In a few weeks, Stanislaus Francis Musial will celebrate his ninetieth birthday, and will do so as baseball's Greatest Living Hitter. That he is an all-time great is beyond dispute; that he's the all-time great farthest below the radar is equally beyond dispute.
For 22 seasons, Stan Musial drove the St. Louis Cardinals. He did so quietly, without the jaw-dropping flash of Willie Mays, without the big-city spotlight of DiMaggio and Mantle, without the tempestuousness of Ted Williams. Year after year, he cranked out .330, .340, .350, and made it look entirely too easy. He absolutely snookered you into thinking, "Hell, I can do that!"
Curt Flood tells a great story about Musial in Ken Burns' "Baseball". Musial was in the last third of his career when Flood came up as a rookie in 1956, and was in the midst of a typical torrid hitting stretch when the astounded rook asked in exasperated bewilderment, "Stan, how do you DO it?"
Musial thought it over a moment, and said, "Well, Curt, you just get a strike, and knock the heck out of it." Forty years later, Flood's face still had a look of astonishment: "It really was that simple for Stan Musial."
He retired at the end of the 1963 season as the all-time National League leader in hits with 3,630. He hit .331 lifetime; seven times the NL batting champion, he was in his SIXTEENTH season, at 38 years of age, before he finished out of the top five in the NL in batting. His day-to-day, year-over-year consistency was simply remarkable. Again, from Ken Burns' "Baseball", comes this tidbit from noted baseball whackjob George Will: "Baseball's rich in wonderful statistics, but it's hard to find one more beautiful than Stan Musial's hitting record. Stan Musial got 3,630 hits; 1,815 at home, 1,815 on the road. He didn't care where he was; he just hit."
Oh, the hell with it. Read this by Joe Posnanski instead; he's written it much better than I can.
The point of all of this? Happy Birthday, Mr. Musial.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Monday, October 11, 2010
On Sex, Religion, and Politics, Part II
Once again, not really. Just a screed on politics.
******
"Please vote. If nothing else, it keeps the bastards on their toes." - Ned Slattery
"Don't vote. It just encourages the bastards." - P.J. O'Rourke
******
Full disclosure department: Your intrepid scribe has been a Democrat since he was old enough to spell the word "politics". I was raised that way, have worked on campaigns (to stunningly bad results), and have even run for public office myself (7th-place finish in a 6-man race). That all having been said, I'm going to do my level best to keep this balanced. Given the initial topic of discussion, some effort will be required on that score.
Carl Paladino, the Republican candidate for Governor in New York, is an ass.
OK, some background here. In spite of my Dem affiliation throughout my life, I am a fervent believer in the multi-party system we have in these-here parts. Debate is absolutely critical to our survival as a nation, and I will defend to the death your inalienable right to be totally incorrect, should you have the misfortune to disagree with my particular point of view. I live in the great Empire State, which, in addition to being a Democratic bastion my entire life, is home to the most dysfunctional state government in America, and quite possibly in American history.
This dysfunction is laughably bi-partisan; we have seen political snafus on both sides of the aisle that simply suspend belief. Where else could you have a former Democratic governor, run out of Albany on a rail for advanced hooker procurement, pull higher polling numbers than his successor, who may be completely inept, but is, at minimum, currently unindicted? Budgets, under both Republican and Democratic administrations, are months late, pork-barrel politics are rampant, and what passes for dialogue between opposing parties would be hilarious, were it not so sad.
But, I digress. Back to the GOP candidate. Carl Paladino finds himself the Republican standard-bearer largely, I believe, as a result of the Tea Party movement gaining favor nationwide these days. As much as I generally disagree with many Republican positions, and as much as the NY GOP is in seeming disarray at the moment, I cannot fathom their promoting this gomer on their own hook. Misguided in my opinion though they may be, they are not dumber than a box of rocks.
This character has, in the last two weeks, and three weeks before Election Day, challenged possibly the most influential political writer in the state to a fistfight in public, and has declared gay people to be "dysfunctional", saying "that's not how God created us." I happen to be a straight male; nature of the beast, I guess. Lots of folks aren't. Vive le difference. I'd like to hope that, when I shuffle off this mortal coil, my epitaph reads something more substantial than "Here lies a straight guy."
My radar starts twitching, however, when political candidates start interpreting the will of the Almighty for my poor, unenlightened benefit.
That he did this at all is appalling; that he did this is public is beyond my ken. I am not, by the way, making any of this up; you can see it for yourself in any number of media. This guy actually believes that spewing stuff like this is how you win elections? Andrew Cuomo must be laughing his ass off. Not since the immortal Pierre Rinfret ran against Andrew's father has the Empire State GOP come up with a guy quite like this one.
Even as a lifelong Democrat, and despite my opposition to many Republican positions, I am not anti-GOP; I firmly believe Republicans are equally as patriotic as their Democratic counterparts, and fervently want what they feel is best for our nation. That we possibly disagree on how to get there is one of this country's strongest attributes.
Let's face it; gomerism knows no party affiliation. Dennis Blagojevich (D-IL) was as crooked as the Colorado River. Here in NY, Dems of questionable ethical/moral conduct are a time-honored tradition, from Boss Tweed to Charlie Rangel.
That all said, this particular gomer is a disgrace, in one man's opinion.
The point of all of this? Please vote on Election Day. My old friend Ned Slattery is right.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
******
"Please vote. If nothing else, it keeps the bastards on their toes." - Ned Slattery
"Don't vote. It just encourages the bastards." - P.J. O'Rourke
******
Full disclosure department: Your intrepid scribe has been a Democrat since he was old enough to spell the word "politics". I was raised that way, have worked on campaigns (to stunningly bad results), and have even run for public office myself (7th-place finish in a 6-man race). That all having been said, I'm going to do my level best to keep this balanced. Given the initial topic of discussion, some effort will be required on that score.
Carl Paladino, the Republican candidate for Governor in New York, is an ass.
OK, some background here. In spite of my Dem affiliation throughout my life, I am a fervent believer in the multi-party system we have in these-here parts. Debate is absolutely critical to our survival as a nation, and I will defend to the death your inalienable right to be totally incorrect, should you have the misfortune to disagree with my particular point of view. I live in the great Empire State, which, in addition to being a Democratic bastion my entire life, is home to the most dysfunctional state government in America, and quite possibly in American history.
This dysfunction is laughably bi-partisan; we have seen political snafus on both sides of the aisle that simply suspend belief. Where else could you have a former Democratic governor, run out of Albany on a rail for advanced hooker procurement, pull higher polling numbers than his successor, who may be completely inept, but is, at minimum, currently unindicted? Budgets, under both Republican and Democratic administrations, are months late, pork-barrel politics are rampant, and what passes for dialogue between opposing parties would be hilarious, were it not so sad.
But, I digress. Back to the GOP candidate. Carl Paladino finds himself the Republican standard-bearer largely, I believe, as a result of the Tea Party movement gaining favor nationwide these days. As much as I generally disagree with many Republican positions, and as much as the NY GOP is in seeming disarray at the moment, I cannot fathom their promoting this gomer on their own hook. Misguided in my opinion though they may be, they are not dumber than a box of rocks.
This character has, in the last two weeks, and three weeks before Election Day, challenged possibly the most influential political writer in the state to a fistfight in public, and has declared gay people to be "dysfunctional", saying "that's not how God created us." I happen to be a straight male; nature of the beast, I guess. Lots of folks aren't. Vive le difference. I'd like to hope that, when I shuffle off this mortal coil, my epitaph reads something more substantial than "Here lies a straight guy."
My radar starts twitching, however, when political candidates start interpreting the will of the Almighty for my poor, unenlightened benefit.
That he did this at all is appalling; that he did this is public is beyond my ken. I am not, by the way, making any of this up; you can see it for yourself in any number of media. This guy actually believes that spewing stuff like this is how you win elections? Andrew Cuomo must be laughing his ass off. Not since the immortal Pierre Rinfret ran against Andrew's father has the Empire State GOP come up with a guy quite like this one.
Even as a lifelong Democrat, and despite my opposition to many Republican positions, I am not anti-GOP; I firmly believe Republicans are equally as patriotic as their Democratic counterparts, and fervently want what they feel is best for our nation. That we possibly disagree on how to get there is one of this country's strongest attributes.
Let's face it; gomerism knows no party affiliation. Dennis Blagojevich (D-IL) was as crooked as the Colorado River. Here in NY, Dems of questionable ethical/moral conduct are a time-honored tradition, from Boss Tweed to Charlie Rangel.
That all said, this particular gomer is a disgrace, in one man's opinion.
The point of all of this? Please vote on Election Day. My old friend Ned Slattery is right.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
On October
Leaves change their colors and gently fall to earth; a crispness hits the air. Apples are picked, pressed into cider, and baked into pies. Footballs fill Saturdays and Sundays, and T-shirts and shorts give way to sweaters and jeans. Without question, it's my favorite time of the year; there's still enough warmth to forestall the thoughts of winter, at least for a bit longer.
The madness that is even-year politics has shifted into high gear; voters are deluged with robocalls, brochures, and ringing doorbells. Schoolchildren are fully back into their routine, and what the hell is wrong with that?
And then, there's post-season baseball.
If you've been here before, you know your intrepid scribe is a trifle irrational when it comes to baseball. In Ken Burns' recent Tenth Inning, the eminent commentator George Will sums it up better than I ever could: "My wedding ring, which I designed myself, has the Major League Baseball logo on it. This serves to insure Mrs. Will, that she reamins, in my heart, right up there close to baseball." He continues, "I believe there are two seasons, not four; baseball season, and the void."
The post-season does nothing but ratchet up the intensity of the baseball fan; each pitch takes on a different meaning in October. The long season, one of the game's greatest attributes, is over, and with it, the notion that "we'll get 'em tomorrow" no longer applies. All of the wonder of the game is compressed in time; the team that won one hundred regular-season games can find itself facing elimination with two poor performances in twenty-four hours. In 2001, the Seattle Mariners won a record 116 games during the regular season, only to narrowly defeat Cleveland in a best-of-5. They were then summarily dispatched by the Yankees in the AL Championship Series.
The financial industry has a mandatory disclaimer, "Prior results are not a guarantee of future performance." So it is in October. As I type this, we're just a few minutes from the beginning of the post-season, so we'll wrap this up for now.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
The madness that is even-year politics has shifted into high gear; voters are deluged with robocalls, brochures, and ringing doorbells. Schoolchildren are fully back into their routine, and what the hell is wrong with that?
And then, there's post-season baseball.
If you've been here before, you know your intrepid scribe is a trifle irrational when it comes to baseball. In Ken Burns' recent Tenth Inning, the eminent commentator George Will sums it up better than I ever could: "My wedding ring, which I designed myself, has the Major League Baseball logo on it. This serves to insure Mrs. Will, that she reamins, in my heart, right up there close to baseball." He continues, "I believe there are two seasons, not four; baseball season, and the void."
The post-season does nothing but ratchet up the intensity of the baseball fan; each pitch takes on a different meaning in October. The long season, one of the game's greatest attributes, is over, and with it, the notion that "we'll get 'em tomorrow" no longer applies. All of the wonder of the game is compressed in time; the team that won one hundred regular-season games can find itself facing elimination with two poor performances in twenty-four hours. In 2001, the Seattle Mariners won a record 116 games during the regular season, only to narrowly defeat Cleveland in a best-of-5. They were then summarily dispatched by the Yankees in the AL Championship Series.
The financial industry has a mandatory disclaimer, "Prior results are not a guarantee of future performance." So it is in October. As I type this, we're just a few minutes from the beginning of the post-season, so we'll wrap this up for now.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
Thursday, September 23, 2010
On Change
"Because things are the way they are, things will not stay the way they are." - Bertolt Brecht
"Change is inevitable, except from a vending machine." - Robert C. Gallagher
***********
When my closest friend was married some 27 years ago, I was invited to be his best man, and at the toast offered these words, pithy as they seem to me now: "About the only constant in our lives is the incidence of change". To this day, I can't be entirely sure if I coined the line or inadvertently copped it from someone else. What the hell; I was 23.
Since then, as a guy who's spent his entire life in telecommunications, I've been blessed to have a front-row seat for the greatest technological change in human history, the evolution of the Information Age. Think about it; at that time, I worked as a customer-service rep for New York Telephone Company on a computer that was cutting-edge; the conventional network architecture at that time was to have basically "dumb" user terminals retrieving information from a central source of data.
Son #1 now has significantly more computing power in his $99 cell phone, and it ain't even close.
I have lived through more technological change already than my dad did, and he spent 36 years in the telecom business. My children will see exponentially more of it than I will. It is ever thus, and to rail against it is a waste of time and energy.
It does lend itself to some amusing observations, though.
