, “You get hit with a ball, you go sit out.”

Of course, word spread and a crowd started to gather in the bleachers hoping for a bloodbath. Kids were cheering like the audience at a gladiator contest in ancient Rome. No rules? So, I grabbed a volleyball in each hand and ran among my classmates tagging them with the balls. I controlled half of the balls and pretty quickly had dispatched a large number to the bleachers. At one point I had three of the four balls, and gave one of them to a girl in the bleachers with instructions to hold it for me. Suddenly I realized only I remained against Charlie Tracer, a senior and the best basketball player on a good varsity team. Charlie had the peripheral vision of an eagle and the body control of a chimpanzee. He once had dribbled a ball between my legs on his way to a layup when I tried to guard him in a playground game, leaving me to look the perfect fool. Now, I stood at one end of the gym holding two volleyballs while Charlie stood at the other with two of his own.

The crowd went wild. I knew I’d never get him playing tag, so I just held my ground. Charlie approached half court and faked a throw. I dodged away and he almost hit me with his throw of anticipation. His ball smacked off the wall and bounced back toward him. I saw my chance, circled around and nailed him in the head when he paused to field his ball. I bet nobody remembers this win but me.

Now, for some serious stuff. Beyond dodgeball, dance contests and the schoolboy patrol, I’ve also recorded some impressive wins in my professional life. And once again, one of those—perhaps my most prominent—occurred when I didn’t even realize I had entered a contest. It also came at an unusual time—just as I began a 45-year career as a newspaper reporter and journalist.

JOURNALISM

On May 5, 1969, the School of Journalism at the University of Missouri (Mizzou) honored me as winner of the Walter Williams Award given to the graduating senior deemed the “outstanding writer” in the class. Until I received it, I hadn’t even known it existed. Too much, too soon? Was I really worthy? I pondered these questions as I realized I would need to spend the entirety of my career proving I deserved it. To fully appreciate my dilemma requires more background about my academic career and Mizzou’s vaunted School of Journalism, ranked then alongside Northwestern and Columbia universities as the premier locations to learn the craft.

While those Mizzou rivals built their reputations on scholarly pursuit of journalistic principles, Mizzou functioned more like a trade school for reporters. The University of Missouri was only one of a handful of universities with a separate school of journalism awarding degrees known as bachelors of journalism. Thus, my degree from Mizzou is a Bachelor of Journalism with a major in news editorial, rather than a Bachelor of Arts with a major in journalism. Structurally, the Mizzou School of Journalism was built around the operations of an actual daily newspaper, The Columbia Missourian, which covered the City of Columbia, central Missouri and the University in competition with Columbia’s other daily newspaper, The Columbia Tribune. The Missourian was not the school paper. It survived on advertising sales and “employed” journalism students as its staff.

Instead of pay, staffers received class credits for their work. For example, when I had a three-hour course on Reporting 101, I did not attend a conventional classroom. Instead, I reported for duty to an editor at the Missourian city desk who assigned me to either cover a beat like Columbia city hall or the police station or to report on general stories that might differ from one day to the next. At the end of the semester, that editor with a professor title would award me a grade in that class. And these editors were not your normal college professors.

My best editor was an old veteran of Illinois newspapers who had never even attended college. G. Thomas Duffy had dropped out of high school in the 1930s to work on The East St. Louis Journal, rising from a position of copy boy to reporter and then to editor of the paper on the strength of his natural talents as a word smith but also his penchant for nosing out secrets. When he retired at The Journal, Duffy accepted an associate professorship at Mizzou where he could just continue to do what he had done at The Journal—lead The Missourian student staff in coverage of city government and industry in central Missouri. Duffy was the kind of editor who could read your tortured copy, laugh in your face, wad it up, knock the ashes from the cigarette constantly dangling on his lip, throw the paper at you and snarl, “Try again.” If we spent any time debating journalistic ethics or the proper place to use a semicolon like students at Northwestern or Columbia, we did it in a bar after publishing the daily paper, just like reporters and editors at real papers all over the country. Duffy supervised a team of similar “trade school” professor-editors to make sure we concentrated on our real job of meeting our deadlines and feeding that daily Missourian beast with all the news that residents of central Missouri needed to know.

I didn’t meet Duffy until my junior year at Mizzou, and I hadn’t gone to Mizzou specifically to study journalism. You could not even enroll at Mizzou’s School of Journalism until your junior year, after successfully navigating two years or 60 hours of courses that included required credits in foreign language, science, math, history and other electives. I enrolled at Mizzou after high school in St. Louis because Mizzou was the state university and I wanted to attend college. As well as an education, I sought a transition to independence and adulthood and Mizzou emerged as the next logical step in that direction.

I did well as a freshman, generating a grade point average high enough for admission to the honors college as a sophomore. What’s more, I enjoyed the academic process. I had a curious mind that attacked some classes like a sponge. By the end of my sophomore year, however, I had become a confused young man, unsure if I even had a goal for my life. I’m sure I wasn’t any different from thousands of other students at this age before me and in the years since. For the first time, I felt anxiety about my future because I just didn’t know what I wanted to do. But I knew I had a talent for the written word and a curiosity about current events. So, without a real blueprint for the future, I gambled on enrollment in the School of Journalism—J-School—for the semester beginning September of 1967. It turned out to be the best bet I would ever make.

Does any student ever really know what they expect in a career based on their choices in college? How can an accounting major, for example, understand how that job will actually look a decade down the road? And, if they could, would they shift gears and study something else instead? I consider myself fortunate in finding something that I really wanted to do. But it did not become immediately apparent that I had chosen wisely. The first two semesters of J-School involved some basic but somewhat boring classes where we learned the basics of newspaper writing style, copy editing, the history of journalism and even advertising.

