Work or Play? Reflections on a Life Well Spent
Mark Twain once mused that he “never did a day’s work in all [his] life.” For him, genuine work was play—his joy dressed in the clothing of labor, never a burden to shoulder but an adventure to embark upon. This idea has always made me pause. Did I ever find work as playful as Twain did? Or was my experience something different, tinged with purpose but rarely delight?
When I stepped into the world of work in 1963, after four years in the US Air Force, the shipyard wasn’t just the largest in the world; it was a city unto itself—alive with clangs of hammers, the hush of brute steel taking form, the steady pulse of men and women bent over their craft. To me, that daily ritual was not identity, but necessity. It was about making ends meet, driving ever forward for the promise of a promotion and a slightly bigger paycheck. Ambition was a reliable, if unsentimental, companion.
Forty-three years later, I accepted a gold watch and crossed the threshold into retirement. Some wondered aloud if I’d miss the routine of rising early and heading off to Newport News Shipbuilding’s bustling gates. The honest answer? Quietly, I whispered, “No.” The friendships—yes, those I missed. But work itself? I left it behind without regret, curious about what life outside the yard might hold.
Yet, there was one thread of joy woven through those decades: coaching city sports. High School Athletics World I once dreamed might carry me through college and into coaching—remained unfinished business. But on rec league fields and courts, I found the next best thing. Football, basketball, baseball — I coached them all, and sometimes, we won big. City championships, multi-state tournaments — these trophies never gathered dust in my heart, though they sat quietly on my shelves.
Coaching let me become a builder, but of spirit rather than steel. My message to young athletes was always the same: only through effort—real, honest-to-goodness sweat and persistence—comes success. Some of those lessons filtered home, teaching my own children about the value of striving, not just arriving.
Now, in the gentle quiet of retirement, I reflect on those days with gratitude. The faces of the kids I coached blurred with time, but I hope that somewhere out there, a few still recall our shared triumphs and lessons. Perhaps the most enduring “work” I did was off the clock, guiding the next generation toward lives of effort and meaning. If Twain was right, maybe joy is waiting not in the job or the title, but in those rare moments when labor and love become indistinguishable. That is what I now believe—and I owe that discovery to both a storied shipyard and a handful of muddy, sunlit fields.