About two years ago, Son #1 and I are spending some time at the ballfield, doing some pre-season cleanup with a couple dozen other hardy souls. Time is passing, and we're nearing the end of our shift as we walk into the concession stand for something to drink. I'm standing with a few members of our league Board when I notice the time, and ask my son to go to the phone on the wall, and call Bride to advise her we'll be home in about 20 minutes.
He turns, and freezes. "Dad, how do I do this?", he asks.
The phone in question is a rotary-dial job, and my then-12 year-old had neither seen nor used one before. The other adults & I had a nice chuckle over that, the comments basically centering around, "GOD, we're getting old."
Even the simple enjoyment of music has undergone radical change; when was the last time you bought a CD, or, God forbid, an "album", even if you can find one? The digitialization of everything has led us to take for granted that change is permanent, and is universally beneficial.
There, we better stop for a moment, and take a breath.
Nothing is ALL good, with the possible exception of the love of one's family; into everything a little rain does fall. For example, technological change brings us the ongoing evolution of the computer; it also can make us so dependent upon it that new types of "cyberwarfare" may well define the next great battlefield. Digitization and miniaturization allows me to store my entire music collection, in unmatched fidelity, in my shirt pocket; it also allows me to secretly observe your actions using almost exactly the same technology.
Technology allows me to put the debatable wisdom of this blog onto the Internet; it's still incumbent upon you, however, to determine for yourself whether or not I'm completely full of crap.
So, what's the point of all this? Change is real, it's omnipresent, and it is not going away. We can embrace it, we can rail against it; let's just make damned sure we approach it with a little balance.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
"Change is inevitable, except from a vending machine." - Robert C. Gallagher
***********
When my closest friend was married some 27 years ago, I was invited to be his best man, and at the toast offered these words, pithy as they seem to me now: "About the only constant in our lives is the incidence of change". To this day, I can't be entirely sure if I coined the line or inadvertently copped it from someone else. What the hell; I was 23.
Since then, as a guy who's spent his entire life in telecommunications, I've been blessed to have a front-row seat for the greatest technological change in human history, the evolution of the Information Age. Think about it; at that time, I worked as a customer-service rep for New York Telephone Company on a computer that was cutting-edge; the conventional network architecture at that time was to have basically "dumb" user terminals retrieving information from a central source of data.
Son #1 now has significantly more computing power in his $99 cell phone, and it ain't even close.
I have lived through more technological change already than my dad did, and he spent 36 years in the telecom business. My children will see exponentially more of it than I will. It is ever thus, and to rail against it is a waste of time and energy.
It does lend itself to some amusing observations, though.
About two years ago, Son #1 and I are spending some time at the ballfield, doing some pre-season cleanup with a couple dozen other hardy souls. Time is passing, and we're nearing the end of our shift as we walk into the concession stand for something to drink. I'm standing with a few members of our league Board when I notice the time, and ask my son to go to the phone on the wall, and call Bride to advise her we'll be home in about 20 minutes.
He turns, and freezes. "Dad, how do I do this?", he asks.
The phone in question is a rotary-dial job, and my then-12 year-old had neither seen nor used one before. The other adults & I had a nice chuckle over that, the comments basically centering around, "GOD, we're getting old."
Even the simple enjoyment of music has undergone radical change; when was the last time you bought a CD, or, God forbid, an "album", even if you can find one? The digitialization of everything has led us to take for granted that change is permanent, and is universally beneficial.
There, we better stop for a moment, and take a breath.
Nothing is ALL good, with the possible exception of the love of one's family; into everything a little rain does fall. For example, technological change brings us the ongoing evolution of the computer; it also can make us so dependent upon it that new types of "cyberwarfare" may well define the next great battlefield. Digitization and miniaturization allows me to store my entire music collection, in unmatched fidelity, in my shirt pocket; it also allows me to secretly observe your actions using almost exactly the same technology.
Technology allows me to put the debatable wisdom of this blog onto the Internet; it's still incumbent upon you, however, to determine for yourself whether or not I'm completely full of crap.
So, what's the point of all this? Change is real, it's omnipresent, and it is not going away. We can embrace it, we can rail against it; let's just make damned sure we approach it with a little balance.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
Friday, August 27, 2010
On Wisdom
"Those who do not learn from history, are condemned to repeat it." - George Santayana
******
Wisdom is one of those things in life that's easier perceived than it is defined, or even definable. It can take many forms, from age-old aphorisms to simply observing (and remembering) what's gone on around you.
To me, wisdom is the result of accumulated experience; go around the track enough times, and you, if you're smart, start to learn what works, and what is likely to turn around and bite you in the ass.
I was twenty-four when my Dad died; sadly, it was not until I was about twenty-one that I realized he wasn't just talking because he liked the sound of his own voice. At least I had those three years; the lessons I learned served me well to this day. Of course, leading up to that realization, I had all the answers, anyway; what could that old fool teach ME?
As it turned out, quite a few things. Dad knew he was dying, and one of his fervent goals was to teach my brothers and I as much as he could in the time he had left. The longer I'm a Dad myself, the more I understand; the urge to have your children not make the same mistakes you made is a fairly ordinary act of fatherhood.
Wisdom as an accumulation of life experiences can also manifest itself as a feeling of comfort in one's own skin. After about 40, I had settled into the routine of family and career, and many of the pursuits of my youth were fond memory. To some, this serves as the quintessential "mid-life crisis"; in my case, there was almost a sense of relief. I had about a 20-year run as gadabout extraordinaire, and I finally realized I didn't miss it at all.
Now, with 12 & 14-year-old boys myself, I'm getting ready to sit on the other side of the table, and assume the other side of the argument. Much of the initial discussions will be futile, at least as I'm likely to view it, but it's a long view I need to take on this. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that this will take time.
Is that wisdom? We'll see.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
******
Wisdom is one of those things in life that's easier perceived than it is defined, or even definable. It can take many forms, from age-old aphorisms to simply observing (and remembering) what's gone on around you.
To me, wisdom is the result of accumulated experience; go around the track enough times, and you, if you're smart, start to learn what works, and what is likely to turn around and bite you in the ass.
I was twenty-four when my Dad died; sadly, it was not until I was about twenty-one that I realized he wasn't just talking because he liked the sound of his own voice. At least I had those three years; the lessons I learned served me well to this day. Of course, leading up to that realization, I had all the answers, anyway; what could that old fool teach ME?
As it turned out, quite a few things. Dad knew he was dying, and one of his fervent goals was to teach my brothers and I as much as he could in the time he had left. The longer I'm a Dad myself, the more I understand; the urge to have your children not make the same mistakes you made is a fairly ordinary act of fatherhood.
Wisdom as an accumulation of life experiences can also manifest itself as a feeling of comfort in one's own skin. After about 40, I had settled into the routine of family and career, and many of the pursuits of my youth were fond memory. To some, this serves as the quintessential "mid-life crisis"; in my case, there was almost a sense of relief. I had about a 20-year run as gadabout extraordinaire, and I finally realized I didn't miss it at all.
Now, with 12 & 14-year-old boys myself, I'm getting ready to sit on the other side of the table, and assume the other side of the argument. Much of the initial discussions will be futile, at least as I'm likely to view it, but it's a long view I need to take on this. If there's one thing I've learned, it's that this will take time.
Is that wisdom? We'll see.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
Thursday, July 29, 2010
On Being Schlom
"Stack, QPWC, large fry, small fry, and two large tea-a-mas." - Tom Devane, at McDonald's
"Well, of course you are!" Schlom, on getting someone's name completely wrong, and being corrected
"It's a poor man who can't keep a roof over his tools."
***********
Really long post this time out, but the subject is near and dear to my heart.
"Schlom" is Thomas J. Devane. Bon vivant, realtor, bachelor, former roommate, cook, and one of the best friends your intrepid scribe ever had. He had more nicknames than Carter had little pills; "The Big Kid", "HBK" (Heavy Blond Kid), and the list goes on.
Above all, to me, he was just Schlom. Impossible to define, he was truly a force of nature. He had more varied interests than anyone I've ever known. Beneath the impossibly rumpled khakis, and constantly tousled red-blond hair lay a man of considerable intellect, sizable girth, and unparallelled kindness. He shared anything and everything he had, and more than a few things he didn't, technically, have.
The Big Fella was known to enjoy the occasional cocktail. He also loved golf, and combined these two pursuits in tandem with a passion seen in few others. I once watched him stagger from bed, dress, throw his ancient weapons in my car, and break 80 at Troy CC, on what had to be memory alone. I'm fairly certain we were on the third tee before he fully grasped where the hell he was.
He was my partner for over a decade in the Schneider Cup, a benefit tournament at Troy in honor of a great friend of ours, and while we were never a threat to compete on the course, we were frequently the leaders in the clubhouse in other pursuits.
Nothing if not innovative, he proposed the formation of the Cocktail Tour, whereby one's blood alcohol content would be factored into one's score, thus leveling the playing field somewhat. Even with Dewar's as a proposed sponsor, sadly, the idea has yet to catch on in the golf world.
Tommy enjoyed considerable success at various points in his life, but whether or not the fates were with him at the moment, his kindness and generosity never wavered, ever. He was a gentleman in the classic, old-school sense; he would spend the last ten bucks he had to ensure that he did not arrive at an invitation empty-handed, because you just didn't DO that. This was no affectation; it was how he lived his adult life.
As a house-guest, he had no equal. Bride & I had him in our home a million times over the years, whether for a planned "Former Roomates Appreciation Night", an impromptu "Tapas and Scotch" session, or simply because the boys had not seen Uncle Tommy in a week or so. We've always enjoyed entertaining, and Schlom never failed to be an enthusiastic guest and participant. He'd take over the kitchen in a heartbeat, and it's revealing that he's about the only friend I've ever had who would be regularly permitted to do so.
Boy, did he like to travel. The stories of his travels are too numerous to print here, and some likely unfit to print at all. I had the pleasure of a week in Italy with him for a friend's wedding nine years ago, and we'll try the sanitized version of that trip here. If names have not been changed, assume extreme guilt.
I've never minded flying; in fact, I usually enjoy it, and my work has caused me to do it fairly often over the years. Schlom was studying at the time for his pilot's license, so we were of a mind when it came to taking to the air. As long as the number of landings equal the number of takeoffs, I'm pretty good with it.
We board a 20-seater prop-job for the hour trip from Albany to JFK. I've been in smaller aircraft than this a number of times before, and turbulence is not new to me, but typically it's been of the up & down variety; this trip featured side-to-side pitching, and it was difficult to take. I had never experienced anything close to nausea in the air; it was coming on hard now.
Schlom recognized the conditions, explained to me what the pilot was doing to combat them, and settled my mind considerably. After a 60-minute trip became 90, we were wheels-down at Kennedy, to a well-deserved ovation for the pilot, led, of course, by Schlom. Only after we were strolling through the concourse did he explain just how difficult a job the pilot faced, and just how well it was done.
Sixteen sleepless hours later, we've crossed the Atlantic in coach, seating unfit for men of our dimensions. We land at DeGaulle Airport in Paris, for a layover of about two hours before the final hop to Rome.
Three important things to consider here: I am toting a virgin US passport, having never been outside the country before, and we've been up about 24 hours by now. We're also schlepping more luggage than is medically necessary.
These three factors cause Schlom to temporarily lose his temper for the first time in my memory. I'm sure it had happened before, but I had neither seen nor heard of it.
I get us heading in the wrong direction in the damned airport, which does not help. The carry-on luggage is doing us no favors, 24 hours into the trip, either.
Then, we meet French airport securite. Long story short, we get in one line, wait therein, then get directed to another, only to be sent back to the first line, all while within sight of our aircraft. This is proving irksome to Schlom, who exchanges some uncharacteristically sharp rebukes with the poor young fellow who finally has to process us.
Moods change quickly. We board our Air France 737, with the Big Kid still steamed, although by now due equally to the process snafu, and his embarrassment at his reaction to it. Things look up, however, at the arrival of a lovely flight attendant who offers us breakfast and champagne. Crisis averted.
Many hours later, I still have, to my consternation, an unstamped passport, it's 2pm local time in Rome, and we're sitting on the edge of our hotel beds, 30 hours since last we slept. The urge to fall backwards and submit to fatigue is STRONG.
We overcome it, get up, and spend the next six hours strolling the ancient streets of Rome. He'd been there before, so we hit the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, the Via Veneto, and a local eatery before heading back to the hotel. It's at this point that I have the most (some might say only) intelligent idea of the whole trip.
Two blocks from the hotel, and we're really dragging. I spy an appropriate store, and grab a half-liter of Bushmill's. In the room, we drain half the bottle, and fall out for six solid hours. At 2AM local time, body clocks a wreck, we awake, drain the other half, and fall back out until 930 AM Roman time. We are now roughly in synch with the world around us.