My epiphany occurred in June and July of 1968, when I spent the summer session working like a dog for six hours credit as a cub reporter under G. Thomas Duffy at The Missourian. Working part time in a bar, I had bankrolled ample living expenses to allow me to spend that summer at school rather than on a job. It provided a great opportunity as a member of a reduced summer class population. At that time, enrollment in the Mizzou J-School ranked as the largest in the nation, the largest the school had ever seen providing The Missourian with one of the largest reporting staffs in the country that year at more than 200. Competition had been fierce that Spring for quality assignments. I knew a couple of students who had been told to walk up and down a few streets in Columbia hoping to find stories in the neighborhoods. By June, however, the staff had shriveled to a handful of us, and there were more stories available than reporters to cover them. My decision to delay my reporting classes could not have been more timely.

With graduation looming in June of 1969, I realized I had accumulated a large number of impressive Missourian clippings because I received offers of employment from three newspapers, including The Chicago Tribune, a major daily with a national reputation. In those days, many newspapers sent editors to the Mizzou campus to interview potential recruits, so we had an easy time connecting with employment opportunities. I had already decided to accept a job with the smaller Flint Journal, in Flint, Michigan, because I concluded I would have greater opportunity to cover larger stories than in Chicago, where I would have been competing against more seasoned veteran reporters.

But one day in April, I received a strange phone call from the dean’s office in the J-School, summoning me to meet with someone there. When I arrived, a woman in the office told me it would be very important for me to attend the J-School awards ceremony scheduled for May 5. She said I might want to invite some family or friends to attend as well. When I asked her to elaborate, she revealed that the faculty had chosen me to receive the Walter Williams Award.

“Are you sure you have the right guy?” I asked.

“Let me check again,” she smiled and reviewed a document. She compared my student number and date of birth with those on her documents and confirmed, “Yes, it’s you. Congratulations.”

Nevertheless, I remained so convinced that they had made a mistake, I told no one about the achievement. I didn’t want friends attending only to see someone else receive the award with an apology to me for the error. Meanwhile, I spent some time researching the award and past recipients. It was named for the founder of the Mizzou J-School as the nation’s first dedicated school of journalism in 1905, and given annually to the student deemed the outstanding writer in the graduating class. Williams is often considered the father of journalism education.

The university’s publicity department took a photo of me receiving the plaque and circulated it to local newspapers that published a short story. The plaque still hangs on the wall above my desk. It reads “The Walter Williams Award given by the Missouri Writers Guild to Gary Dale Taylor May 5, 1969.” As I set out driving to my first job in Flint, I felt a tremendous responsibility to the school and to Walter to make sure they never regretted giving me the honor.

I should interject here and incorporate my thoughts on the relationship of writing to journalism as I eventually came to appreciate it. Journalism requires two basic elements: writing and reporting. Of those two, reporting easily ranks as the most important because it covers the activity of actually gathering accurate information while writing merely represents the ability to communicate that information in an organized and interesting fashion. An effective journalist owes success about 80 percent to reporting skills and only 20 percent to writing skills. Over my career, I would work with many reporters who would have failed at writing a grocery list. But they proved themselves much more proficient at reporting than me. There is always someone working on the city desk who can take a weak writer’s notes and transform them into a readable story. By the end of my career, I had concluded that I had been a pretty effective reporter, as well, but I always believed I relied more on my writing skills to cover lapses in my reporting.

Regarding the source of my writing skills, I’ve always credited a natural ear for language and a desire for communication. I know that I demonstrated writing skills almost as soon as I learned English. Besides an enjoyment of reading from the first grade forward, I also experimented with writing my own stories—two activities that obviously polished my ear for language. I suppose I would consider this a talent that could not really be learned, but it could be polished. And I spent most of my life polishing that talent.

As a professional journalist, I would go on to win only three more awards, and one of those would be only a nomination. But that came for a Pulitzer Prize, so the honor of even being nominated ranks as an achievement. And that nomination came for the story I consider the best of my career in 1976 while working at The Houston Post in Houston, Texas. I’ve already recorded many details about that story in another lengthy blog post. To summarize, my reporting here resulted in the release from prison of an aging convict.

My second award also came while reporting for The Houston Post, this time in 1978 when I shared the Texas UPI Editors award for enterprise reporting with a younger reporter named Glenn Lewis, now deceased. We won for a series of articles exposing corruption and brutality in the Jacinto City, Texas, police department. Our stories appeared on Sunday June 9, 1978, spread across the front page after a month of work interviewing Jacinto City cops and analyzing court documents.

As a new reporter, Glenn had been covering Jacinto City for our neighborhood section when several city police officers approached him as whistleblowers against their chief, Allan Jamail. They alleged that Jamail had forced them to coerce confessions from a large number of suspects using electronic shock batons and beatings. The victims covered a broad spectrum of suspects already convicted for charges ranging as low as misdemeanors to capital murder. In fact, one of the alleged victims was awaiting execution for the murder of his niece in 1977, and I had covered his trial. Glenn realized this story could be larger than he could handle, so he asked our city editor for help. The editor assigned me to join the story, since I already had a personal interest following my coverage of the trial of John Charles Zimmerman the year before.

Zimmerman’s case had captured national attention for the sheer brutality of the crime, which involved the rape and decapitation of his 10-year-old niece. Jamail and the Jacinto City PD had received acclaim for solving it so quickly. Although we would later learn that they did indeed torture Zimmerman, I had no doubt of his guilt at the trial because his attorney chose to employ an insanity defense claiming Zimmerman suffered psychic trauma from his service in Vietnam. Admitting the facts of the crime, he argued Zimmerman should be hospitalized. Jurors disagreed and sentenced him to death. Because Zimmerman conceded the facts with his insanity plea, the issue of an illegal confession never arose in court.

