It's OK to cry

It was pretty upsetting news the other day when UGA VI, the University of Georgia’s beloved mascot, passed away. I have heard that it even made some grown men cry.

I did not cry at UGA’s passing, though I am a big Bulldogs fan and there are a couple of things that could make me cry. Like if I ever read the headline, “Richt gets FSU job; Goff to return to coach Georgia.” I suppose I might have cried the last time we lost to Tech, but Lord, that was so long ago, who can remember it?

Some people thought the level of reactions to UGA’s death was a bit over the top, and it got me to thinking about when it’s OK for a man to cry. It’s much more accepted in today’s culture, and there are some instances that are universally considered tear-worthy. The death of a relative or friend, for example, or the birth of a child, or when you have to fill up your car with gas.

I guess the last time I had a good cry was when my dog Benji died. Benji was a slobbering fool with a brain the size of a walnut and a heart the size of Montana. She drove poor Lucky crazy because she shadowed her all over the yard, staying about an inch away until Lucky would go against her good nature and pin her to the ground by the neck. But even old Lucky was sad for a few weeks after Benji passed away.

It’s OK to cry during certain movies, I suppose. Old Yeller always gets to me. Same with My Dog Skip. Something like Schindler’s List can bring a tear. The movie Mama Mia almost made me cry recently – not because I saw it and it was sad, but because I thought for a moment my wife was going to insist I go see it with her.

There are a few other occasions when I get a little misty-eyed, and it’s not embarrassing. It happens when my kids do something to make me proud, like winning an award in school or making me a sweet Father’s Day card, or remembering to close the refrigerator door.

Certain songs can hit me at the right time and get my eyes a little moist. I don’t care how corny “Coat of Many Colors” is, I get choked up thinking about those mean kids making fun of Dolly. And there might be somebody out there who can hear Emmylou Harris sing “Boulder to Birmingham” without getting a lump in their throat, but I don’t want to meet them.

There was a Tom Hanks movie where he said, “There’s no crying in baseball.” I beg to differ. When I was playing in Babe Ruth League, I was in left field one day after spraining my left wrist, and I was a little skittish about catching the ball, cause it hurt. So of course, first guy in the game lines a single to left, and I charged it, and just as it hopped to me I flinched with my glove and pulled it back a little early, leaving the ball with an unobstructed path to my – well, you know. I was not wearing a protective cup at the time, so yes, there was some crying in baseball that day. In between the vomiting.

The older you get, the less hung up you are about crying. I try to avoid it because it gives me a headache, but hey, if the tears are going to come, let them come. Life is too short to pretend you don’t care.