Not the textbook way to combat jet lag, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
Two days later, we've seen the Colosseum and the Vatican, the two big items for me, among many other locations. The Vatican has always held interest for me, and when we departed our tour bus, I am staggered by the sheer scale of the place. Standing on the sidewalk, I'm the typical American tourist, goggle-eyed. Schlom, sotto voce: "Keep in mind, Roon, we're still a mile away."
Hours later, we've been to the top of the dome ("The Pope's jogging track." "Careful, Schlom; I'm pretty sure God can find us here."), seen untold sights, and are standing with our backs to the front door of the Basilica, looking down the length of this magnificent cathedral. Schlom, as mind-reader: "No, Roon. You could not drive a ball that far, even on marble."
Last travel note, I promise: Day 3, Rome to Rieti, Italy, for the wedding itself, and three days of celebration. We've checked out, and, bags in hand, are following our directions (a sketchy proposition throughout the trip) for getting on the "Roma-Rieti" bus for a 90-minute journey. My Italian is non-existent, and my Spanish is sufficiently outdated as to be no help. I pantomime our need for bus tickets, and acquire them for the appropriate hour, about 40 minutes hence. We cross the street, luggage in tow, and find the bus in the lot, sign proclaiming our destination. It's warm, we're in the shade of a tree, and there's no one else nearby. Beautiful.
Fifteen minutes to departure, still no one but the driver around. I rap on the door, to be advised that our bus is across the parking lot, surrounded by a throng, with everything up to and including carry-on poultry. We ride 90 hellacious minutes, me in the aisle, an exhausted Schlom in the well of the side door.
Outskirts of Rieti. Did I mention sketchy directions? There are three Rieti exits, and we know not which one. We finally grasp this, and split the difference, opting for door #2. We leave the bus without a means to contact anyone we know; all we know is the name of the hotel. I'm staring at a map trying to figure out where the hell we are, when a young man, in excellent English, asks if he can help us. We give him the name of the hotel, and he chuckles. All he does is point. There, 100 yards away, in meter-high letters, is the name of our hotel.
Three days later, we return to Rome for one last night's sleep, and the trip home. More memories than I can recount, and the best trip of my life, largely due to spending it with Schlom.
I've written elsewhere in this blog of the horrible days upon learning of his passing, some eighteen months ago, and I will not repeat that here. While the shock has passed, my sadness at his loss remains. Not a day goes by that I don't think of him, and miss him.
This is not attempt at revisionist history in his memory. Schlom was not a saint, but then he never claimed to be. He was who he was; good, bad, and indifferent. He lived the day in front of him. I believe completely that the good greatly outweighed the bad, and that's not a bad way to be remembered, in my book.
To you, my friend.
Excelsior!
"Well, of course you are!" Schlom, on getting someone's name completely wrong, and being corrected
"It's a poor man who can't keep a roof over his tools."
***********
Really long post this time out, but the subject is near and dear to my heart.
"Schlom" is Thomas J. Devane. Bon vivant, realtor, bachelor, former roommate, cook, and one of the best friends your intrepid scribe ever had. He had more nicknames than Carter had little pills; "The Big Kid", "HBK" (Heavy Blond Kid), and the list goes on.
Above all, to me, he was just Schlom. Impossible to define, he was truly a force of nature. He had more varied interests than anyone I've ever known. Beneath the impossibly rumpled khakis, and constantly tousled red-blond hair lay a man of considerable intellect, sizable girth, and unparallelled kindness. He shared anything and everything he had, and more than a few things he didn't, technically, have.
The Big Fella was known to enjoy the occasional cocktail. He also loved golf, and combined these two pursuits in tandem with a passion seen in few others. I once watched him stagger from bed, dress, throw his ancient weapons in my car, and break 80 at Troy CC, on what had to be memory alone. I'm fairly certain we were on the third tee before he fully grasped where the hell he was.
He was my partner for over a decade in the Schneider Cup, a benefit tournament at Troy in honor of a great friend of ours, and while we were never a threat to compete on the course, we were frequently the leaders in the clubhouse in other pursuits.
Nothing if not innovative, he proposed the formation of the Cocktail Tour, whereby one's blood alcohol content would be factored into one's score, thus leveling the playing field somewhat. Even with Dewar's as a proposed sponsor, sadly, the idea has yet to catch on in the golf world.
Tommy enjoyed considerable success at various points in his life, but whether or not the fates were with him at the moment, his kindness and generosity never wavered, ever. He was a gentleman in the classic, old-school sense; he would spend the last ten bucks he had to ensure that he did not arrive at an invitation empty-handed, because you just didn't DO that. This was no affectation; it was how he lived his adult life.
As a house-guest, he had no equal. Bride & I had him in our home a million times over the years, whether for a planned "Former Roomates Appreciation Night", an impromptu "Tapas and Scotch" session, or simply because the boys had not seen Uncle Tommy in a week or so. We've always enjoyed entertaining, and Schlom never failed to be an enthusiastic guest and participant. He'd take over the kitchen in a heartbeat, and it's revealing that he's about the only friend I've ever had who would be regularly permitted to do so.
Boy, did he like to travel. The stories of his travels are too numerous to print here, and some likely unfit to print at all. I had the pleasure of a week in Italy with him for a friend's wedding nine years ago, and we'll try the sanitized version of that trip here. If names have not been changed, assume extreme guilt.
I've never minded flying; in fact, I usually enjoy it, and my work has caused me to do it fairly often over the years. Schlom was studying at the time for his pilot's license, so we were of a mind when it came to taking to the air. As long as the number of landings equal the number of takeoffs, I'm pretty good with it.
We board a 20-seater prop-job for the hour trip from Albany to JFK. I've been in smaller aircraft than this a number of times before, and turbulence is not new to me, but typically it's been of the up & down variety; this trip featured side-to-side pitching, and it was difficult to take. I had never experienced anything close to nausea in the air; it was coming on hard now.
Schlom recognized the conditions, explained to me what the pilot was doing to combat them, and settled my mind considerably. After a 60-minute trip became 90, we were wheels-down at Kennedy, to a well-deserved ovation for the pilot, led, of course, by Schlom. Only after we were strolling through the concourse did he explain just how difficult a job the pilot faced, and just how well it was done.
Sixteen sleepless hours later, we've crossed the Atlantic in coach, seating unfit for men of our dimensions. We land at DeGaulle Airport in Paris, for a layover of about two hours before the final hop to Rome.
Three important things to consider here: I am toting a virgin US passport, having never been outside the country before, and we've been up about 24 hours by now. We're also schlepping more luggage than is medically necessary.
These three factors cause Schlom to temporarily lose his temper for the first time in my memory. I'm sure it had happened before, but I had neither seen nor heard of it.
I get us heading in the wrong direction in the damned airport, which does not help. The carry-on luggage is doing us no favors, 24 hours into the trip, either.
Then, we meet French airport securite. Long story short, we get in one line, wait therein, then get directed to another, only to be sent back to the first line, all while within sight of our aircraft. This is proving irksome to Schlom, who exchanges some uncharacteristically sharp rebukes with the poor young fellow who finally has to process us.
Moods change quickly. We board our Air France 737, with the Big Kid still steamed, although by now due equally to the process snafu, and his embarrassment at his reaction to it. Things look up, however, at the arrival of a lovely flight attendant who offers us breakfast and champagne. Crisis averted.
Many hours later, I still have, to my consternation, an unstamped passport, it's 2pm local time in Rome, and we're sitting on the edge of our hotel beds, 30 hours since last we slept. The urge to fall backwards and submit to fatigue is STRONG.
We overcome it, get up, and spend the next six hours strolling the ancient streets of Rome. He'd been there before, so we hit the Spanish Steps, the Trevi Fountain, the Via Veneto, and a local eatery before heading back to the hotel. It's at this point that I have the most (some might say only) intelligent idea of the whole trip.
Two blocks from the hotel, and we're really dragging. I spy an appropriate store, and grab a half-liter of Bushmill's. In the room, we drain half the bottle, and fall out for six solid hours. At 2AM local time, body clocks a wreck, we awake, drain the other half, and fall back out until 930 AM Roman time. We are now roughly in synch with the world around us.
Not the textbook way to combat jet lag, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
Two days later, we've seen the Colosseum and the Vatican, the two big items for me, among many other locations. The Vatican has always held interest for me, and when we departed our tour bus, I am staggered by the sheer scale of the place. Standing on the sidewalk, I'm the typical American tourist, goggle-eyed. Schlom, sotto voce: "Keep in mind, Roon, we're still a mile away."
Hours later, we've been to the top of the dome ("The Pope's jogging track." "Careful, Schlom; I'm pretty sure God can find us here."), seen untold sights, and are standing with our backs to the front door of the Basilica, looking down the length of this magnificent cathedral. Schlom, as mind-reader: "No, Roon. You could not drive a ball that far, even on marble."
Last travel note, I promise: Day 3, Rome to Rieti, Italy, for the wedding itself, and three days of celebration. We've checked out, and, bags in hand, are following our directions (a sketchy proposition throughout the trip) for getting on the "Roma-Rieti" bus for a 90-minute journey. My Italian is non-existent, and my Spanish is sufficiently outdated as to be no help. I pantomime our need for bus tickets, and acquire them for the appropriate hour, about 40 minutes hence. We cross the street, luggage in tow, and find the bus in the lot, sign proclaiming our destination. It's warm, we're in the shade of a tree, and there's no one else nearby. Beautiful.
Fifteen minutes to departure, still no one but the driver around. I rap on the door, to be advised that our bus is across the parking lot, surrounded by a throng, with everything up to and including carry-on poultry. We ride 90 hellacious minutes, me in the aisle, an exhausted Schlom in the well of the side door.
Outskirts of Rieti. Did I mention sketchy directions? There are three Rieti exits, and we know not which one. We finally grasp this, and split the difference, opting for door #2. We leave the bus without a means to contact anyone we know; all we know is the name of the hotel. I'm staring at a map trying to figure out where the hell we are, when a young man, in excellent English, asks if he can help us. We give him the name of the hotel, and he chuckles. All he does is point. There, 100 yards away, in meter-high letters, is the name of our hotel.
Three days later, we return to Rome for one last night's sleep, and the trip home. More memories than I can recount, and the best trip of my life, largely due to spending it with Schlom.
I've written elsewhere in this blog of the horrible days upon learning of his passing, some eighteen months ago, and I will not repeat that here. While the shock has passed, my sadness at his loss remains. Not a day goes by that I don't think of him, and miss him.
This is not attempt at revisionist history in his memory. Schlom was not a saint, but then he never claimed to be. He was who he was; good, bad, and indifferent. He lived the day in front of him. I believe completely that the good greatly outweighed the bad, and that's not a bad way to be remembered, in my book.
To you, my friend.
Excelsior!
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
On Heroism
"We can be heroes, just for one day." - David Bowie
"The streets of heaven tonight are paved with heroes." - Aaron Sorkin, via Josiah Bartlet
************
All too often, heroism implies tragedy; the selfless grunt who falls on a grenade to save his platoon, the firefighter who goes back into the burning building, the brave souls in lower Manhattan on a crisp September morning. Those who "march to the sound of the guns", whether real or metaphoric, are indeed heroes. They who do what must be done, regardless of the risk, lift us all up by their acts. Lincoln called it "the last true measure of devotion", and whether we're talking about Audie Murphy, or the doctor who has retrieved a young life from death's door, heroism may be what defines us, above all, as human.
It is, at its essence, the giving of oneself in service of others, and in the recent news, I'm struck by two rather notable acts of heroism; one ending in tragedy, and one in glorious triumph.
In the first case, Darin McGahey, 42, of McDonough, GA, was on a Florida beach with his son's travel baseball team when he noticed his son and a teammate struggling in the ocean current. Although not a strong swimmer himself, without hesitation, he dove into the water to reach the boys. He was caught in a riptide, and instead of trying to swim parallel to the beach, and get out of the current, he attempted, quite naturally, to swim back directly to shore. By the time rescuers were finally able to reach him, the two boys had safely made it to a sandbar, but Mr. McGahey had lost his life.
The backstory just adds to Mr. McGahey's selflessness. A promising ballplayer himself as a youth, it became apparent to him that dreams of a professional career were not to be, so he became an electrician, and he and his wife settled into raising a family. Wanting more for that family, he supplemented his income with a number of rental properties in town, and the upkeep of those properties ate considerably into his time. What time he did have left over he dedicated to coaching youth, including his son. He enjoyed success in his coaching, and as was his nature deflected any praise he received toward the kids on his team.
While racked with grief over this tragic loss, friends and family of Mr. McGahey's were not even remotely surprised at his actions of July 7, 2010. It was yet another example of an unassuming, dedicated man, doing what had to be done.