I faced a moral dilemma when learning about Zimmerman’s torture. I realized our exposure of the scandal likely would force a retrial for a man I believed guilty of a hideous crime. Before we published our stories, the prosecutor who convicted him practically begged me to ignore it. He feared they could not convict him again with that illegal confession. But he also admitted knowledge of the photos showing Zimmerman’s shock baton bruising, and conceded he’d been relieved when the defense opted for an insanity plea. I considered the issue to be larger than one case, however, and warned him the story was ready to break.

Jamail got his warning the day before publication. I told Glenn we’d have to visit Jamail at his home and allow him to refute or explain the massive pile of evidence we had accumulated. We found Jamail in his yard, cutting his grass and asked for an audience. He turned off the lawnmower. When he learned what we had, he sneered and replied with arrogant confidence. He invited us into his garage, where he showed us a stack of electronic shock batons in cartons. He admitted serving as the distributor for buyers in Texas. His attitude: “I did what needed to be done.”

As a legal defense, that must have worked because he won an acquittal a year later on federal charges of civil rights violations brought after publication of our stories and based primarily on testimony from our sources inside the department, officers Jamail dismissed, of course, as “disgruntled employees.” Meanwhile, the outcry forced the Harris County District Attorney’s office to dismiss dozens of Jacinto City PD cases and retry them all, including the capital murder case on Zimmerman. They still managed to convict him, and Zimmerman has since been executed.

Just as my first award had occurred at the beginning of my career, my last award provided a symbolic bookend, coming in an unlikely place just two years before my 2012 retirement. After a career of newspapers and freelance magazine writing, I had spent the last 15 years of my career as a reporter for the so-called trade press, covering business developments in the chemical and energy industries. I had expected those last years to provide interesting yet undramatic reporting opportunities while padding the investments in my retirement account. I couldn’t have been more mistaken.

While working from 1997 to 2004 as a deputy editor for a British Internet news service called Chemical News & Intelligence, I enjoyed the chance to travel the world filing stories on chemical industry business developments. Then, in 2004 I moved to a job in the Houston bureau of a McGraw-Hill daily newsletter titled Platts Oilgram News (PON). I did not travel as frequently as I had with the earlier publication because PON employed correspondents all over the globe.

PON was a large and historic publication able to charge an annual subscription rate of $3,000 per year by producing stories full of inside information for high-level energy executives eager to keep tabs on their rivals. The newsletter arrived every morning in the subscriber’s email box as a PDF that looked exactly like the print publication their predecessors had known in the years before the Internet, all the way back to the early 20th Century when a man named Platt began to sell it.

In the PON Houston bureau, I found myself covering several nationally important news events that proved more complicated than many I had covered as a crime reporter at newspapers. These included the trial of disgraced Enron executive Ken Lay, the bankruptcy case of Russian oil giant Yukos and the investigation of a corrupt chief financial officer sentenced to prison for embezzlement of millions of dollars from his oilfield drilling rig company. But the biggest story for me at Platts erupted in April 2010, when the Macondo exploration well exploded in the Gulf of Mexico, killing eleven oilfield workers and destroying the Deepwater Horizon drilling ship.

The uncompleted well proceeded to leak oil into the Gulf and the operators at British Petroleum (BP) would be unable to stop the flow for five months, forcing the United States to halt all exploration drilling in the Gulf. The event itself would become the source for movies and books, but for me it became my only job during the summer and fall of 2010. PON assigned me to take the lead on a team of reporters covering multiple aspects of the disaster.

During my Macondo year, my daily routine changed significantly. Instead of working in the Houston bureau office in downtown Houston, I worked from home where I could more efficiently monitor the various telephonic press conferences conducted several times each day—and sometimes at night—as BP, the US Coast Guard and other government agencies explained their unsuccessful attempts to bring the oil flow under control by capping the Macondo blowout. Once the industry stopped the flow, we had many other subjects to report, ranging from the long-term impact on other companies working the Gulf to investigating the possible reasons why the deadly accident had occurred. In addition to filing a large daily story for the PON newsletter, I also filed smaller stories all day long to the McGraw-Hill real time wire service, so I stayed busy working twelve-hour days for much of that year. Still, as I mopped the sweat from my brow, I realized that I enjoyed the experience. It reminded me of the reasons I had chosen this profession, and I would not have missed the Macondo opportunity for anything.

But it came as a complete surprise later in 2010 when my top editor in New York informed me that the Macondo reporting team would be receiving the McGraw-Hill Corporate Achievement Award for that year thanks to our coverage of this significant event. The company brought us all to New York for the ceremony—and the celebration that continued through the night at one of the city’s finest watering holes. My editor noted this had been the first time in company history that PON had been recognized by its corporate mother in this fashion. And once again, while working on the Macondo stories, I had no idea any award like this would even be a possibility.

More winning? Well, in retirement I’ve experienced some other contests that qualify. For starters, I wrote a memoir in 2009 that has been recognized as a winner in five national book contests. Entitled Luggage By Kroger, the book collected these five awards: A True Crime Silver Medal from the 2009 IPPYs; a True Crime Bronze Medal and Finalist for Book-of-the-Year from the 2008 ForeWord Magazine Book-of-the-Year Awards; True Crime Runner-Up in the 2009 National Indie Excellence Awards; True Crime Finalist in the 2009 USA Book News Awards; and General Nonfiction Runner-Up at the 2009 New York Book Festival. You can read more about the book on its Amazon.com profile page and in a pair of blog posts at this blog. I didn’t write the book with the idea of winning an award. I wrote it for a number of reasons, all described in that post of my blog, a copy of a question-and-answer interview with another author in 2009. But I entered the book in contests as a marketing strategy, to assure potential buyers that “experts” had acknowledged its value.

