Once in a Blue Moon

The decade is drawing to a close, not that anyone really gives a shit; that won’t happen for another decade. That’s when historians will look back on the “2 Ought” period for some sort of global significance. Interestingly enough…or not, something historic is going to happen on the last day of this soon-to-be historic decade. What type of phenomena is worthy of mention here you may ask…or not. For the record, 2009 is going out with a bang.

No, I’m not predicting someone will be shot this New Year’s Eve, though that’s bound to happen. You know, people who find the need to discharge their home arsenals into the air invariably hit some poor bastard unknowingly, or uncaringly, or both. The event this Thursday night is celestial. There is going to be a full moon.

Like you, I am fully aware full moons occur every twenty-nine days; no big deal right? But the full moon this Thursday night is the second full moon in the month of January, making it a blue moon. You’re probably saying to yourself right now, “So what, big deal;” along with, “Wade’s finally fucking lost it. Now he thinks a goddamn blue moon is something momentous. He really needs to get a life; as well as a firmer grasp of reality.” But before you jump to any conclusions concerning my mental stability, or instability, you pick; I also know that blue moons occur about every two and a half years. Thus, a “blue moon” is cited to denote “rarity.” One happening on New Year’s Eve is rarer still. However, I’ve never heard anyone use the expression “Once in a New Year’s Eve blue moon.” Now that I think about it, maybe now I will.

A New Year’s Eve blue moon occurs once every nineteen years. The next one will be on New Year’s Eve 2028. The harsh reality is I may not be here to see it. So yes, the full (blue) moon this Thursday night is a big deal to me. It’s also probably a big deal for police. There are more cops on duty when it’s New Year’s Eve. There are more cops on duty when it’s a full moon. How cops are going to be on duty on New Year’s Eve with a full moon is anybody’s guess. Maybe they’ll have to call in the National Guard?

Many of you who read this every week- I’ll wait for you to stop laughing- or even occasionally, are about half my age. You will experience many more blue moons, and a couple more will happen on New Year’s Eve. Don’t misinterpret my harbinger as if I have some sort of terminal disease. For the time being, I’m a picture of health under the circumstances. Still, nineteen years is nearly two decades.

The average checkout age of the American male is around seventy-six, for women, seventy-eight. Up until nine and a half years ago, I lived a life that was not conducive for longevity. Vehicular wrecks, smoking, alcoholism, drug abuse, and what best could be described as being “strung a little tight,” have all probably taken their toll on my anticipated life expectancy. Though optimistic, I maintain a loose sense of actuality.

Sure, we all know, or heard of, someone who smoked for sixty-five years, ate ice cream every night after a dinner of McDonald’s, and didn’t start drinking heavily until they retired, living to be ninety-two. That may very well happen, but I’m not counting on it. Besides, a lot can happen in nineteen years if the last nineteen are any indication.

Children that were born the year of the last blue moon on New Year’s Eve have graduated high school. Some have completed their first year of college. Some have even had children of their own.

Goals have been set and accomplished. Houses have been made into homes. Jobs have been changed, some of them with promotions and/or pay increases, some have been lost due the most recent economic downturn.

For some of us, there has been the pain of divorce and for some, the joy of remarriage. There’s been the delight of watching our children become fine adults. Some of us even have the pleasure of grandchildren. Yep, nineteen years is a long time, but it passes by with a swiftness that’s often very hard to comprehend. How many of us have ever said “Where did the last (fill in the amount of time) go?” Were we too busy to notice where it went?

This Thursday I plan on taking notice of that blue moon. I will take notice of the beauty of each Florida sunrise, and the majesty of each sunset. For my friends to the north, delight in the splendor of the next snowfall, rather than curse the shoveling and driving. I plan on continuing to do a lot of things that give me pleasure.

I will continue to try and make a stranger smile each day. I will continue to try being a better husband. I will continue to try being a good father. I will continue to try to improve myself so others may benefit. The opportunities for all these things are dwindling.

So this Thursday night as you ring in the New Year, take note of the moon outside. Think of where you were, and where you’ve been since the last New Year’s blue moon took place. Think of what you were doing, and think what you’ve done. Then think of where you want to go, and what you want to do before the next one comes. Remember, a blue moon only happens once in a blue moon.