Sixteen year-old Bryane (Bree) Heaberlin, of St. Petersburg, FL, is apparently one of the finest young goalies in the world, according to folks far more knowledgeable than your intrepid scribe. She's so good, at 16, that she was invited to play for the 20-under US national team at the FIFA U20 World Cup this month in Germany. I don't know beans about soccer, but she sounds pretty good.
That's not the story. Back in March, Bree's national team played a "friendly" against the Haitian national girls' team, and defeated them handily, 9-0. The result was hardly unexpected; the American girls held a significant advantage in resources, training, and skill. At the end of the match, the Haitian goalkeeper, obviously embarrassed and upset with the magnitude of the loss, was racked with tears.
Bree went up to the opposing keeper, and gave her a long hug, one that ended in both teams embracing at midfield. This was, after all, just two months after the devastating earthquakes that have torn Haiti apart. Bree knew there were players here who had lost friends and family, and decided then and there to do something about it.
OK, she's a terrific goalie, but what the hell can a 16 year-old do that governments and telethons couldn't?
Deliver.
All this remarkable young lady has done is raise over $15,000 to bring that Haitian team back in December for a two-week Disney International Tournament. She started a foundation called "Many Hearts, One Goal" to help the Haitian team; when word got out of her efforts, Disney donated lodging, meals, park passes, the whole smash. A local construction company has started building 12'X24' collapsible structures for shipment to Haiti, and other efforts are ongoing.
Please read Kevin Blackistone's July 19, 2010 column in FanHouse.com about Bryane Heaberlin, and David Whitley's July 18 FanHouse column on Darin McGahey; they have written their stories far better than I can.
The point of all of this? While heroism can take many forms, the stories of Darin McGahey and Bryane Heaberlin illustrate just how we can be heroes, for one day, or for many.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
"The streets of heaven tonight are paved with heroes." - Aaron Sorkin, via Josiah Bartlet
************
All too often, heroism implies tragedy; the selfless grunt who falls on a grenade to save his platoon, the firefighter who goes back into the burning building, the brave souls in lower Manhattan on a crisp September morning. Those who "march to the sound of the guns", whether real or metaphoric, are indeed heroes. They who do what must be done, regardless of the risk, lift us all up by their acts. Lincoln called it "the last true measure of devotion", and whether we're talking about Audie Murphy, or the doctor who has retrieved a young life from death's door, heroism may be what defines us, above all, as human.
It is, at its essence, the giving of oneself in service of others, and in the recent news, I'm struck by two rather notable acts of heroism; one ending in tragedy, and one in glorious triumph.
In the first case, Darin McGahey, 42, of McDonough, GA, was on a Florida beach with his son's travel baseball team when he noticed his son and a teammate struggling in the ocean current. Although not a strong swimmer himself, without hesitation, he dove into the water to reach the boys. He was caught in a riptide, and instead of trying to swim parallel to the beach, and get out of the current, he attempted, quite naturally, to swim back directly to shore. By the time rescuers were finally able to reach him, the two boys had safely made it to a sandbar, but Mr. McGahey had lost his life.
The backstory just adds to Mr. McGahey's selflessness. A promising ballplayer himself as a youth, it became apparent to him that dreams of a professional career were not to be, so he became an electrician, and he and his wife settled into raising a family. Wanting more for that family, he supplemented his income with a number of rental properties in town, and the upkeep of those properties ate considerably into his time. What time he did have left over he dedicated to coaching youth, including his son. He enjoyed success in his coaching, and as was his nature deflected any praise he received toward the kids on his team.
While racked with grief over this tragic loss, friends and family of Mr. McGahey's were not even remotely surprised at his actions of July 7, 2010. It was yet another example of an unassuming, dedicated man, doing what had to be done.
Sixteen year-old Bryane (Bree) Heaberlin, of St. Petersburg, FL, is apparently one of the finest young goalies in the world, according to folks far more knowledgeable than your intrepid scribe. She's so good, at 16, that she was invited to play for the 20-under US national team at the FIFA U20 World Cup this month in Germany. I don't know beans about soccer, but she sounds pretty good.
That's not the story. Back in March, Bree's national team played a "friendly" against the Haitian national girls' team, and defeated them handily, 9-0. The result was hardly unexpected; the American girls held a significant advantage in resources, training, and skill. At the end of the match, the Haitian goalkeeper, obviously embarrassed and upset with the magnitude of the loss, was racked with tears.
Bree went up to the opposing keeper, and gave her a long hug, one that ended in both teams embracing at midfield. This was, after all, just two months after the devastating earthquakes that have torn Haiti apart. Bree knew there were players here who had lost friends and family, and decided then and there to do something about it.
OK, she's a terrific goalie, but what the hell can a 16 year-old do that governments and telethons couldn't?
Deliver.
All this remarkable young lady has done is raise over $15,000 to bring that Haitian team back in December for a two-week Disney International Tournament. She started a foundation called "Many Hearts, One Goal" to help the Haitian team; when word got out of her efforts, Disney donated lodging, meals, park passes, the whole smash. A local construction company has started building 12'X24' collapsible structures for shipment to Haiti, and other efforts are ongoing.
Please read Kevin Blackistone's July 19, 2010 column in FanHouse.com about Bryane Heaberlin, and David Whitley's July 18 FanHouse column on Darin McGahey; they have written their stories far better than I can.
The point of all of this? While heroism can take many forms, the stories of Darin McGahey and Bryane Heaberlin illustrate just how we can be heroes, for one day, or for many.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
Friday, July 16, 2010
On Writing
"Good writers borrow from other writers. Great writers steal from them outright." - Aaron Sorkin, by way of Sam Seaborn.
************
From the dawn of civilization, humans have used some sort of written communication as a means of documenting their lives. From ancient glyphs and runes, to today's blogosphere, the written word remains Man's foremost method for expressing our fears, joys, and ideas.
That said, I DO have a few concerns.
Again, (I have used this phrase before), this is not some Luddite rant against change; quite to the contrary. Technological change has a very positive history when it comes to the written word; we've gone from papyrus scrolls, to Herr Gutenberg, to the electrons that allow you to read this essay. Further, the Internet has brought the ability to access the written word to more people than ever before, and that's not even remotely debatable.
Herein lies the problem.
I run the risk of being labeled an intellectual snob with this particular rant, and so be it: Is it too much to ask that we encourage the preservation of the written word, and not just let it degrade into high-octane texting jargon? "CUL8R" is perfectly fine for a transmission when one is character-limited; no objection there at all. However, the Internet allows for any number of long-form capabilities, and it is e-mail that I will particularly target for today's screed.
E-mail was originally designed to replace paper-borne memoranda in the business world, and has come to largely replace paper correspondence of all kinds, save for the bills we all love to find in the mailbox. As a transmission medium, it's utterly brilliant; instantaneous delivery of information targeted to a specific recipient. It's addressable, forwardable, can be easily replied to, and requires no postage. What the hell is wrong with that?
As Marshall McLuhan might say, "It's not the medium, it's the messsage."
After thirty years in the business world, I long ago adopted for myself some fairly high standards for expressing ideas therein. Without question, I utilize instant messaging capabilities for the electronic equivalent of a "Post-It" note, but if I have allegedly important thoughts to express, I typically utilize email, and take my time in doing so. I will usually edit the work; I've never minded being edited, as long as the result was an improvement.
I first noticed five or six years ago what was to me an alarming relaxation of those standards in a communication from the subordinate of a friend of mine to a customer. Appalling use of grammar, spelling suited to a first-grader, and the notable closing of "cya" were just some of the high points of this little communique, and about the only positive aspect of the whole affair was that the sender's boss got to him before I did. We were in the process of responding to a bid with this particular government agency, and I was not looking to have all that work sunk because some idiot could not be bothered with his native language.
Some might say, "Pull the bug out of your butt, Miss Manners", and proceed to write this off as an old fart decrying the times. If I were attempting to rail against email in favor of snail mail, they'd have a point. Is it too much, however, to simply ask for a little Goddamned grammar?
What's the point of all of this? There is utterly brilliant writing going on every day, all around us. Writing that inspires and informs, and that brings out the best (and worst) of the human condition. Regardless of the means by which it's transmitted, let's take the time to do our best with what we write; it may well be our legacy.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
************
From the dawn of civilization, humans have used some sort of written communication as a means of documenting their lives. From ancient glyphs and runes, to today's blogosphere, the written word remains Man's foremost method for expressing our fears, joys, and ideas.
That said, I DO have a few concerns.
Again, (I have used this phrase before), this is not some Luddite rant against change; quite to the contrary. Technological change has a very positive history when it comes to the written word; we've gone from papyrus scrolls, to Herr Gutenberg, to the electrons that allow you to read this essay. Further, the Internet has brought the ability to access the written word to more people than ever before, and that's not even remotely debatable.
Herein lies the problem.
I run the risk of being labeled an intellectual snob with this particular rant, and so be it: Is it too much to ask that we encourage the preservation of the written word, and not just let it degrade into high-octane texting jargon? "CUL8R" is perfectly fine for a transmission when one is character-limited; no objection there at all. However, the Internet allows for any number of long-form capabilities, and it is e-mail that I will particularly target for today's screed.
E-mail was originally designed to replace paper-borne memoranda in the business world, and has come to largely replace paper correspondence of all kinds, save for the bills we all love to find in the mailbox. As a transmission medium, it's utterly brilliant; instantaneous delivery of information targeted to a specific recipient. It's addressable, forwardable, can be easily replied to, and requires no postage. What the hell is wrong with that?
As Marshall McLuhan might say, "It's not the medium, it's the messsage."
After thirty years in the business world, I long ago adopted for myself some fairly high standards for expressing ideas therein. Without question, I utilize instant messaging capabilities for the electronic equivalent of a "Post-It" note, but if I have allegedly important thoughts to express, I typically utilize email, and take my time in doing so. I will usually edit the work; I've never minded being edited, as long as the result was an improvement.
I first noticed five or six years ago what was to me an alarming relaxation of those standards in a communication from the subordinate of a friend of mine to a customer. Appalling use of grammar, spelling suited to a first-grader, and the notable closing of "cya" were just some of the high points of this little communique, and about the only positive aspect of the whole affair was that the sender's boss got to him before I did. We were in the process of responding to a bid with this particular government agency, and I was not looking to have all that work sunk because some idiot could not be bothered with his native language.
Some might say, "Pull the bug out of your butt, Miss Manners", and proceed to write this off as an old fart decrying the times. If I were attempting to rail against email in favor of snail mail, they'd have a point. Is it too much, however, to simply ask for a little Goddamned grammar?
What's the point of all of this? There is utterly brilliant writing going on every day, all around us. Writing that inspires and informs, and that brings out the best (and worst) of the human condition. Regardless of the means by which it's transmitted, let's take the time to do our best with what we write; it may well be our legacy.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
Thursday, June 24, 2010
On Youth Sports
The casual reader of this space knows by now that ours is a baseball family. Our boys have grown up with the game, and play it pretty well.
While it may well appall seemingly "normal" households that boys would be allowed to throw a ball indoors, Bride & I have resigned ourselves to the inevitability of this activity, preferring instead to beseech them to at minimum show caution as to WHERE the projectiles are headed. Given their skills, lamps typically remain upright, and windows intact.
So, in I walk to the kitchen one recent evening, to find Son #1, to whom the fates have given a healthy throwing arm, delivering high-level heat to Son #2, at a distance of about twenty feet. Admittedly, it's a Wiffle ball, but it's still moving rather smartly.
I then admonish #1, asking him to keep it to off-speed stuff.
Really, I did.
I then start to chuckle, then go straight to full-body laughter at the absurdity of what I've just done. Here I am, fifty years old, negotiating with my sons WHICH KIND OF PITCHES THEY MAY THROW IN THE HOUSE.
Good Lord. I have completely lost my mind.
**************
Which brings us to youth sports, overkill, and the insane scheduling of children these days. This is not some Luddite, nostalgic rant about a return to a simpler time; I'm a big believer that change is both good, and inevitable, and that's just the way it is. However, when 10-year-olds are toting around I-Phones (latest version, if you please) to simultaneously keep track of their schedules, text their friends, and call Mom to get them from practice to piano lessons, something, to me, seems amiss.
It will come as no surprise that I am also a big believer in youth sports. They're fun, keep kids busy and physically active, and promote teamwork and character. That these are all good things is self-evident. Like any good thing, however, too much can be, well, too much.
Our boys primarily play baseball and basketball, with Son #2 throwing in some fall soccer into the mix. The seasons mesh together pretty nicely, meaning that basically we get free weekends in August, and in late March. Beyond that, it's "Who's playing where?", about 44 weeks of the year. This much, we're accustomed to.
This year's been a little different. Son #1, who is turning out to be an above-average baseball player, not only made his modified (middle school) team as a 7th grader, but also played in a 13-16 year old house league, and was asked, at 13, to play for a 14-under travel team. What this has meant is that he's played roughly 45 ballgames since April 1. Factor in Son #2's Little League schedule, and we have sixty ballgames in essentially three months. This is, as they say, becoming a bit much.