Beyond the professional realm of winning, I can add several other competitive victories from the realm of so-called adult recreational athletics: darts, softball coaching and poker—specifically the game of Texas Holdem. I’ve always needed a competitive outlet for my recreational activities and those activities have served that role for much of my life. While I’d never qualify as a professional in either darts or poker, I have played more competitively than merely recreational to win and lose money at both.

DARTS

With darts, I started playing in 1980 at the age of 32, when a drinking buddy recruited me to play British steel darts in a Houston bar called Rudyard’s Pub On Kipling Street. Even before playing a game, I realized I enjoyed the physical challenge of simply trying to throw the dart at a target. Then, I learned about the darts subculture that includes a national ranking system and provides a competitive outlet for hundreds of players much like bowling. I learned that Houston had an association that organized team play on a seasonal basis, awarding trophies to members of winning teams. Recognizing a business opportunity, a group of bars sponsored the teams as a way to attract drinking customers on slower nights.

A typical team roster numbered four or five players, so a pub hosting a team every Wednesday night, for example, might add a dozen to two-dozen patrons for the darts league contests depending on the number of friends who might attend to watch. While they did not charge to use the boards and they experienced some additional overhead from installation of new boards on a regular basis, bar owners understood the extra revenue from a larger crowd would easily recoup the $150 they paid to the Houston Darts Association (HDA) for organizing each three-month league and distributing trophies to the top teams in each division.

To ensure a truly competitive experience, the HDA operated leagues based on experience and ability that allowed novice players to improve their skills by playing each other. A typical league contest would involve play of several events in three basic games: 301, 501 and British Cricket. Team members would play rounds of singles, doubles and usually a team event featuring four players from each team against another. Teams collected league points for each event they won, and the league calculated the scores over the course of a season to determine the placement of the teams. 

Besides sponsoring league teams, many bars also conducted tournaments that allowed players to compete for money. Individuals typically would pay an entry fee of $5 or $10 to the bar’s volunteer tournament director, who would then randomly divide the players into doubles teams to vie for a share of the cash prize pool. One pair would play three games against another pair with the losing pair eliminated until only two teams remained to split the pot. Over time, the bars grew creative with these tournaments, devising ways to rank entrants so that weaker players would be paired with stronger players to provide more equitable competition and eliminate the possibility of two stronger players ruining the fun as teammates. The HDA also sponsored large tournaments twice a year, attracting players from all over the world to contend for a prize pool that might run as high as $100,000.

My darting career lasted from 1980 until about 2013, when I realized that age had taken the edge from my hand-to-eye coordination skills. During those years, I enjoyed competing both in league play and the money tournaments with varying results. As a league team player and captain competing in the HDA’s strongest divisions, I collected about thirty team trophies during those years and they still sit atop the filing cabinets in my exercise room where my descendants undoubtedly will find them after my death and mutter, “What the hell is all this junk?” But I still enjoy letting them remind me of times when I entered the arena and emerged victorious.

In addition to the team trophies, I also accumulated a number of individual league darts honors in the form of certificates now framed on the wall. The league maintained individual statistics and recognized winners in several categories like most individual wins in a season. HDA also awarded certificates for special shots, most prominently the “Ton-80” which occurs when a player executes the best three-dart shot available on the board: three darts together in the triple-twenty plot. I have about a dozen Ton-80 certificates framed on my wall above the trophies.

Although I never considered myself a professional darts player, I played with several players over the years who qualified by winning large sums of money on a national level. One in particular was Wade McDonald, a left-handed shooter who ranked number one in the nation for a while in listings compiled by the American Darts Organization (ADO). Once in a league night pairing I beat Wade head’s up in a game of singles 301 and still recall the thrill. Wade actually made his living as a carpenter, but for a couple of years he earned enough from traveling the professional darts circuit to take a break from the hammer and nails. Wade played several times as part of a hand-picked team challenging a British team in London, sponsored by the ADO.

In one memorable episode, I helped Wade avoid a drunken driving conviction by employing what I called the “darts defense.”  Our adventure occurred after I drew Wade as my blind-draw partner for Doubles 501 at one of the HDA’s large national tournaments. He left after we lost in the second round. But he called two days later asking my help. He’d been arrested after the tournament for drunken driving, but he had refused a breathalyzer test and protested his innocence. Now he wanted me to come testify that just before he left the tournament, he had made a difficult darts shot—so he couldn’t possibly have been drunk! I thought his strategy sounded ridiculous, but I agreed to meet with his attorney to discuss this novelty tactic. When the attorney began questioning me about darts and Wade’s skills, I suggested partially as a joke that we could play a game in front of the jury with Wade demonstrating his trick shot for his courtroom life.

“If jurors take the board into the jury room and try it themselves, they will think there’s no way he could have been drunk just half an hour later,” I said.

Wade was skeptical, but his attorney loved the idea. So did the judge, who obviously thought a courtroom darts game might break the monotony in his daily routine. Of course, the female prosecutor blew a fuse protesting this demonstration. When the judge agreed, however, and told us to fetch the dart board, she decided to just dismiss Wade’s case and move on to some other drunk driver without a defense. The attorney confided afterward that the case against Wade had not been very strong because he had not looked too drunk on his police station video.

Although I never considered myself a “professional” at darts, I did participate one season about 1984 in what the HDA promoted as a “professional league.” I recall it as the most interesting of my darts career, and it ranks as another example of something I considered a win.

The association invited all interested players to attend an organizational meeting at a large bar. We had enough interest in Houston to form eleven teams of four players each, who agreed to pay $25 apiece each week into a pool. We elected eleven captains and then conducted a pro-style draft to assemble the teams, with the captains selecting in reverse order of their elections. I was surprised to become the second player selected overall in this draft. Because we had drafted teams, this league proved to be highly competitive with six of the eleven virtually tied for first place at the end of the three-month season. My team finished high enough to recover the money we had each invested in the prize pool during the season.