Fundamentally Lacking the Fundamentals

Last Saturday my son Cory and I attended the Orange Bowl Classic Basketball Tournament. We had been nine years before, but hadn’t gone to it since. This year we were enticed by the prospect of both of our schools participation. My alma mater Florida Atlantic University would be playing the University of Miami, and University of Florida Gators, where my son attends, were to face the University of Richmond.

There are fewer finer things in life than spending the better part of a day hanging out with Cory, unless it’s watching live sports with Cory. In the relaxed holiday atmosphere that surrounded the tournament, both the hanging out, and watching sports took place. While neither of our teams fared well that day, some of the things I saw on the court in terms of the way the game was played troubled me. What troubles me more, is these same basic characteristics are present in other sports as well. What troubles me greater still, is these central principles transcend the arena of sport.

In the first game, my FAU Owls employed the art of the Statue of Liberty jump shot. When a player released the ball, he watched it majestically in flight, admired its arc, only to see it miss its mark. One of the elementary aspects taught at a very early age was to follow ones shot in the event the shot failed. That way, there would be perhaps an opportunity to take another shot if the player was fortunate enough to get his own rebound. Not only was this strategy absent, it seemed that the concept was entirely foreign to the FAU players; to make matters worse, the players supposedly in position to rebound, did not” box out.”

“Boxing out,” means to hinder an opposing player from gaining inside position by physically restraining said player without fouling. Time after time Miami players found themselves free to recover an errant shot without an FAU player, ANY FAU player, encumbering their movement. Boxing out is one of the first things taught to an individual who’s attempting to play the game of basketball for the very first time. It was sad indeed to see the lack of these rudimentary facets engaged by the players. Not surprisingly, Florida Atlantic lost. Coach Mike Jarvis noticed what I did as well. In the newspaper the following day he commented, “Our boys need to put a butt on other guy. That’s what god gave you one for.” He was referring to leaning into an opposing player in order to box out.

The saddest part of the second game was the lack of a take charge player; a player who’s willing to step up in the clutch; the player who wants to shoot the ball when their team needs a basket. The Florida squad was loaded with individual talent. You could tell much of this talent was still untapped. Once this talent was brought out, no fewer than four players may one day have an opportunity to play at the professional level. However, until any one of those four players decides it is they who will reach down inside of themselves, muster the courage and confidence to call for the ball when a timely basket is needed, this will be the highest level they will ever play at. Even in the Major Leagues, cornerstones of sound baseball have gone by the way of the horse and buggy.

The idea of blocking ground balls with one’s body is so alien; you’d think every player was more concerned with preserving their faces for a future in product endorsements. The all too familiar sight of an infielder waving his glove sidesaddle at an oncoming grounder, like some sort of spheroid matador, is commonplace. If the ball does undeniably elude this type of nonchalant attempt, there is little ridicule or scorn. Using two hands is no longer necessary to catch a flyball. The gloves are now so oversized, there are able to shag a basketball if one is hit the outfielders way. Choking up on the bat to make contact in a two strike situation is nonexistent. Football is not without its apparent eschewing of tried and true methods.

Not a game goes by where I don’t observe a defensive player attempting to tackle the player with the ball by using his arms only. What happened to the axiom of “hit’em low” thereby entangling the legs of the opposing player, in order to bring him to the ground in the most efficient manner possible? No, players today must show how strong they, while also demonstrating their incompetence. Does this behavior cease? Is there a good old fashion tongue-lashing by the coach? No, this has become part of the game. This is just the way things are done now. I say BULLSHIT!

All of these examples, and many more not cited, from all these sports, have taken hold. Is the reason behind this metamorphosis much deeper than just a lack of work ethic, or a poor one if one exists at all? Or is there a bigger force at work?
Some of you might think me the frustrated athletic father. However, I believed when rearing Cory, that exposure to as many things as possible was the way to go. Give me a diverse well-rounded kid any day. With that said, yes I exposed to him every sport; sometimes in large doses. Regardless, I felt is necessary to teach him each sport from the ground up. Let Cory know the rules, the proper way to execute, and the end result, with practice, will be ultimately the desired one. I believe this is missing from today’s sports culture.