Thing is, I know for a fact that this is neither terribly unusual, nor by any means worse than other parents deal with. I thank God every single day that my guys don't play hockey; that's just insane. A good friend's son, and my own nephew are both elite-level 15-year-old hockey players, and trips every weekend to Canada, or Massachusetts, or Mars are utterly routine for those poor bastards.
I want my children, like any other parent, to succeed, and to enjoy their youth; it passes far too quickly. That said, the experience I've had in youth sports over the past 8 years has led me to a few conclusions, both exhilarating and sobering:
1) The odds against my kid being the next Jeter/Lebron/Insert name here are astronomical. While this is not a surprise to me personally, it would stagger the casual observer how many parents truly believe their kid IS the Second Coming. This leads to the essential dilemma of travel sports; parents who want to believe their kid can do it get lured by travel sports organizations into parting with large dollars to facilitate dreams of college scholarships, and lucrative professional contracts. Already, Son #1 has received flyers imploring him to "try out" for UnderArmour "National teams", if only Mom & Dad will part with $300 for the privilege. I personally know of parents who have paid that much or more just to audition for travel baseball teams locally; one Dad seriously told me this program would greatly improve his boy's opportunity for a college scholarship. Having coached the boy in question, I think it's a bit of a reach; he's good, but not that good.
2) Try VERY hard to temper your expectations; they get in the way of enjoying your child's progress. I had a conversation a year and a half ago with my best friend, and the topic turned to the kids, and specifically to Son #1's baseball. It was right about the time I was realizing he was getting good, and was trying hard to avoid the flights of fancy in 1) above. Matt, as usual, set me straight. "You think it's possible he might someday make his high school team?" I admitted I did. "Then let him make that team before he makes the Yankees, OK?" I think about that conversation a whole lot.
3) If you get through 1&2, then this one's easier: Have fun with this, and make damned sure your child does, too. If the only reason your kid is playing youth sports is because YOU desperately want him/her to, then you have a "you" problem, and it needs to be addressed. The winnowing-out process for young athletes can be as political as it is Darwinian; I urge parents to make certain, after about age 12 or so, that this is something the kid really wants to do. If not, they are very likely to be very miserable.
The point of all of this? Like chocolate, youth sports are a good thing. Still, too much of either can make you sick.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
While it may well appall seemingly "normal" households that boys would be allowed to throw a ball indoors, Bride & I have resigned ourselves to the inevitability of this activity, preferring instead to beseech them to at minimum show caution as to WHERE the projectiles are headed. Given their skills, lamps typically remain upright, and windows intact.
So, in I walk to the kitchen one recent evening, to find Son #1, to whom the fates have given a healthy throwing arm, delivering high-level heat to Son #2, at a distance of about twenty feet. Admittedly, it's a Wiffle ball, but it's still moving rather smartly.
I then admonish #1, asking him to keep it to off-speed stuff.
Really, I did.
I then start to chuckle, then go straight to full-body laughter at the absurdity of what I've just done. Here I am, fifty years old, negotiating with my sons WHICH KIND OF PITCHES THEY MAY THROW IN THE HOUSE.
Good Lord. I have completely lost my mind.
**************
Which brings us to youth sports, overkill, and the insane scheduling of children these days. This is not some Luddite, nostalgic rant about a return to a simpler time; I'm a big believer that change is both good, and inevitable, and that's just the way it is. However, when 10-year-olds are toting around I-Phones (latest version, if you please) to simultaneously keep track of their schedules, text their friends, and call Mom to get them from practice to piano lessons, something, to me, seems amiss.
It will come as no surprise that I am also a big believer in youth sports. They're fun, keep kids busy and physically active, and promote teamwork and character. That these are all good things is self-evident. Like any good thing, however, too much can be, well, too much.
Our boys primarily play baseball and basketball, with Son #2 throwing in some fall soccer into the mix. The seasons mesh together pretty nicely, meaning that basically we get free weekends in August, and in late March. Beyond that, it's "Who's playing where?", about 44 weeks of the year. This much, we're accustomed to.
This year's been a little different. Son #1, who is turning out to be an above-average baseball player, not only made his modified (middle school) team as a 7th grader, but also played in a 13-16 year old house league, and was asked, at 13, to play for a 14-under travel team. What this has meant is that he's played roughly 45 ballgames since April 1. Factor in Son #2's Little League schedule, and we have sixty ballgames in essentially three months. This is, as they say, becoming a bit much.
Thing is, I know for a fact that this is neither terribly unusual, nor by any means worse than other parents deal with. I thank God every single day that my guys don't play hockey; that's just insane. A good friend's son, and my own nephew are both elite-level 15-year-old hockey players, and trips every weekend to Canada, or Massachusetts, or Mars are utterly routine for those poor bastards.
I want my children, like any other parent, to succeed, and to enjoy their youth; it passes far too quickly. That said, the experience I've had in youth sports over the past 8 years has led me to a few conclusions, both exhilarating and sobering:
1) The odds against my kid being the next Jeter/Lebron/Insert name here are astronomical. While this is not a surprise to me personally, it would stagger the casual observer how many parents truly believe their kid IS the Second Coming. This leads to the essential dilemma of travel sports; parents who want to believe their kid can do it get lured by travel sports organizations into parting with large dollars to facilitate dreams of college scholarships, and lucrative professional contracts. Already, Son #1 has received flyers imploring him to "try out" for UnderArmour "National teams", if only Mom & Dad will part with $300 for the privilege. I personally know of parents who have paid that much or more just to audition for travel baseball teams locally; one Dad seriously told me this program would greatly improve his boy's opportunity for a college scholarship. Having coached the boy in question, I think it's a bit of a reach; he's good, but not that good.
2) Try VERY hard to temper your expectations; they get in the way of enjoying your child's progress. I had a conversation a year and a half ago with my best friend, and the topic turned to the kids, and specifically to Son #1's baseball. It was right about the time I was realizing he was getting good, and was trying hard to avoid the flights of fancy in 1) above. Matt, as usual, set me straight. "You think it's possible he might someday make his high school team?" I admitted I did. "Then let him make that team before he makes the Yankees, OK?" I think about that conversation a whole lot.
3) If you get through 1&2, then this one's easier: Have fun with this, and make damned sure your child does, too. If the only reason your kid is playing youth sports is because YOU desperately want him/her to, then you have a "you" problem, and it needs to be addressed. The winnowing-out process for young athletes can be as political as it is Darwinian; I urge parents to make certain, after about age 12 or so, that this is something the kid really wants to do. If not, they are very likely to be very miserable.
The point of all of this? Like chocolate, youth sports are a good thing. Still, too much of either can make you sick.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
Sunday, June 6, 2010
On Grace
"Grace" can be amazing; it can define elegance of movement or conduct, a humble request for divine guidance or intervention, or simply the name of a good friend. Today, we'll take a look at grace as it applies to sport, as a result of two specific events of this past week.
*******
The first event is the passing of John Wooden, at the age of 99. Coach Wooden's accomplishments are quite simply legend; the only man inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame inducted as both coach AND player, ten national titles in twelve years at UCLA, and so forth. The college basketball player of the year receives the Wooden Award. As Casey Stengel said, "You can look it up."
I never had the privilege of having met Coach Wooden, so all of this is truly secondhand opinion, but I have also never known of any public figure this side of Mother Teresa about whom one never heard, said, or wrote ANYTHING negative, EVER. Not one thing, and I have looked into this. This man was so universally respected and loved that it suspends belief. His team may have just whomped you into next week, but he did not embarrass you.
As tribute to his memory accumulates from around the world, the common thread one constantly sees is that his professional accomplishments pale in comparison to his personal value as a man. For seven decades, John Wooden was an educator, advisor, and friend to all who encountered him. His concerns were simple: praise his God, love his wife and family, and help anyone and everyone he could. Rest well, sir. You have lived a life of grace, and we are the better for it.
Event #2 this week was, of course, the perfect game that wasn't. For those of you just returning from the Antarctic, this past Wednesday evening in Detroit, Armando Gallaraga of the Tigers was one out away from the 21st perfect game in baseball history. A simple ground ball to first baseman Miguel Cabrera, a toss to a covering Gallaraga, and immortality. Out by half a step.
Enter first base ump Jim Joyce, a respected 20-year veteran, who saw it differently. Joyce called "safe", and immortality goes out the window. Amid the snarling chaos of the ensuing argument, Gallaraga's calm, smiling mien stands out. The man has to be simply gutted at that moment, yet not only does he not come close to arguing about it, he just smiles, returns to the mound, and induces the next batter to ground out for what goes into the books as a one-hit shutout.
Grace also implies character. Re-enter Jim Joyce, who may have had a notion he got it wrong on the field, took all the heat imaginable there, then went into the umpires' dressing room to see the same replay millions of others had already seen. The play was close, but not that close, and Joyce knew he clearly got it wrong. It's what he does next that was graceful.
Joyce immediately asks permission to enter the Tigers' clubhouse, and without hesitation, walks up to Galarraga and admits his mistake, saying "You were perfect, and I wasn't". Galarraga accepts his apology, gives Joyce a hug, and that's that.
Galarraga's essential response to the swarm of media afterwards? "Sure, it's disappointing, but people make mistakes. Jim's a good ump, he apologized, and it's over. We still got the win."
The next day? Galarraga presents the lineup card to home plate umpire Jim Joyce, who's wiping tears from his eyes. They shake hands to a rousing ovation from the Detroit crowd.
The point of all of this? Grace can manifest itself in many ways, and most of them can teach us a lesson or two.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
*******
The first event is the passing of John Wooden, at the age of 99. Coach Wooden's accomplishments are quite simply legend; the only man inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame inducted as both coach AND player, ten national titles in twelve years at UCLA, and so forth. The college basketball player of the year receives the Wooden Award. As Casey Stengel said, "You can look it up."
I never had the privilege of having met Coach Wooden, so all of this is truly secondhand opinion, but I have also never known of any public figure this side of Mother Teresa about whom one never heard, said, or wrote ANYTHING negative, EVER. Not one thing, and I have looked into this. This man was so universally respected and loved that it suspends belief. His team may have just whomped you into next week, but he did not embarrass you.
As tribute to his memory accumulates from around the world, the common thread one constantly sees is that his professional accomplishments pale in comparison to his personal value as a man. For seven decades, John Wooden was an educator, advisor, and friend to all who encountered him. His concerns were simple: praise his God, love his wife and family, and help anyone and everyone he could. Rest well, sir. You have lived a life of grace, and we are the better for it.
Event #2 this week was, of course, the perfect game that wasn't. For those of you just returning from the Antarctic, this past Wednesday evening in Detroit, Armando Gallaraga of the Tigers was one out away from the 21st perfect game in baseball history. A simple ground ball to first baseman Miguel Cabrera, a toss to a covering Gallaraga, and immortality. Out by half a step.
Enter first base ump Jim Joyce, a respected 20-year veteran, who saw it differently. Joyce called "safe", and immortality goes out the window. Amid the snarling chaos of the ensuing argument, Gallaraga's calm, smiling mien stands out. The man has to be simply gutted at that moment, yet not only does he not come close to arguing about it, he just smiles, returns to the mound, and induces the next batter to ground out for what goes into the books as a one-hit shutout.
Grace also implies character. Re-enter Jim Joyce, who may have had a notion he got it wrong on the field, took all the heat imaginable there, then went into the umpires' dressing room to see the same replay millions of others had already seen. The play was close, but not that close, and Joyce knew he clearly got it wrong. It's what he does next that was graceful.
Joyce immediately asks permission to enter the Tigers' clubhouse, and without hesitation, walks up to Galarraga and admits his mistake, saying "You were perfect, and I wasn't". Galarraga accepts his apology, gives Joyce a hug, and that's that.
Galarraga's essential response to the swarm of media afterwards? "Sure, it's disappointing, but people make mistakes. Jim's a good ump, he apologized, and it's over. We still got the win."
The next day? Galarraga presents the lineup card to home plate umpire Jim Joyce, who's wiping tears from his eyes. They shake hands to a rousing ovation from the Detroit crowd.
The point of all of this? Grace can manifest itself in many ways, and most of them can teach us a lesson or two.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
Friday, June 4, 2010
On Youth
"Youth is wasted on the young." - George Bernard Shaw
********
"When I was 14, my father was the stupidest man on Earth. By the time I was 21, I was amazed at how much he had learned in seven short years." - Mark Twain
********
I am a fifty-year-old father of 13 and 11 year-old sons. This is fact, and, as always, lends itself to opportunities for observation. Yesterday was one of those days.