As a darts tournament player, my most impressive win occurred in 1983 when I entered a major singles dart tournament in Galveston that had attracted players from all over the region. I only finished in second place, but that day remains fixed in my mind as one of my top athletic achievements. I played from about noon until close to midnight, dispatching one opponent after another in the game of 501. I realized something unique—almost supernatural—was happening in my performance that day, and I have tried to understand it through research into performance psychology ever since. I concluded that on this day I experienced what some psychologists have labeled “flow,” defined simply as a state of complete immersion in an activity. It’s too bad we can’t adopt a state of flow any time we need it. But then, if we could, no one would ever lose and all competitions would finish in a tie. For more information on the psychology of flow, look here

I recall entering states of flow on several occasions in my life, but nothing was more memorable or extensive than during that darts tournament in Galveston. The best description of the experience is simple: I reached a point early in the contest where the dart board seemed so close that I could just reach out and place my darts wherever I wanted. I’ve had a similar flow experience playing shortstop in a softball game as a 50-year-old when the batted ball seemed to move so slowly that I could see ever bounce and wiggle. I recall experiencing flow in basketball games when the other players appeared to be walking. All I had to do was dribble between them and take my shots. 

But those softball and basketball moments of flow occurred erratically compared with the afternoon of performance on the darts board that day in Galveston. One-by-one the players fell until only two of us remained. I stood head’s up with lights shinning on only one board and the crowd packed into the darkness. My opponent was a British expat named Roger Bick, who had played with me on a team a couple of years earlier. The crowd clearly viewed me as the underdog since I had never won a major event like this, while Roger had. We flipped a coin to determine who would shoot first for the bull’s eye to decide which player would start. The crowd sighed when I lost the flip and Roger followed by placing one dart into the single bull’s eye—that green outer ring around the red double bull that ranks as the best shot on the board. I stepped to the line, my flow still surging, and popped my dart straight into the red bull. The crowd roared as I prepared to shoot first.

Then, I realized something was happening to my flow. Perhaps I started thinking too much about the potential outcome of a glorious conquest. Somehow, I lost that complete immersion in the game, forgot the joy of hitting my target and focused instead on Roger, standing there waiting for me to fail. And that’s what I did. I proceeded to lose this showdown in two straight matches. I did collect $100 for my second-place finish. I never had another afternoon at darts like that again.

During my peak darting years in the 1980s, I always enjoyed strolling into “foreign” darts bars and playing the so-called local champion. I define foreign as any bar outside of Houston. Every darts bar boasts a reigning regular—the guy who plays there all the time and seldom loses. They are usually the definition of the “big fish in the small pond.” My favorite memory of playing a local champ in a foreign bar involves a showdown in St. Peters, Missouri, with a local champ I knew only as “JR.”

I first confronted JR about 1982 while visiting my dad over Christmas in St. Louis. Seeking a darts match, I learned the Pirates Cove Lounge in St. Peters just west of the city had scheduled a blind-draw doubles tournament for Friday night. So, I drove to the Pirates Cove, paid my $5 entry fee and drew as my partner one of the females. I carried her through our side of the bracket until the finals. As we prepared for the money round, she whispered, “JR.” I tried to hold my laughter, as I thought “Local champion, here we come.” We squared off and I won the money. But JR demonstrated great skill. He was a tall bearded guy, cigarette dangling from his lip, and he seemed irritated about the outcome. After I collected my winnings, another female approached and said JR wanted to play head’s up for money. She volunteered to keep score.

And, so, we squared off once more for one dollar per game. Every patron in the bar watched us play twenty or thirty games, alternating wins fairly evenly. I believe by the end of the night, neither one of us had netted any money. But I had a great time, left the bar and returned to Houston. A year later almost to the day, I was back in St. Louis and decided to visit the Pirates Cove for an encore. I walked through the door in the late afternoon. Before I could sit down on a stool, I heard the female bar tender yell, “Hey, JR, that guy from Texas is here again.” JR emerged from a back room, darts in hand, and grinned: “Let’s go!”

We shouldn’t leave the darts world without some discussion of the darts bar hustle. I was not involved in very many of these confrontations, but I did enjoy one memorable event in the late 1990s at Rudyard’s Pub in Houston that netted me about $100. If you recall the movie White Men Can’t Jump, you know that Woody Harrellson played a white guy who teamed with Wesley Snipes in a recreational basketball hustle that involved Woody pretending to be an awkward doofus just hanging out while Wesley goaded other players into a challenge for big money by vowing to take any fool for a partner—even that doofus over there. In my darts version, I played the Woody Harrellson character, but our event was not as organized as the movie. In fact, I didn’t even realize what was happening until I started raking the money.

Although I’ve been a regular patron of Rudyard’s, on this occasion I was just hanging out unrecognized, practicing my game alone on a board to the side while two other patrons played each other nearby. I’d been practicing about half an hour, drinking a beer, when an old acquaintance from the darts league entered Rudyard’s looking for a game. He simply nodded at me and then challenged the other two in a doubles match for money, agreeing to play with any partner, even me. I agreed and we decided to play for one dollar apiece. When we won, we offered double-or-nothing and they agreed. The winning streak continued, and double-or-nothing quickly grew into a fairly large prize pool. These guys lost every match, but they could not refuse the opportunity to try to eliminate their debt with a single winning game. They decided to stop when each of them had paid out $100.   

I should share one more darts anecdote before moving on to softball and poker, even though it has nothing to do with winning. It occurred in 2003 while traveling in England on an assignment for my company. With a bit of vacation time to burn, I hopped the BritRail train to Edinburgh and then traveled over to the English border town of Carlisle to spend a day touring the Roman ruin of Hadrian’s Wall and the old castle at Carlisle. While staying overnight in Carlisle, I grabbed my darts and visited a pub to have a couple of beers and compete against the locals there.