How often do we witness flash and dash over substance; running before walking so to speak. Tricks of the trade are taught before anyone knows anything about the trade. I am of the opinion that each sport suffers for it. Why apply yourself to learning your craft when you can skate by on athleticism alone. This notion fits in nicely with Cory’s observation that a large percentage a pussies, and my view that to hell with the standard of mediocrity that so poisons our society; a topic I’ve railed about in past blogs.

Why hone your skills to such a level of excellence when pretty good will be rewarded? Those who wish to excel are widening a gap so vast, that it’s becoming harder to tell if they represent true greatness, or is everyone so far behind and happy in their status.

Is Lebron James or Kobe Bryant the next Michael Jordan? I’m more concerned why there are so few next Larry Birds; men of limited talent, but achieved greatness because they made the most with what they had. And if they didn’t have it, they learned every other aspect forward and backwards to make up for sheer ability.
Derek Jeter has always had the ability, but worked hard to be better still at every part of the game of baseball. Peyton Manning can’t run, but he can outthink anyone on the football field. He practices with his receivers long after everyone else has gone home.

Derek Jeter wants to be up when there are two outs in the bottom of the ninth and the winning run on third.

Peyton Manning wants to lead his team eighty yards down the field for the winning score with only a minute left in the game.

Jordan, James, Bryant, and Larry Bird wanted to take the last shot to win the game. Bird used to say he was the only one he trusted to make that shot, that’s why he took it.

Say what you want about George Bush, or Barack Obama for that matter. They wanted the ball with the game on the line. Doesn’t anybody from this next generation my son deems to be weak want the ball with the game on the line? Don’t they want to learn the fundamentals that will ensure better performance regardless of innate ability? Aren’t they sick of complaining about losing, and realize it takes effort to lead, much less win? Maybe if they ask Santa he’ll bring this quality to them for Christmas. Maybe they just don’t care enough one way or the other.

Far better is it to dare mighty things, to win glorious triumphs, even though checkered by failure... than to rank with those poor spirits who neither enjoy nor suffer much, because they live in a gray twilight that knows not victory nor defeat.
Theodore Roosevelt
Happy Holidays!

A Ghost from Christmas Past

It’s rather hard to feel Christmasy with South Florida mired in a heat wave of such magnitude, today we could top a previous high set back in 1850. But with the tree up and trimmed, lights adorning the front of the house, and the first batch of cookies completed to everyone’s satisfaction, I am in the spirit of things nonetheless.

We all have our share of Christmas memories. Some of these memories we longingly wish to replicate in some form. We wish to be transported back to a simpler time when family members gathered to exchange gifts we painstakingly racked our brains prior to purchase, to make sure said gifts were “just right.” Afterward, with all members assembled, we laughed, and ate, and drank, and drank some more. Is that the way it really was, or is that the way we remember it? Not all of my memories of Christmas were of the Norman Rockwell variety; some were more in tune with Grant Wood, had American Gothic denoted a holiday.

Those other memories are just as engrained in our psyche, even though we wish they weren’t; the “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer” kind of memories. Though while a tad less traditional; they still come to mind this time of year. At least that’s the way it is for me. Let me share one here.

My grandmother never got run over by a reindeer, but lord only knows what she ran over on the way to our house one Christmas morning. You see, I never knew my grandmother to drive….ever. For all of my youth, my grandfather drove her everywhere; even the two blocks to the beauty parlor Joe & John’s, “Home of the Blue Rinse.”

My grandmother was badly injured many years before I was born in a horrific car accident that took place in the dead of winter. She was traveling down a steep, snowy hill made worse by the prevailing ice storm. She was alone, behind the wheel of some mammoth Buick built soon after the end of World War II. Unable to stop, my grandmother hit a telephone pole, and on impact was catapulted through the windshield, severing her nose. Thankfully, doctors were able to reattach the nose, but it looked as though they did so with knitting needles and some yarn. This explained the W.C. Fields look she sported for the rest of her years. Traumatized beyond comprehension, as the story went, she never got over the accident until Christmas 1966.

