Tag Archives: Scott Carr

Cosmic Balls – Chelsea “The Beast” Murphy: My favorite kickball seasons by Scott Carr

It was tough picking out the song.  It had to be just right… something I could play with my windows down, and of course – it had to be Kid Rock. It’s silly, I know.  I felt like I had to be cool I guess.  …or maybe I was just looking forward to having fun, just the two of us, and I thought the right music would kick it off.  Many times the song ended up being Kid Rock’s All Summer Long – because I always thought of when I met her Mom with that song.  Whatever the song was, I was playing it loud, windows down, when I pulled up on the street in front of her house.

I was picking up Chelsea before kickball.  It became a bit of a tradition for us.  Well, I felt it was.  I was always excited when Thursday would roll around.  I’d often text her early in the day – just to let her know I was excited we were going to be playing kickball that night.  …because I was.  Damn.  I cherished those Thursday nights.

Chelsea was one of the only girls I knew that who could kick the ball well into the outfield if they let her.  It was amazing to see.  Of course kickball is for fun too, and our team – Cosmic Balls – is the most fun team in the league.  I was so especially excited about her being a part of that.  I even added her Tech9 song “I’m A Beast” to my kickball playlist.

It was cool.  Kari was sitting out those seasons, but I got to hang with Chelsea.  We had some great conversations just driving to and from kickball.  Sometimes we’d go out with the team afterwards.  For me, it was a wonderful time with my step daughter Chelsea.

Once a Cosmic Baller, always a Cosmic Baller.

The Sound Of Sorrow by Scott Carr – In memory of Chelsea Rose Murphy

The sound first appeared to waft upwards through the grate in the floor, passing up into the hallway outside my bedroom like a leaf blown into the sky on the first day of a fall season.  The sound was different, strange, creating a feeling of curiousity in my 10 year old self – drawing me closer and out of my room.  It was impossible to place, and unable to recognize it I stepped closer to the large metal grate, revealing small pieces of the view of the first floor of the house through it as I stood above it.  The sound wavered slow and fast, drifted off and resonated back louder than before.  It was muffled, then clear, then gone, then muffled… …I bent down to the floor, and sat near the grate.  Looking through to the first floor but seeing nothing but the metal grate of the floor furnace below.

I became vaguely aware of my sister standing in her bedroom doorway, as I leaned my ear down to the grate to strain at comprehending the sound. Suddenly I heard the front door open, both through the grate and from below the nearby stairs, closing – no slamming shut.  Loud steps across the living room below, a pace like a run, made a familiar sound on the hardwoods that I’d heard so many times before… my Dad’s steps.  I heard him speak, but what he was saying was entirely too muffled for me to make out and then I realized he had reached the source of that strange ambient sound… my mother.  I heard his coat ruffle as he took her in his arms, her head lifting up to his shoulder and that sound – no longer encumbered broke free like water gushing forth from a broken dam… cries, crying, sobbing, wailing… my Dad just held her as she tried to talk to him, tried to explain what he already knew… in broken crushed destroyed words that she had gotten a phone call and her brother Butch was dead.

Ten years old.  The sound had been so strange I had not even recognized it as anything.  Even the words being spoken through horrific sadness floated around and beyond me and my full comprehension as I lay entirely upon the metal grate, my hands pressed upon it and my fingers laced through.  Motionless I simply listened without any full understanding of the scene unfolding in the living room of my house below.

The sounds so obscure and baffling to a fifth grader are not to me today, for I know their source all too well – it is the reverberations of a heart as it cracks… it is the siren sound of a heart being ripped apart… …the sound of sorrow.  Ultimate sorrow.

Experience is sometimes the biggest bitch, and as such I have made that unfortunate sound on more occasions of my life than I care to recall to count, and so I won’t.  I woke up this morning from a rested sleep – it was a good night, and has been a good morning.  I’m still amazed at how the mind works,   just laying in bed waking up slowly and my mind moves me back in time along a loose thread of memory.  A memory of the sound of sorrow.

Just a short time, hours ago, days ago… nearly two weeks now – that sound came from me – a sound made for my step daughter, Chelsea Rose Murphy.  The sound of sorrow.

Loose threads of memory bringing back the time we received the news of my Uncle Butch’s untimely death.  …and the first real time I heard… the sound of sorrow.

The Winter Inside by Scott Carr – A Tribute To Chelsea Rose Murphy

Today is winter.  Again.

Long cold fingers seemingly reach from the North across hundreds upon hundreds of miles to find me.  The sun shines, but I find no warmth in it, instead each blowing wind feels like another icy caress.  To me, everything reflects the uncaring grip of winter from the barren trees moving to and fro as they rake their claw like branches across the sky to  dormant grass that seems to quietly crush beneath each step I take.

It’s just a season.  It’s just the tilt of the Earth’s axis and our overall position in orbit around the sun.  …it is, but it feels like so much more to me.  Like one of the few brown and shriveled leaves hanging onto the oak tree, my emotions are seemingly drained of vibrance and now merely give way to any passing situation.

It’s not the cold.  The numbness in my limbs, the shivers that sometimes aflict me, they come from more than just Old Man Winter.  In reality, he has much more going on up north than anything he might throw as far south as I am now.  No, it’s not the cold.

I miss Chelsea Rose Murphy.

It is the season inside that hides the warmth of the sun or whips the north wind across my face.  The season inside is a frozen day where no birds sing and no squirrels race across the lawn.  The season inside brings dreary clouds and long restless nights.

Without Chelsea Rose, the season inside is the winter inside…

…and today is winter.  Again.


…I heard a song today.  It’s not new, its one I’ve heard many times before, but today, just today – I heard it in a different way.  I played it a second time, just a little louder as I begin to hum just a little.

I don’t know, it felt a little like that first green leaf and stem poking upward just a little above all the brown, above the dead grass, a sharp contrast of green… it felt just like a little bit of hope, maybe a tiny bit of joy.  I played the song a third time, this time I sang.  I felt happy, and I thought of Chelsea.

It is still winter inside.  It is still a very long and restless night.  Tonight.  I’m sure tomorrow and the tomorrow’s yet to come will be the same.

…perhaps I’ll listen to that song again tomorrow.