While warming up on a board alone, I heard a British accent ask, “Where you from, mate?” When I said Houston, he started laughing and chanting “Richmond Arms! Richmond Arms!” I couldn’t believe it. Here I stood thousands of miles from home and this guy was chanting the name of a Houston darts pub where I had spent many hours in competition over the years.

“You’re not buying another drink here,” he said. “It’s all on me, and let’s have a game!”  

He explained that he had been in the British Navy during the short-lived Falklands War of 1982 with his ship stationed for a while at the Port of Houston. At that time, the owner of the Richmond Arms was a British expat and darting pal of mine named Michael Holliday, and he knew an opportunity when he saw one. Mike rented a bus and sent it every night to the port so those homesick British seamen could have transportation to the Richmond Arms, spend their money, drink their fill and return to the ship after closing time like VIPs. For all I know, I had played games with him twenty years before meeting him in Carlisle. Small world, eh? So, we played several hours. And yes, he won every match! But I drank for free.

FAST PITCH SOFTBALL COACHING

I view my softball wins as a coach of girls rather than my own play on the field. I coached young girls softball teams for about a decade, from 1984 until 1994. As a coach, I enjoyed several winning seasons in terms of wins and losses, and I coached many teams to winning games. I also enjoyed watching individual players improve and learn from the competitive exercise. For me, those wins as a teacher rather than a coach have been the most satisfying.

 It is sad that my memories of service in Southwest Houston Girls Softball Association more often trigger feelings of regret instead of triumph. Emotions run high in little league and all parents find themselves crossing the line between calm and counterproductive more often than they would choose to admit. I like to think that overall, I was one of the good guys who volunteered his time to the greater benefit of all concerned. I even served as the elected president for one season. I umpired. I coached multiple teams—not just the select teams, but the regular neighborhood teams slapped together from the girls who could show up at the park. Now that those girls have all grown up, some consider me an adult friend.

I remember entering a bar a few years back and hearing the bar maid scream, “Coach Taylor!” I couldn’t remember the girl, but apparently I hadn’t been too rough on her since she bought me a drink. But I know I had my darker moments on the diamond in those years. Occasionally, I’ve encountered a former associate from the softball league and felt compelled to apologize for something without even remembering why. I only recalled that I had hurt that person some way in the past and wanted to make amends.

Of all the players and teams, however, one of each still resonates in my memory. The player was a nine-year-old girl named Lisa who asked if she could play on my 1985 team, the Ladybugs. I still had a spot, so I said sure. That night I got a call from her father, voicing his concerns. He explained that Lisa had been born with an ankle problem of some sort requiring surgery and rehabilitation. He added that Lisa’s mother had been unable to accept the medical issues, so she had abandoned them. He was worried about her ability to participate and how failure might affect her emotional growth.

“I talked with her today and she looked pretty normal, “I said. “Why don’t I meet with you two. We’ll try playing catch and see what she thinks.”

The next day we gathered at the field, where I told Lisa to use her bare hands catching a tennis ball. I showed her how to hold her two palms facing outward to grab the ball as I tossed it her way. She closed her hands around the ball and grabbed it. Her eyes opened wide and a big smile crawled across her face. She laughed. I looked at her dad, and he was starting to cry.

Lisa became the most memorable example of a personal rule I used while coaching children. I decided my primary goal for every team I coached would be to find the weakest player and at some point in the season to place that kid in a position to do something that she could never have imagined possible before the season began. Hit a ball in an actual game? Score a run? Catch a ball? This inspired me to work harder with the kids who really needed instruction. So, I worked with Lisa all season, But I kept her in the outfield so she couldn’t get hurt.

She went all season without a hit or fielding a ball. Finally, in one game, I decided to put her at third base for an inning, hoping my pitcher could strike out the side and keep Lisa safe. Well, every coach knows what happens almost every time you put a kid like Lisa at third base. I couldn’t look when a batter smashed a screaming line drive straight at her face. But I heard a loud pop of the ball hitting a leather glove, and then the crowd roared approval. I saw her wandering around with the ball in her glove, laughing and smiling. Now it was my turn to sniff back a tear—primarily because she had experienced what for her must have been an incredible moment of success like she had never imagined. But, also from relief that she still had a face. I felt like a winner that day for sure.

Lisa was too old to stay with the Ladybugs in 1986, after we had finished in second place in 1985. But she continued to play with the older girls, and her father volunteered as an assistant coach on her team in 1986. And that’s the year I managed my most memorable and satisfying team, the 1986 edition of the Ladybugs. The 1985 season had been a hard-fought contest with a rival coach of the Honeybees. In an effort to compete, I had worked hard at recruiting athletic little players from neighborhood soccer teams, trying to find a couple of nuggets who could win. It still hadn’t been enough to overcome that coach and his daughter, who had become the most dominating pitcher the league had ever seen. In 1986, however, Dick Hall and his daughter Shannon had moved up to the next age group, out of my hair. Still, I was worn out from the competitive bombast of 1985. So, I told the league president, “I don’t care if we win. Just put some kids on my team who live close enough to practice together at their own school.”

After signups I reviewed my list of names and their experience levels. I recognized that of the thirteen members of the roster, six had experience and seven did not. That gave me an idea. I reserved the practice field at Sutton Elementary for daily practices at four and divided the team into two groups: pros and amateurs. I worked with each group on alternating days.

With the amateurs, I took my time tossing tennis balls and teaching them to swing off a batting tee. The smaller group allowed me and my assistants to spend quality time on fundamentals without fear that their experienced teammates might injure or intimidate them. On the pro days, those girls hit the field full blast, improving their skills at a faster pace, no holds barred—and they loved it that the amateurs were not slowing them down. We did this for two weeks, and I was the only one practicing every day.