Our families had just moved from Springfield, New Jersey, a suburb of Newark, and later, what many a critic of suburban sprawl considered, a suburb of New York City; to the rolling hills of Chester, New Jersey, population around two thousand. By this time, I had turned eight, and been behind the wheel –with my grandfather controlling the foot pedals – more than my grandmother had been over the span of my young life. My sister and I often asked if Nana knew how to drive. We always got the same answer, given with a distain as if we asked did Nana shit herself often.

“Of course she knows how to drive! She drove her whole life!” my grandfather would bellow. “I do all the driving now; it’s just easier now that I’m retired.” My sister and I would prod further. “Does she have a driver’s license Pop?” we’d ask with a hint of suspicion. Incredulously, he’d bark, “She gets it renewed every year!” though neither my sister nor I had ever seen it. Pop almost took it as a personal affront we’d broach the topic. If we persisted, we got the ghastly crash story. Okay, Nana was to terrified to ever drive again. I could understand that.

Though the locale had changed, some of the Christmas traditions didn’t. On Christmas Eve, I listened to the radio broadcast from an Air Force base located at the North Pole that tracked Santa by radar as he made his way around the globe. I never could stay awake long enough to hear them tell of Santa’s impending arrival to my town. This unsuccessful attempt at self-imposed sleep deprivation did not deter me from arising at my normal ungodly hour, made all the more ungodly by the fact that it was Christmas morning! In short, it was dark out, about 4:00a.m.

I’d race downstairs, check to see if Santa had eaten the cookies and milk I’d left for him (to my delight he always did), plug in the Christmas tree,( at our new house I’d tighten the clear bulbs in the WASP-ie faux candles my mother thought “tasteful”), distribute the family stockings to where I knew each member would be sitting, and then I’d wait, staring hypnotically at the gaily lit tree. Once the bubble lights each had commenced bubbling, I’d run upstairs to stir a parent (which one never mattered) to ask if I could open one stocking stuffer while I waited for everyone else. After giving the alarm clock a cursive glance, one parent or the other, sometimes both, would growl in a guttural tone reserved for those undergoing an exorcism, something I already knew; “Christ Wade, it’s five in the morning!!” Once the correct time had been established, one parent, or both, would relent to my request; “Yes, but just one stocking present. Stay away from the presents under the tree.” The last part I either ignored, or didn’t hear, as I made a beeline down the stairs to my beckoning holdmeover.

Let me make it clear, I always fiddled with everybody’s gifts under the tree, sometimes before they had been placed under the tree. Try as she might, I knew all my mother’s hiding places.

After venturing a guess as to whether Santa had indeed brought the items on my list; it was time to select the all-important stocking gift. I couldn’t dig through the entire stocking lest disrupt my mother’s painstaking arrangement of each gift for maximum use of limited stocking space. The present would have to be one of the two or three sticking out of the top. This gift would have to do for the next hour at least, so it had better be a good one. A pair of socks would send me into a tailspin. Socks would mean I’d have to pester my parents to allowing me to open another gift. The odds on that were never good. A pack of baseball or football cards would keep me amused for only so long. However, a minor toy of any kind could keep me out of my parent’s hair indefinitely. Once I’d made my selection, and lived with the choice, I would begin making “subtle noise,” to roust my parents from their not so gentle slumber.

After my mother and father begrudgingly awakened, we opened our stockings without my grandparents in attendance, our big presents had to wait for their arrival; this was another tradition that hadn’t changed.

In Springfield, my grandparents lived four houses away. In Chester, they lived a little over two miles away, or two hundred, depending on the perspective of who was waiting. My grandfather had always been an early riser, which meant that my grandmother was also an early riser by default. I don’t know if she truly was, or if that was just part of that generation’s program. No matter, in Springfield it meant that my grandparents could be expected anytime after six-thirty. Since it was the first Christmas in our new town, who knew what time they’d arrive. The ETA being all the more tenuous due to the ten inches of snow that had fallen overnight, and continued into the Christmas morning of ’66.

Around sevenish, I was chomping at the bit. I begged my mother to call Nana and Pop to find out when the hell they were going to get to our house. There were presents to open for crying out loud! I’d already been awake for over three hours! How much longer did I have to endure such torture?

