Heart In The Hills-Head In The Clouds

  Growing up in Clintwood, Virginia during the seventies and eighties felt like living inside a postcard. Everyone knew everyone, the church bells marked the rhythm of the week, and high school sports were the town’s heartbeat. My childhood was full of hayfields that doubled as ballfields, porches crowded with family, and a community that never let a kid go hungry or feel alone. But behind that picture-perfect backdrop, my brother and I watched our father and uncle slowly decline from neurological disease. As Dad’s health worsened, Mom cared for him around the clock while managing her own mother’s needs—and still found a way to give us a normal life. Dad passed away the day before my twenty-first birthday. Five weeks later, Mom was diagnosed with terminal ovarian cancer. She fought for a year before we lost her too. At twenty-two, I stepped into adulthood holding a college degree in one hand and the responsibility of settling my mother’s estate in the other. Grief, paperwork, an...

  Little Eyes Are Watching: A Personal Lesson A Championship Season and a Fifth-Grade Fan In 1979, the Clintwood High School football team claimed its seventh straight Lonesome Pine District Championship. It would be their last outright title until 1987, though they did share the crown with Appalachia in 1984. I was in fifth grade that fall, and I followed the Greenwave and its star players with the kind of devotion only a small-town kid can muster. As I’ve mentioned before, these hometown athletes were heroes to me—larger than life—and sports were the center of my world. An Early Arrival and an Unforgettable Moment I vividly remember something that happened prior to a game during that season. It was bright and sunny, so I originally wanted to say that it was a Saturday playoff game, but my brain is telling me that it was an early regular season game, when the sun was still setting later in the evening. Doesn't really matter! The lesson is the same.  My buddies and I sho...

  The Best Teacher I Know “Okay, here’s a free lesson for you…” When I began officiating college football, former ACC referee Jeff Flanagan took me under his wing and taught me more than anyone else ever has. He invested countless hours in my development, and I’ll never be able to repay him for that generosity. When Jeff teaches at a camp or clinic, young officials hang on his every word. He’s a pharmacist by trade, but would’ve made a phenomenal educator. His delivery is clear and engaging, and his Alabama drawl gives his words an easy sincerity. Jeff often uses film clips of officiating errors to teach lessons—sometimes of others, sometimes of himself. Before every clip, he says the same thing: “Okay, here’s a free lesson for you. I’m showing this for teaching purposes, not to be critical. I’ve provided plenty of free lessons for other officials, and they’ve given me a few too. It all evens out. We’re all here to learn." Those words apply far beyond officiating—they’...

It Takes a Village A Blessed Beginning There’s an African proverb that says, “It takes a village to raise a child.” I thank the Lord as often as possible for the village in which I was raised. No kid in America had a better upbringing than I did—not even Wally and Beaver. Before the days of actual road names, I lived in “the first house on the left behind South’s Store.” My maternal grandmother lived in a single-wide trailer in our backyard, moving there when my papaw passed away just a couple of months before I turned six. She was a regular fixture in our home—so much so that she may as well have lived within its walls. Family at Every Turn If I stepped out my front door and turned right, within two minutes I’d arrive at the home of my paternal grandparents, Radford and Tona Mullins. My favorite uncle, John Bill, lived with them his entire life and was one of my best friends. On the way there, I’d pass the home of my great aunt and uncle, Jimmy and Rita South. Uncle Jimmy to...

🏀  When I was in fourth grade, my parents and I started attending Clintwood High School's boys’ basketball games. I had been a football and baseball fan almost since birth, but basketball was something new—and exciting. Clintwood Elementary School was only a year old at the time, and its shiny new gym felt like an arena. It didn’t hurt that the Greenwave had a pretty good team either. Many of the same boys I’d watched on the football field that fall were now sprinting up and down the hardwood—minus the pads and helmets. I was thrilled to finally see what they really looked like. Of course, there were some new names too, since not every basketball player suited up for football. I’ve been to countless basketball games since then, but that season remains one of my favorites. Childhood Heroes in Green and White I became such a fan of that team that I lost sight of the fact they were just local kids—from the same small coal-mining town where I lived. They sat in classrooms that ...

Sticks and Stones Can Break My Bones...but Words Can REALLY Hurt Me. by Stuart R. Mullins The Changing Meaning of a Hurtful Word When I was a child, the word retarded was a clinical description. It referred to someone with a developmental disability that caused them to function below a certain IQ level. Even today, the dictionary lists it as meaning “less advanced in mental, physical, or social development.” But there’s also an added “informal” definition: “very foolish or stupid.” That’s where the problem lies. Somewhere along the way, a clinical term turned into a playground insult—and it lost all sense of compassion. A Memory from Childhood I remember a boy from my neighborhood who had what was then called “mental retardation.” That was the official, clinical term at the time, and my mother explained it to me carefully. Sure, kids could be cruel. Some used the term unkindly when referring to him—but never toward people without the condition. My friends and I teased each other con...

  Little Eyes Are Watching By Stuart R. Mullins A Lesson That Lasted a Lifetime During the mid-1980s, I was blessed to play football for Coach Ralph Cummins at Clintwood High School . Coach Cummins was an outstanding organizer, motivator, leader, coach, and teacher. I could tell countless stories about things he said or did that pushed my classmates and teammates to perform at a higher level. However, as meaningful as those moments were, it’s his words and actions outside of competition that stand out in my mind today. Beyond the Scoreboard Coach Cummins cared deeply about producing not just athletes, but good citizens—young men who would carry themselves with integrity both on and off the field. He wanted his players to be aggressive, yet respectful of their opponents. His mantra was simple: “Knock your man down, pick him up, dust him off, and then get him again on the next play.” He wouldn’t tolerate disrespect toward opponents, officials, fans, or his coaching sta...

Welcome to My Mind by Stuart R. Mullins Introduction Welcome to my mind—a very scary place to be sometimes. I live here regularly. Sure, I’ve gotten out and done some really cool things in my lifetime, but I still spend a lot of time dreaming. Whenever I’m riding in a car, flying in a plane, or just have a few quiet moments to myself, my thoughts kick into overdrive. As lame as it sounds, I still live out my rockstar fantasies on a daily basis. I write books in my head that I hope to put on paper one day so I can share them with you. My thoughts often drift back to childhood—the woods my friends and I practically lived in, the little neighborhood village that helped raise me, the Sunday School classrooms where I first learned about God, the small, tight-knit schools that made me feel safe and accepted, and the hometown that taught me the values I still strive to live by, despite numerous failures, and most of all, the two greatest parents who ever lived. I’ve been blessed beyond m...