Just before I merged the two groups, one of the amateurs approached me and asked, “Coach, thanks for all your help, but I’m worried. I saw another team practicing and they were really good. We only have seven players and none of us is very good. Are we going to do OK?”

I realized she had seen the other half of her team without appreciating they belonged to us. I laughed and told her, “You’ve only seen half of our team. We’re practicing together starting next week. Take a look then and tell me what you think.”

Her eyes got wide on Monday when she saw the veterans join the team—firing the balls around the bases, popping their gloves and hitting moon shots into the outfield. She smiled and said, “OK, we have a team.”  She was right. That edition of the Ladybugs did win the championship for the nine-and-under playing division, but not without a battle from the Honeybees. Although Dick and his daughter had graduated, the Honeybees remained strong. The season ended in a tie that triggered a one-game playoff. I had concerns in the first inning when the Honeybees loaded the bases. Their cleanup batter smacked a ground ball to third base where one of the former amateurs had managed to secure the position. She fielded the grounder and, instead of tagging third base for the easy out, fired home to our catcher who stopped the run.

“We never worked on that,” I asked her. “Why did you throw home?”

“It just seemed like the right thing to do,” she said. I felt like a winner again because I realized she had become a player, not just some robot parroting my instructions. I had to believe that somewhere my skill as a teacher had found success.

We won the title game easily, and, looking back, I believe the successful execution of that out at home in the first inning provided an intimidating play that the young Honeybees could not shake out of their heads. I’m sure it rallied the rest of the Ladybugs with confidence they could succeed. I must confess, it did not hurt that one of my experienced neighborhood players turned out to be the best player in the league that year. But I know it took more than her. And that team reminded me of a conversation from a decade earlier among colleagues over lunch discussing our various career goals if we could not have worked as journalists.

“Morris Buttermaker,” I said, not even half in jest. I saw the blank stares and elaborated. “You know, Walter Matthau in The Bad News Bears. Driving around in my convertible, cleaning swimming pools, taking kids to baseball practice and filling out the lineup. Winning the championship with a rag tag bunch of little shits who never thought it possible. Maybe I will do something like that someday.”

Over the years, many young softball players rode around in my 1980 Ford Bronco, carrying gloves and bats and bags and gear. I let them autograph their names with markers on the inside walls of that vehicle. I was self-employed as a freelance writer in those years so I had plenty of time to run my bus to practices. No swimming pools for me. Morris Buttermaker indeed! I’ll take the 1986 Ladybugs any day over the 1976 Bad News Bears.

But children grow up. And when I looked around my empty nest in the mid-1990s, I realized I needed some new competitive activity to stir my soul besides darts. I had played all varieties of poker since my teenage years. But a relatively new variety was gaining prominence with televised tournaments. So, I decided to renew my interest by learning the latest more popular version of Texas Holdem.

TEXAS HOLDEM POKER

I immediately embraced Holdem as a near perfect game of chance, one that requires a good deal of skill while exercising the mind—a crucial consideration for anyone entering their senior years. Each hand requires a player to make dozens of decisions about folding, calling, raising or betting based on the psychological analysis of an opponent who may be holding anything from a winning hand to nothing at all.

In Holdem, each player receives two cards face down and then bets according to their assessment of the power of those cards. After this round of betting, the dealer provides three more cards face up called the “flop” for the remaining players to consider. After another round of betting or folding, the dealer delivers a fourth card face up, called the “Turn” or “Fourth Street.” After one more betting round, the dealer delivers the fifth and final card face up on the board, called “The River.” The five cards face up are community cards to be used in every remaining hand, combined with the two unknown cards each player held from the start.

Holdem is such a fascinating game, it’s enjoyable to play for fun. But playing for money adds a more interesting element, and the standard game is called “No Limit Holdem” because it allows any player at any time to bet or raise with all the money in stake on the table. I play primarily in tournaments where every player pays the same amount, receives equal chips and plays until their chips have been taken by another player or until they have taken all the chips. For example, I have played in tournaments where I paid $1,000 to receive 10,000 chips, and I have played when I paid only $30 to receive 3,000 chips. The value of the chips is irrelevant because you only play until they are gone. But the longer you last the more actual money you will receive at the end of the tournament.

I consider my play to be winning when I last long enough to recover cash. I have won several small tournaments in bars where the prize was $150 and I paid nothing to play. The bar benefits from selling drinks to all the players. But I also have traveled to Reno and to Las Vegas for larger tournaments requiring me to buy-in for a seat. I also maintain a disciplined record of my wagers and earnings. You won’t be impressed.

Although I could afford to lose more every year, I have a goal of limiting my total loss in any calendar year to $5,000. Reviewing the results for the last few years, I can report that in 2017 I wagered a total of $7,960 while winning a total of $2,939 for a net loss of $5,021. The next year I wagered a total of $6,535 while winning a total of $1,990 for a net loss of $4,545. In 2019, however, I managed to finish in the black, after wagering $5,485 to win $6,054 for a net gain of $569. So far in 2020, I have wagered a total of $1,740 while winning a total of $790.60 for a net loss of $949.40.

Behind those numbers, however, I can report several exciting wins as well as a bunch of funny stories, better suited for inclusion in a separate chapter for this book. Because we’re reviewing my wins in this chapter, I can share my best “win” of any poker tournament. It occurred in 2019 at the World Series of Poker (WSOP) in Las Vegas, and actually ranks as quite an accomplishment.

You must realize that the WSOP is not a single event but a carnival of card games, with hundreds of tournaments running simultaneously every day for several months. When you watch the WSOP on television, you’re only watching one tournament called the Main Event in which the entry fee is $10,000 and many of the players are professionals who only play poker for a living. I don’t play in that event. But I have played in special tournaments such as the Seniors for players over 50 with an entry fee of $1,000. I haven’t cashed in any of those. In 2019, however, I paid $250 to enter a tournament with 936 players and finished tenth to win $2,109.