My oldest son, who will be 14 this fall, took his 7th-grade class trip yesterday to Boston, and I had the pleasure of serving as one of the chaperones on the trip. 300+ kids and 40 or so chaperones and teachers filled seven buses at oh-dawn-thirty for a three-hour ride to one of my favorite cities, and the cradle of our nation.
I love Boston, and know it pretty well. I have visited the city many, many times, and fully subscribe to the notion that it's the "biggest small town in America." Truly a city of neighborhoods,there's more history packed within its boundaries than any other city in the country, and monuments to that history are everywhere. Back to that in a moment.
The trip over the MassPike to Boston is pretty uneventful, and even considering the horror show that is morning traffic in the Hub, we arrive at the Boston Museum of Science a few minutes ahead of schedule. Fully caffeinated, I am paired up with one of the school's teachers, and we are charged with the care and feeding of ten of the kids for the day.
All 350 of us, student and adult, are attired in get-out-of-the-way yellow T-shirts for the trip. While this makes identification of us as a whole simplicity itself, picking out individuals within this sea of yellow is much more along the lines of a "Where's Waldo?" exercise, which merits a moment's mention.
I take this assignment pretty seriously; as a parent and longtime coach, I am sensitive to the well-being of children above all things, and have a few reminders for our charges before we begin. I deliver those admonitions in my typical style; abrupt, to-the-point, and clear on the notion that their safety takes FAR greater precedence than their actually liking me. This last point requires private reinforcement shortly thereafter with one of my son's friends; to his credit, it was only needed once.
While I've done this kind of thing before, it was never on this scale. A friend and I shepherded our two kids and one other through the Metropolitan in NYC last year, but that was nothing in comparison. I got the distinct feeling of what it must be like for the Secret Service; constantly scanning for your charges, and also looking for potential problems. I do not mean to compare my task to that of protecting the President, but the analogy applies. One looks for potential issues, and looks to head them off before they even arise. In my case, I also learned to count to ten VERY quickly.
Two hours at the Museum of Science pass quickly; the place is undeniably cool, and the kids enjoyed it. We then pile back into the buses, count heads, and head downtown for a brown-bag lunch on the Common before we start on a part of the Freedom Trail.
The Boston Common is the oldest public park in America; 44 acres of green surrounded by history and high-rise. A lovely spot, and one, like any other such urban space on a nice day is inhabited by both the fortunate, and those less so. Under the category of staving off situations before they become problems, we manage our charges, eat lunch, and proceed along the Trail for forty-five minutes of walking history.
For those who have not done so, the Freedom Trail is required walking for anyone with an interest in American history. It winds through Boston, taking you past many of the seminal locations of the Revolution; the Old North Church, the Granary Burial Grounds, and Faneuil Hall are just a few of the stops along the way.
Anything that winds through Boston winds through Boston traffic as well. Boston traffic is justifiably the stuff of legend; narrow, centuries-old routes do not lend themselves well to modern vehicular traffic, and the Boston driver compensates with acts of automotive lunacy. Lights that are red for longer than a few seconds are usually considered broken, and let's not even get into highway conditions. This all can make pedestrian travel hazardous; one wonders why pedestrians aren't stacked up on the curb like cordwood. This merits mention only because one of our young ladies might not have paid full attention to admonitions about street-crossing, and had to absorb a rather sharp warning to retrurn to the (relative) safety of the sidewalk.
We reach Faneuil Hall/Quincy Market uninjured, and with all our number. We now have about forty-five minutes to wander about, surrounded by the sights and smells of a simply wonderful combination of urban mall and open-air market; everything from Abercrombie & Fitch to the cheapest dreck imaginable is readily available, and it has to be Boston's premier tourist attraction.
A brief aside; I have nothing but brothers, and have raised nothing but sons. I did not understand even remotely the teenaged American female when I was a teenager myself, and nothing has occurred in my life since then to add to that understanding.
This shortcoming becomes particularly evident when it comes to the retail experience. I am blessed to have married a woman who does not treat shopping as sport; Bride certainly is particular, and chooses purchases with care, but she is decisive and blissfully quick when it comes to shopping, and I am forever grateful for it. Her characteristics in this regard, sadly, are not universally-embraced by the modern American teenager, male or female.
We enter an American Eagle store.
Good God.
My chaperone compatriot wisely suggests we split the group on a gender basis, rapidly (and correctly) appraising that I am simply not up to the task of keeping up with the young ladies. Sadly, I'm not a hell of a lot better with the guys; they're flying from pillar to post. With the boys, at least, I'm able to communicate the notion that we have a finite amount of time to get done before we have to head to our final stop of the day, the IMAX theater at the nearby New England Aquarium, and we complete our retail therapy.
A sea of yellow shirts converges upon our last stop, and as we're being queued up for entrance to the movie, a sizable usher commands silence, asking if (insert name here) is in the crowd. No response. After accounting for our ten, and watching teachers fan out in search of the missing student, we enter the theater. After the movie, I'm told that the missing girl was indeed in the crowd; she simply hadn't been paying attention, had fallen in with some friends outside her specific travel group, and that neither occurrence was a particular surprise. Maybe not a surprise, but definitely the type of thing that keeps one awake at night.
After the movie, we pile back onto the buses, have one more successful head count, and begin to leave for home. All the kids are safely headed back to their rightful owners, and this chaperone can finally relax after what is now becoming a fairly long day.
Not so much.
Put 60 or so 12-14 year-olds in a confined space, completely jacked-up from the adrenaline of the day, not to mention the normal hormonal conflagrations resulting from such close confines, and the result is pure, unaldulterated cacaphony. Interminable story short? The notion of resting on the way home is fantasy, and the din of the crew, bouncing around the inside of the bus like a BB in a tin can, is trying. God bless him, Son #1 falls out in minutes, leaving me only the relative solace of Lewis Black on the Walkman amid a sea of chattering, wildly-texting kids.
The point of all of this? While George Bernard Shaw may well have been right, thank God the young have their youth. Without it, they'd never survive shopping. As for Mr. Twain, we shall see.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
********
"When I was 14, my father was the stupidest man on Earth. By the time I was 21, I was amazed at how much he had learned in seven short years." - Mark Twain
********
I am a fifty-year-old father of 13 and 11 year-old sons. This is fact, and, as always, lends itself to opportunities for observation. Yesterday was one of those days.
My oldest son, who will be 14 this fall, took his 7th-grade class trip yesterday to Boston, and I had the pleasure of serving as one of the chaperones on the trip. 300+ kids and 40 or so chaperones and teachers filled seven buses at oh-dawn-thirty for a three-hour ride to one of my favorite cities, and the cradle of our nation.
I love Boston, and know it pretty well. I have visited the city many, many times, and fully subscribe to the notion that it's the "biggest small town in America." Truly a city of neighborhoods,there's more history packed within its boundaries than any other city in the country, and monuments to that history are everywhere. Back to that in a moment.
The trip over the MassPike to Boston is pretty uneventful, and even considering the horror show that is morning traffic in the Hub, we arrive at the Boston Museum of Science a few minutes ahead of schedule. Fully caffeinated, I am paired up with one of the school's teachers, and we are charged with the care and feeding of ten of the kids for the day.
All 350 of us, student and adult, are attired in get-out-of-the-way yellow T-shirts for the trip. While this makes identification of us as a whole simplicity itself, picking out individuals within this sea of yellow is much more along the lines of a "Where's Waldo?" exercise, which merits a moment's mention.
I take this assignment pretty seriously; as a parent and longtime coach, I am sensitive to the well-being of children above all things, and have a few reminders for our charges before we begin. I deliver those admonitions in my typical style; abrupt, to-the-point, and clear on the notion that their safety takes FAR greater precedence than their actually liking me. This last point requires private reinforcement shortly thereafter with one of my son's friends; to his credit, it was only needed once.
While I've done this kind of thing before, it was never on this scale. A friend and I shepherded our two kids and one other through the Metropolitan in NYC last year, but that was nothing in comparison. I got the distinct feeling of what it must be like for the Secret Service; constantly scanning for your charges, and also looking for potential problems. I do not mean to compare my task to that of protecting the President, but the analogy applies. One looks for potential issues, and looks to head them off before they even arise. In my case, I also learned to count to ten VERY quickly.
Two hours at the Museum of Science pass quickly; the place is undeniably cool, and the kids enjoyed it. We then pile back into the buses, count heads, and head downtown for a brown-bag lunch on the Common before we start on a part of the Freedom Trail.
The Boston Common is the oldest public park in America; 44 acres of green surrounded by history and high-rise. A lovely spot, and one, like any other such urban space on a nice day is inhabited by both the fortunate, and those less so. Under the category of staving off situations before they become problems, we manage our charges, eat lunch, and proceed along the Trail for forty-five minutes of walking history.
For those who have not done so, the Freedom Trail is required walking for anyone with an interest in American history. It winds through Boston, taking you past many of the seminal locations of the Revolution; the Old North Church, the Granary Burial Grounds, and Faneuil Hall are just a few of the stops along the way.
Anything that winds through Boston winds through Boston traffic as well. Boston traffic is justifiably the stuff of legend; narrow, centuries-old routes do not lend themselves well to modern vehicular traffic, and the Boston driver compensates with acts of automotive lunacy. Lights that are red for longer than a few seconds are usually considered broken, and let's not even get into highway conditions. This all can make pedestrian travel hazardous; one wonders why pedestrians aren't stacked up on the curb like cordwood. This merits mention only because one of our young ladies might not have paid full attention to admonitions about street-crossing, and had to absorb a rather sharp warning to retrurn to the (relative) safety of the sidewalk.
We reach Faneuil Hall/Quincy Market uninjured, and with all our number. We now have about forty-five minutes to wander about, surrounded by the sights and smells of a simply wonderful combination of urban mall and open-air market; everything from Abercrombie & Fitch to the cheapest dreck imaginable is readily available, and it has to be Boston's premier tourist attraction.
A brief aside; I have nothing but brothers, and have raised nothing but sons. I did not understand even remotely the teenaged American female when I was a teenager myself, and nothing has occurred in my life since then to add to that understanding.
This shortcoming becomes particularly evident when it comes to the retail experience. I am blessed to have married a woman who does not treat shopping as sport; Bride certainly is particular, and chooses purchases with care, but she is decisive and blissfully quick when it comes to shopping, and I am forever grateful for it. Her characteristics in this regard, sadly, are not universally-embraced by the modern American teenager, male or female.
We enter an American Eagle store.
Good God.
My chaperone compatriot wisely suggests we split the group on a gender basis, rapidly (and correctly) appraising that I am simply not up to the task of keeping up with the young ladies. Sadly, I'm not a hell of a lot better with the guys; they're flying from pillar to post. With the boys, at least, I'm able to communicate the notion that we have a finite amount of time to get done before we have to head to our final stop of the day, the IMAX theater at the nearby New England Aquarium, and we complete our retail therapy.
A sea of yellow shirts converges upon our last stop, and as we're being queued up for entrance to the movie, a sizable usher commands silence, asking if (insert name here) is in the crowd. No response. After accounting for our ten, and watching teachers fan out in search of the missing student, we enter the theater. After the movie, I'm told that the missing girl was indeed in the crowd; she simply hadn't been paying attention, had fallen in with some friends outside her specific travel group, and that neither occurrence was a particular surprise. Maybe not a surprise, but definitely the type of thing that keeps one awake at night.
After the movie, we pile back onto the buses, have one more successful head count, and begin to leave for home. All the kids are safely headed back to their rightful owners, and this chaperone can finally relax after what is now becoming a fairly long day.
Not so much.
Put 60 or so 12-14 year-olds in a confined space, completely jacked-up from the adrenaline of the day, not to mention the normal hormonal conflagrations resulting from such close confines, and the result is pure, unaldulterated cacaphony. Interminable story short? The notion of resting on the way home is fantasy, and the din of the crew, bouncing around the inside of the bus like a BB in a tin can, is trying. God bless him, Son #1 falls out in minutes, leaving me only the relative solace of Lewis Black on the Walkman amid a sea of chattering, wildly-texting kids.
The point of all of this? While George Bernard Shaw may well have been right, thank God the young have their youth. Without it, they'd never survive shopping. As for Mr. Twain, we shall see.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
Wednesday, May 19, 2010
On The Importance of Humor
"Laugh, and the world laughs with you".
********
I happen to have been employed by the telephone company my entire working life(nearly 28 years), a fact which makes me something of an anachronism these days; most folks will spend their working lives with a number of employers, and many change jobs with with an alacrity I would find alarming.
While my ability to remain with the company for so long has certainly been comforting, and has allowed me to care for my family, it has also provided me the fodder for one of my favorite pursuits, that of humor.