This tournament lasted 15 hours, so my hourly rate would have been $140. But it provided some exciting moments. You can’t win any of these tournaments without getting lucky a few times during the games. My signature hand occurred about three hours into the tournament when I wagered all my chips (“All-in!”) after receiving a pair of kings in my hand. I felt strong until I heard two other players call. With all of our chips in the middle we flipped our cards. My kings easily covered a pair of sevens. But the third caller rolled pocket aces, giving me the second-best hand before the flop. The flop included a seven, so suddenly my kings had fallen to third place behind three sevens and two aces. The dealer pitched a meaningless four on the Turn. But the table gasped when the River produced my third king, allowing me to triple my original stack of chips and eliminate two players from the tournament on one hand! Great fun? You bet. But don’t expect that to happen very often. I looked at the player with aces and said, “If you want justice, you’ll have to try the courthouse.”

The most disheartening part of this tournament occurred after I had collected my $2,109 for tenth place and returned to the table to observe how the final nine players would fare. I arrived just as they were deciding to go ahead and split the prize pool among themselves for about $11,000 apiece. Had I lasted one more spot, I would have covered all my losses for the previous two years! But, that’s poker. Coincidentally, my elimination came while holding a king and a nine against a player with a pair of kings. The kings giveth and they taketh away.

Before then, my best finish at the WSOP had occurred in 2017, when I entered a tournament against 1,019 other players for $235 and finished 60th to win $591. But it marked my first time to cash in a major tournament. My signature moment in that event occurred when I was moved to a new table about two hours after the start. I arrived at my new seat and placed my rack of remaining chips on the table just as the cards began to fly. Before I sat down, I peeked at my hand and saw the ace and king of diamonds. I looked up and couldn’t resist. “All-in,” I announced, adding, “maybe I won’t even have to sit down.” My new table of opponents folded around to one younger guy who sat fondling a fidget spinner and staring me down.

“So fast?” said my young friend. “I think you have kings. Is that right?”

I just smiled and stood behind my chair while he reviewed the monster stack of chips in front of his seat. He easily could call and lose without surrendering much of his stake. So, he called and rolled a pair of nines. I was behind with ace high—but not for long. A second ace arrived on the flop and my pair of aces held high ground. As I raked my pile of chips to double my stack, I pulled out my chair and sat down. Fidget-spinner shook his head, spun his toy and said, “I’m not calling you again unless I have aces. Remember that!”

Is it fair to call me a winner at this game? I believe I have the skills to win when fate deals me some cards to play. I usually know what to do. But I also realize I have personality quirks that affect my skill set. For example, I am a natural born tightwad. As a result, I sometimes have trouble calling a large bet even on a minimal risk. I’m sure I have other tendencies that hurt or help, and I would like to understand those better. My self-analysis will continue.

I play regularly with a poker club in Houston composed of about forty players from several professions. We have a tournament twice each month and our commissioner maintains rigorous statistics. While all of us could afford to compete for an entry larger than the $50 used by our club—Houston Risk Management—each of us will kill to rise in the rankings. Sidelined in 2020 by the Covid-19 pandemic, we actually play more often now by going online and transferring money via Venmo. We hold a daily tournament for $30 and additional events for larger amounts.

I like to view a Holdem tournament as a single experience similar to a lifetime where survival is paramount and prosperity is a win. It includes moments when fate has control, and all I can do is react. Then it has moments when I can seize control by recognizing opportunities as they knock. And then, almost always, it will offer a moment that knocks me down offering a reminder that I can’t always dominate or think of everything. Always, however, there’s another new deal just ahead, reminding me to put that last loss aside and take another chance at survival.

HOW TO WIN?

For someone who says he does not like to brag, it sounds like I have done a lot in this post. But you asked the question and I have tried to answer in a way that will provide more than the raw statistics of winning or losing. And, if I have any conclusion about winning, it stems from the observation that almost all of my victories have occurred when I focused only on the enjoyment of an activity itself rather than the opportunity to place a winning feather in my cap. How many times above did I describe a victory that came when I didn’t even know I was competing?

 I want you to understand: You need to do the best job possible without thinking of the awards you might win. The same rule applies to winning in athletics as well, I believe. The best example springs from analyzing winning in two sports: darts and baseball. The old coach’s cliché of “Just have fun” should always work. But we all know that’s easier said than done. How can you concentrate and have fun at the same time?

 Analyzing that question for years, I finally concluded that the answer is to forget about the potential result of your effort and think back to the real reason you enjoyed the sport. In hitting a baseball, for example, the real fun comes from feeling the bat strike the ball. Standing in the box with runners on base, ignore the thoughts of glory that will come from driving them home. Do not say: “If I get a hit, we will win the game.” Instead, think about that last time you swung the bat, connected with the ball and felt that unique electric jolt of satisfaction from knowing you really clobbered it.

 I’ve experienced the same conclusion in competitive darts, standing at the line and realizing I would win the game if I just toss one dart into the bull’s eye. Instead, I should’ve been recalling the magical feeling that comes from simply achieving a bull’s eye, as if I’m not even in a game but just enjoying the challenge of hitting the bull.  I know—it’s not always so easy. But any time you can clear your mind, ignore the potential result and substitute fun for pressure, I believe you will improve your chance for success. The trick is to clearly define the reason an activity is fun. Do you enjoy the feel of putting a basketball through the hoop, or are you just hoping to win the game? If you are an actor, do you enjoy making the audience laugh or are you thinking about that Oscar?

 Analyze your activities and determine exactly why they bring you joy. That will provide your best chance to succeed.