Let's make a few things clear. I am decidedly NOT a comedian. I simply try to observe some of the things happening around me, and attempt to see the humor in them. Some may see this as sophomoric, and they may have a point. I, on the other hand, view humor as a generally harmless, yet vitally useful, defense mechanism. Self-deprecation is a BIG part of my arsenal; I firmly believe that if you can't laugh at yourself, you likely are in dire need of an ego check anyway, and are to be avoided.
The juxtaposition of the real and the absurd, especially when it comes to the workplace, especially tickles my fancy. 28 years in the warm embrace of Mother Bell has provided me with countless examples of this, to the point where I am absolutely convinced that the company I work for makes money by the truckload in spite of itself. I will not bore the reader with the details; you're just going to have to take it on faith for the moment. It suffices to say that Scott Adams, the creator of "Dilbert", began his career in the Bell System. "Dilbert" is so on-point in my company that it's terrifying, and there are more "Dilbert" strips tacked up in more cubicles than one can possibly imagine.
We live our lives bombarded with information about horrible suffering; Darfur, Haiti, Katrina. The economy has been in the tank for a couple of years, and people are struggling to make ends meet like they haven't had to struggle in decades. Wars drag on in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the gridlock in Washington, in the name of partisan politics, continues ad nauseam.
Humor may well be our last line of defense. Hell, if you don't laugh at the goings-on in the NY State government, you might as well curl up in the corner and twitch. What passes for the political process in my home state truly suspends belief; where else could a former governor, run out of office for advanced hooker procurement, be pulling higher polling numbers than his successor, who may well be an idiot, but is at least currently unindicted?
From Mark Twain to Lewis Black, some of our most illuminating social commentary has come from America's funny bone. While we're laughing, in the back of our heads, a little voice is often saying, "Hey; that's right." We watch Jay, or Dave, or Jon Stewart every night, partially for a giggle, but equally as much to see which fool who shouldn't have opened their mouth on the national stage that day.
So, for heaven's sake, take the time to laugh. It feels good, helps alleviate your troubles, even if only for a moment, and who knows? You might just get someone else to laugh with you.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
********
I happen to have been employed by the telephone company my entire working life(nearly 28 years), a fact which makes me something of an anachronism these days; most folks will spend their working lives with a number of employers, and many change jobs with with an alacrity I would find alarming.
While my ability to remain with the company for so long has certainly been comforting, and has allowed me to care for my family, it has also provided me the fodder for one of my favorite pursuits, that of humor.
Let's make a few things clear. I am decidedly NOT a comedian. I simply try to observe some of the things happening around me, and attempt to see the humor in them. Some may see this as sophomoric, and they may have a point. I, on the other hand, view humor as a generally harmless, yet vitally useful, defense mechanism. Self-deprecation is a BIG part of my arsenal; I firmly believe that if you can't laugh at yourself, you likely are in dire need of an ego check anyway, and are to be avoided.
The juxtaposition of the real and the absurd, especially when it comes to the workplace, especially tickles my fancy. 28 years in the warm embrace of Mother Bell has provided me with countless examples of this, to the point where I am absolutely convinced that the company I work for makes money by the truckload in spite of itself. I will not bore the reader with the details; you're just going to have to take it on faith for the moment. It suffices to say that Scott Adams, the creator of "Dilbert", began his career in the Bell System. "Dilbert" is so on-point in my company that it's terrifying, and there are more "Dilbert" strips tacked up in more cubicles than one can possibly imagine.
We live our lives bombarded with information about horrible suffering; Darfur, Haiti, Katrina. The economy has been in the tank for a couple of years, and people are struggling to make ends meet like they haven't had to struggle in decades. Wars drag on in Iraq and Afghanistan, and the gridlock in Washington, in the name of partisan politics, continues ad nauseam.
Humor may well be our last line of defense. Hell, if you don't laugh at the goings-on in the NY State government, you might as well curl up in the corner and twitch. What passes for the political process in my home state truly suspends belief; where else could a former governor, run out of office for advanced hooker procurement, be pulling higher polling numbers than his successor, who may well be an idiot, but is at least currently unindicted?
From Mark Twain to Lewis Black, some of our most illuminating social commentary has come from America's funny bone. While we're laughing, in the back of our heads, a little voice is often saying, "Hey; that's right." We watch Jay, or Dave, or Jon Stewart every night, partially for a giggle, but equally as much to see which fool who shouldn't have opened their mouth on the national stage that day.
So, for heaven's sake, take the time to laugh. It feels good, helps alleviate your troubles, even if only for a moment, and who knows? You might just get someone else to laugh with you.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
Tuesday, May 18, 2010
On Sex, Religion, and Politics
No, not really.
Well, a trifle on politics. As I may have written before, I live in a small town outside Albany, NY known as Averill Park. Tucked in the hills of Rensselaer County, it's a physically beautiful place, combining lakes, forests, and mountains, and these characteristics help to provide a quality of life my family & I have come to greatly enjoy. There are a variety of cultural, athletic, and community opportunities for folks to enjoy, and blue-ribbon schools to educate our children.
Tip O'Neill, the legendary bastion of the House of Representatives, once said that "all politics is local".
Today, the day we elect members to the AP School Board, those words have never rung more true.
I've been here seven years now, and I have witnessed the factionalization of this community through a few of these elections by now. This year's edition, however, has raised the level of vitriol to heretofore unseen proportions.
What we have here are two diametrically opposed points of view, united by a common hatred.
The mudslinging, name-calling, and underhanded nonsense of many types have become appalling, embarrassing, and ridiculous. The lack of civility in this alleged debate is so overheated, rhetorical firehoses are called for, if only to knock both sides back a bit so they can take a breath.
The technological aspect of this particular election merits mention, as well. The comments found in the blogosphere, on Facebook, and in e-mail have been such that they have graduated to the "mainstream" media; our local newspapers have repeatedly written on the intensity and and overall dissension created by this election. As one individual commented on a blog today, "I wonder what folks without computers are thinking?" A hell of a question, that.
I have a good friend who participated successfully in this process some years back, and, as is his custom, threw himself at the task with all of his considerable ability. While I am loath to speak for anyone but myself, I'd hazard the guess that the nonsense he dealt with throughout his term completely overwhelmed his sense of duty; I am damned certain it would overwhelm mine.
The point of all of this? When a process becomes such a pain in the ass that good people on both sides of the argument choose to separate themselves from the debate rather than participate in it, then the process, or at least the current iteration of it, is seriously broken.
Next time, a happier topic, and a better mood, I promise.
Excelsior!
Well, a trifle on politics. As I may have written before, I live in a small town outside Albany, NY known as Averill Park. Tucked in the hills of Rensselaer County, it's a physically beautiful place, combining lakes, forests, and mountains, and these characteristics help to provide a quality of life my family & I have come to greatly enjoy. There are a variety of cultural, athletic, and community opportunities for folks to enjoy, and blue-ribbon schools to educate our children.
Tip O'Neill, the legendary bastion of the House of Representatives, once said that "all politics is local".
Today, the day we elect members to the AP School Board, those words have never rung more true.
I've been here seven years now, and I have witnessed the factionalization of this community through a few of these elections by now. This year's edition, however, has raised the level of vitriol to heretofore unseen proportions.
What we have here are two diametrically opposed points of view, united by a common hatred.
The mudslinging, name-calling, and underhanded nonsense of many types have become appalling, embarrassing, and ridiculous. The lack of civility in this alleged debate is so overheated, rhetorical firehoses are called for, if only to knock both sides back a bit so they can take a breath.
The technological aspect of this particular election merits mention, as well. The comments found in the blogosphere, on Facebook, and in e-mail have been such that they have graduated to the "mainstream" media; our local newspapers have repeatedly written on the intensity and and overall dissension created by this election. As one individual commented on a blog today, "I wonder what folks without computers are thinking?" A hell of a question, that.
I have a good friend who participated successfully in this process some years back, and, as is his custom, threw himself at the task with all of his considerable ability. While I am loath to speak for anyone but myself, I'd hazard the guess that the nonsense he dealt with throughout his term completely overwhelmed his sense of duty; I am damned certain it would overwhelm mine.
The point of all of this? When a process becomes such a pain in the ass that good people on both sides of the argument choose to separate themselves from the debate rather than participate in it, then the process, or at least the current iteration of it, is seriously broken.
Next time, a happier topic, and a better mood, I promise.
Excelsior!
Friday, March 12, 2010
On why Thomas Boswell is absolutely right
Time, indeed, DOES begin on Opening Day.
******
That the estimable Mr. Boswell, longtime author and columnist for the Washington Post, is one of the finest baseball writers currently breathing is beyond dispute. His book, Why Time Begins on Opening Day remains, 25 years after it was published, required reading for anyone calling themselves a baseball fan. For me, it's an annual experience, one I usually undertake during Spring Training. In fact, I'm going to dig up my well-thumbed copy right now.
It's so much more than a game. It is, concurrently, a rite of time's passage, an exercise in history, and the background music of my life.
In Ken Burns' series on baseball, the eminent historian, Gerald Early, pretty much sums it up for me, thus: "In a thousand years, when historians of that time look upon the contributions of America, they will focus on three specific things: the Constitution, Jazz music, and baseball."
As spring once again segues into summer, we find ourselves as a family asking every day, "OK, who's got a game today, and where?" Our two boys play it compulsively and well (to their dad's ceaseless delight), and these evenings are filled with the sights and sounds of the game.
That these two young guys have inherited my love for this greatest of games makes all the running around, all the nights of concession-stand food, all the hours of coaching, raking, and exhorting more than merely "worth it".
It's what I do, and I'd have it no other way. To see a kid's face light up after he's succeeded, perhaps for the first time in his life, on the ballfield is so much more than just a moment's achievement. It's a sign that maybe, just maybe, I've helped create another baseball fan.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
******
That the estimable Mr. Boswell, longtime author and columnist for the Washington Post, is one of the finest baseball writers currently breathing is beyond dispute. His book, Why Time Begins on Opening Day remains, 25 years after it was published, required reading for anyone calling themselves a baseball fan. For me, it's an annual experience, one I usually undertake during Spring Training. In fact, I'm going to dig up my well-thumbed copy right now.
It's so much more than a game. It is, concurrently, a rite of time's passage, an exercise in history, and the background music of my life.
In Ken Burns' series on baseball, the eminent historian, Gerald Early, pretty much sums it up for me, thus: "In a thousand years, when historians of that time look upon the contributions of America, they will focus on three specific things: the Constitution, Jazz music, and baseball."
As spring once again segues into summer, we find ourselves as a family asking every day, "OK, who's got a game today, and where?" Our two boys play it compulsively and well (to their dad's ceaseless delight), and these evenings are filled with the sights and sounds of the game.
That these two young guys have inherited my love for this greatest of games makes all the running around, all the nights of concession-stand food, all the hours of coaching, raking, and exhorting more than merely "worth it".
It's what I do, and I'd have it no other way. To see a kid's face light up after he's succeeded, perhaps for the first time in his life, on the ballfield is so much more than just a moment's achievement. It's a sign that maybe, just maybe, I've helped create another baseball fan.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
On why March is just the bestest month
Thank God. It's March.
******
Bride's birthday, and her best friend's a week later, combine to form a week of reveling we call "Jubilee", and as this is written, we are in Day 6 thereof. We have conference championship basketball on the tube (ACC quarters, Duke-UVA), and the snow outside, twenty inches deep just two weeks ago, is steadily receding in the face of ten days' worth of actual Spring-like temperatures. The furnace is kicking in less often; can it actually be Spring?
Sure feels like it.
Sunday is Selection Sunday, the official start of the greatest sporting event known to Man. 65 teams from across the land (including our hometown Siena Saints, MAAC champs for the third straight year) will kick off play on Tuesday in the NCAA basketball championship.
God, I love March.
The tournament takes you through the balance of the month, which begets Opening Day, which begets the Masters. Hope springs anew; Mother Earth decides she'll start playing nice again with the weather, and my boys and I get back out onto baseball fields. The long winter of our discontent may not be completely over, but the end is nigh.
God, I truly love March.
Next up are tournament and MLB predictions, all of which are certain to go horribly wrong.
Until then,
Excelsior!
******
Bride's birthday, and her best friend's a week later, combine to form a week of reveling we call "Jubilee", and as this is written, we are in Day 6 thereof. We have conference championship basketball on the tube (ACC quarters, Duke-UVA), and the snow outside, twenty inches deep just two weeks ago, is steadily receding in the face of ten days' worth of actual Spring-like temperatures. The furnace is kicking in less often; can it actually be Spring?
Sure feels like it.
Sunday is Selection Sunday, the official start of the greatest sporting event known to Man. 65 teams from across the land (including our hometown Siena Saints, MAAC champs for the third straight year) will kick off play on Tuesday in the NCAA basketball championship.
God, I love March.
The tournament takes you through the balance of the month, which begets Opening Day, which begets the Masters. Hope springs anew; Mother Earth decides she'll start playing nice again with the weather, and my boys and I get back out onto baseball fields. The long winter of our discontent may not be completely over, but the end is nigh.
God, I truly love March.
Next up are tournament and MLB predictions, all of which are certain to go horribly wrong.
Until then,
Excelsior!
Monday, February 15, 2010
On February
Pitchers and catchers this week. Proof positive that a benevolent God exists.
******
February in Averill Park, NY can be, on occasion, daunting. Winters here are fairly serious business; at over a thousand feet of elevation, snow can fall with a vengeance. I have lived my entire life in Upstate NY, so I am certainly acclimated to winter. One drives more carefully, keeps firewood on hand, and passes the time at home with family and friends. We've been here in AP almost seven years now, and our first winter here, on the weekend of my 44th birthday, we saw 34 inches of the white stuff in about 40 hours.
This February is more than a little different. As I look out the window, there's MAYBE five inches on the ground, and we are at about half our normal snowfall for this time of year. Perhaps this is the reason the situation in the Mid-Atlantic states cracks me the hell up.
Washington DC is known for gridlock of many types; political, traffic, and otherwise. They are equally well-known for becoming absolutely panic-stricken at the arrival of flakes of snow, much less feet of it. What passes for a dusting up here is Armageddon in DC, and it is hilarious to watch firsthand.
My oldest brother turned me on to this phenomenon some 20 years ago. Dave was working in DC for our Congressman, and would tell me tales of snow-mania which I generally found apocryphal until about eight years ago, when I found myself in a February meeting just outside DC, in Reston, VA.
The meeting's going well, and moving along agreeably when one of the participants notices some flurries just beginning out a window. At the mention of this, people just start to pack up and leave, rather abruptly ending the proceedings. After the initial shock of all of this wears off, our little NY contingent heads for our rental car for the trip to National Airport, and home.
The radio comes on, and a damned-near apoplectic DJ is explaining that schools are closing, and non-essential government workers should head home in advance of the two inches of snow expected by midnight. I am not, by the way, making any of this up.
I reflected upon that meeting rather a lot recently, with the absolute belting the Mid-Atlantic region has absorbed the last few weeks. I do not minimize this; four feet of snow in ten days is a hardship anywhere, and in DC, where folks just don't handle one-tenth of that well, it must be a hardship in the extreme. I guess it's the irony that our area has just missed these storms over and over that I find so amusing.
Fear not, Washington: Spring is coming, and this will all soon be just a memory. In the meantime, you might want to grab some firewood.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
******
February in Averill Park, NY can be, on occasion, daunting. Winters here are fairly serious business; at over a thousand feet of elevation, snow can fall with a vengeance. I have lived my entire life in Upstate NY, so I am certainly acclimated to winter. One drives more carefully, keeps firewood on hand, and passes the time at home with family and friends. We've been here in AP almost seven years now, and our first winter here, on the weekend of my 44th birthday, we saw 34 inches of the white stuff in about 40 hours.
This February is more than a little different. As I look out the window, there's MAYBE five inches on the ground, and we are at about half our normal snowfall for this time of year. Perhaps this is the reason the situation in the Mid-Atlantic states cracks me the hell up.
Washington DC is known for gridlock of many types; political, traffic, and otherwise. They are equally well-known for becoming absolutely panic-stricken at the arrival of flakes of snow, much less feet of it. What passes for a dusting up here is Armageddon in DC, and it is hilarious to watch firsthand.
My oldest brother turned me on to this phenomenon some 20 years ago. Dave was working in DC for our Congressman, and would tell me tales of snow-mania which I generally found apocryphal until about eight years ago, when I found myself in a February meeting just outside DC, in Reston, VA.
The meeting's going well, and moving along agreeably when one of the participants notices some flurries just beginning out a window. At the mention of this, people just start to pack up and leave, rather abruptly ending the proceedings. After the initial shock of all of this wears off, our little NY contingent heads for our rental car for the trip to National Airport, and home.
The radio comes on, and a damned-near apoplectic DJ is explaining that schools are closing, and non-essential government workers should head home in advance of the two inches of snow expected by midnight. I am not, by the way, making any of this up.
I reflected upon that meeting rather a lot recently, with the absolute belting the Mid-Atlantic region has absorbed the last few weeks. I do not minimize this; four feet of snow in ten days is a hardship anywhere, and in DC, where folks just don't handle one-tenth of that well, it must be a hardship in the extreme. I guess it's the irony that our area has just missed these storms over and over that I find so amusing.
Fear not, Washington: Spring is coming, and this will all soon be just a memory. In the meantime, you might want to grab some firewood.
Until next time,
Excelsior!
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
On Volunteerism
Short post today, extolling the virtues of a good friend and a good man who has had a hell of an idea.
My friend Matt Hurley recently retired from Verizon after something like 27 years with the company. As opposed to immediately going out looking for another job (Matt's not yet 50), and getting right back into the rat race, he took a different tack; he and his wife are spending 2010 traveling the country volunteering their time and skills to anyone who can use a hand, from a senior citizen with a leaky roof, to a farmer who needs to get hay in the barn before it rains, to someone in the Carolinas who could use some help moving.
He's created a website, http://www.whospepehelpingnow.com/, to document his travels and to gather ideas for helping opportunities. He asks for no monetary support; in fact, his website specifically mentions that he does NOT want anyone's money. What he asks is that those who desire to contribute, do so to a charity of their choice, and he does offer some suggestions as to worthy (and certified) charitable organizations.
This guy is taking a year of his life to not only talk the talk, but he's backing it up with his actions. He has a pretty broad history of volunteering, and I urge everyone to support Matt by visiting his website.
Until next time, Excelsior!
My friend Matt Hurley recently retired from Verizon after something like 27 years with the company. As opposed to immediately going out looking for another job (Matt's not yet 50), and getting right back into the rat race, he took a different tack; he and his wife are spending 2010 traveling the country volunteering their time and skills to anyone who can use a hand, from a senior citizen with a leaky roof, to a farmer who needs to get hay in the barn before it rains, to someone in the Carolinas who could use some help moving.
He's created a website, http://www.whospepehelpingnow.com/, to document his travels and to gather ideas for helping opportunities. He asks for no monetary support; in fact, his website specifically mentions that he does NOT want anyone's money. What he asks is that those who desire to contribute, do so to a charity of their choice, and he does offer some suggestions as to worthy (and certified) charitable organizations.
This guy is taking a year of his life to not only talk the talk, but he's backing it up with his actions. He has a pretty broad history of volunteering, and I urge everyone to support Matt by visiting his website.
Until next time, Excelsior!
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
On 50, The Holidays, Loss, and other Musings
This might be a curiously long post, but it's admittedly been a while since your intrepid scribe has come to these pages...
First things first. We are now fifty years old.
I have to pause; it's the first time I've written that. Good Lord; considering what my twenties (and part of thirties) were like, whodathunkit?
I have to admit, not only is making fifty decidedly better than the alternative, it is kind of cool; there is a sense somehow of gravitas that comes with a certain age, although in my case it may more be a case of comfort in one's own skin, rather than some divine investing of wisdom. I still do fairly stupid things, but I seem to recognize them more rapidly.
There are the normal physical foibles; aches & pains that take longer to recover from, more hair in the sink than on the head, that sort of thing.
Then there is loss. You know you're getting older when you start recognizing far more names in the obits than in the weddings section of the paper. You also start re-evaluating your own reaction to mortality. While loss can still certainly shock, especially when it comes completely out of the blue, or, God forbid, occurs to a child, you do get somewhat philosophical about the whole thing, or so it seems.
My own Dad died when I was 24; I'm rapidly approaching the age he was when he died. It's funny; the immediate effect of his passing didn't hit me for months after the fact. At the time, I guess my reaction as the oldest child in the family was to sublimate my own emotions in favor of being there for others, and boy, did I bury 'em deep. Only problem was, when they came out, it was spectacular.
Lesson learned; we try to deal with these things more in the moment now. There are, of course, still times when loss makes you question the Almighty, and one of those times was one year and three days ago, when my good friend Tom Devane passed away unexpectedly, at age 46.
Schlom was a trip and a half; as convivial a gent as you'll ever meet, and a guy who never had an unkind word for anyone. Great in a kitchen, at a party, and as a friend. A confirmed bachelor, he sadly was home alone when he died, and it was left to his best friend to find him, when he did not respond to phone calls for a full day from a number of us. He was supposed to come to our home for New Year's Day dinner, but when he didn't respond to repeated calls even the next day, we decided to go check on him. Chris got to him first, and I moments later, and it was incumbent upon us to spread the sad news that the Big Kid was gone.
It was kind of surreal, a real "Big Chill" kind of moment, without the suicide angle. Everything is consumed by the immediate; get the kids staying somewhere else, arrange for our local restaurant to do some catering, and get close friends to our home for commiseration, and large cocktails.
Then, a funny thing happened.
While we were all obviously in deep grief over the loss of our great friend, rather than spending the time crying in our beer, we started trading Schlom stories, and the longer it went on, the more hilarious it got. What's more, it struck us all that the Big Kid would have had it no other way.
The days were a blur; phone calls, the wake, the funeral and interment. Through it all, I was beset by the notion that we all go sometime, and we must make the most of the day we have in front of us. Tommy lived that way, in good times and bad, and if that's his legacy, then there are worse things to leave behind.
Enough; on to happier thoughts.
The holidays are now officially behind us, and a new decade has dawned. Thank Christ. No more purchasing, hiding, wrapping, opening, and destroying of gifts; no more running from pillar to post to meet this or that family/friend/holiday obligation. Don't get me wrong; the holidays are among my favorite time of the year, but with them past, we can now safely address this most important of matters:
Six weeks until pitchers & catchers.
Next time, less morbid, and back to voice acting.
Until then, Excelsior!
First things first. We are now fifty years old.
I have to pause; it's the first time I've written that. Good Lord; considering what my twenties (and part of thirties) were like, whodathunkit?
I have to admit, not only is making fifty decidedly better than the alternative, it is kind of cool; there is a sense somehow of gravitas that comes with a certain age, although in my case it may more be a case of comfort in one's own skin, rather than some divine investing of wisdom. I still do fairly stupid things, but I seem to recognize them more rapidly.
There are the normal physical foibles; aches & pains that take longer to recover from, more hair in the sink than on the head, that sort of thing.
Then there is loss. You know you're getting older when you start recognizing far more names in the obits than in the weddings section of the paper. You also start re-evaluating your own reaction to mortality. While loss can still certainly shock, especially when it comes completely out of the blue, or, God forbid, occurs to a child, you do get somewhat philosophical about the whole thing, or so it seems.
My own Dad died when I was 24; I'm rapidly approaching the age he was when he died. It's funny; the immediate effect of his passing didn't hit me for months after the fact. At the time, I guess my reaction as the oldest child in the family was to sublimate my own emotions in favor of being there for others, and boy, did I bury 'em deep. Only problem was, when they came out, it was spectacular.
Lesson learned; we try to deal with these things more in the moment now. There are, of course, still times when loss makes you question the Almighty, and one of those times was one year and three days ago, when my good friend Tom Devane passed away unexpectedly, at age 46.
Schlom was a trip and a half; as convivial a gent as you'll ever meet, and a guy who never had an unkind word for anyone. Great in a kitchen, at a party, and as a friend. A confirmed bachelor, he sadly was home alone when he died, and it was left to his best friend to find him, when he did not respond to phone calls for a full day from a number of us. He was supposed to come to our home for New Year's Day dinner, but when he didn't respond to repeated calls even the next day, we decided to go check on him. Chris got to him first, and I moments later, and it was incumbent upon us to spread the sad news that the Big Kid was gone.
It was kind of surreal, a real "Big Chill" kind of moment, without the suicide angle. Everything is consumed by the immediate; get the kids staying somewhere else, arrange for our local restaurant to do some catering, and get close friends to our home for commiseration, and large cocktails.
Then, a funny thing happened.
While we were all obviously in deep grief over the loss of our great friend, rather than spending the time crying in our beer, we started trading Schlom stories, and the longer it went on, the more hilarious it got. What's more, it struck us all that the Big Kid would have had it no other way.
The days were a blur; phone calls, the wake, the funeral and interment. Through it all, I was beset by the notion that we all go sometime, and we must make the most of the day we have in front of us. Tommy lived that way, in good times and bad, and if that's his legacy, then there are worse things to leave behind.
Enough; on to happier thoughts.
The holidays are now officially behind us, and a new decade has dawned. Thank Christ. No more purchasing, hiding, wrapping, opening, and destroying of gifts; no more running from pillar to post to meet this or that family/friend/holiday obligation. Don't get me wrong; the holidays are among my favorite time of the year, but with them past, we can now safely address this most important of matters:
Six weeks until pitchers & catchers.
Next time, less morbid, and back to voice acting.
Until then, Excelsior!
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