After the phone call, my mother informed the rest of us, that my grandfather was finishing his Grape-Nuts, and they would be forthcoming. How long did that mean? Another half hour, maybe another hour? I knew there was a complete neurological collapse in my future if I had to hold out much longer. I waited with bated breath at one of the two windows of our living room that faced the street.

After what seemed like an eternity…. wait!.... Is that a car I see making its way through the drifting snow? IT’S THEM, I SEE THEM! THEY’RE HERE AT LONG LAST!! As their 1966 black Ford Fairlaine passed in front of the house, I saw my grandfather in the passenger seat. My mind took a second to compute that meant my grandmother was driving. I thought for a second, maybe Chester has a taxi that looked like Pop’s car.

“NANA’S DRIVING!” I screeched. My sister and parents bolted to see a wonder so rare, a total solar eclipse was commonplace compared to this. We pressed our noses to our own separate panes to witness this modern miracle. We all roared with laughter until my mother shushed us, thinking perhaps my grandparents could hear us while they were still in the car, and we indoors.

We couldn’t believe our own disbelieving eyes. Over twenty years had passed since my grandmother had driven an automobile. And to be moved to do so in the worst possible conditions perplexed us. I now knew what it meant “to blow one’s mind.” I couldn’t wait to hear all the details surrounding this most unusual occurrence. Presents, what presents? I’d just seen my grandmother drive. This could only be rivaled in the annuls of history by being in attendance at the birth of Christ himself.

Before Nana and Pop made their way up the unshoveled walk, my mother instructed us to act like what we had just witnessed was commonplace. Don’t fuss, or make a big deal out of it. This request fell on deaf ears. The moment the front door opened, I ran to hug my grandmother squealing “YOU DROVE, YOU DROVE, I SAW YOU!” Seeing my grandmother do what was once considered impossible was the best present she ever gave me. She never drove again.

I too drove one snowy Christmas. The results were not as glorious. I was t-boned while waiting at a traffic light in Hackettstown; my forth accident in as many months. I was picking up my sister, who was too afraid to drive in such weather; in my mother’s 1972 Mustang convertible. My mother professed before I left the house, “Be careful. I love that car almost as much as I love you.” Talk about the kiss of death.

Several years later Nana didn’t fare as well in her battle with Alzheimer’s. I wonder if in the deepest recesses of her stifled brain, she recalled that Christmas when she provided better entertainment than Nat King Cole could ever have. I wonder if she knew how happy she made a little boy without trying. Come to think of it, she did that pretty often. Not just on Christmas.

More Human than Human

As a sports historian, many supposed “heroes” have either fallen from grace, or did some unsavory things that tarnished their image. In no other period in our sports history did the sportswriters or the media in general write anything to dispel the larger than life personas of America’s “heroes.” Why we ever considered these men and women with their particular talents for various recreational endeavors above reproach is beyond me. However, it seems here in the 21st Century, we’re making up for lost time. The media not only publishes or airs any human frailty, misgiving, or transgression; but leaving no stone unturned to unearth those acts seems to be a very high priority.

These “heroes” are held to a different set of standards than we are. How come? Is it just because they’re celebrities? And if they’re so famous for only for their achievements on the field of competition, what makes that ground for exalted status? Why is it when they fall from this unrealistic lofty perch, society waggles their fingers, and shakes their head in disappointment and disbelief? Unless you live on, or in Uranus, somewhere you’ve seen, read, or heard about the Trials of Eldrick “Tiger” Woods. There has not been such a circus like atmosphere surrounding a “news item” since the kidnapping of the Lindbergh baby. But remember, flagpole sitting made front page news back then. Has so much changed?

When the story first broke about Tiger Woods having a car accident outside his home in Windermere, Florida; the first thought that crossed my head was, “I hope he’s not hurt.” After it had been confirmed that he indeed was alright, I thought, “What a dumb ass.” That’s about the same reaction I’d have if any friend of mine had a car accident. I would even call to see if there was anything I could do for them, but not to them for Christ’s sake.. Our culture, as seen by the conflicting initial reports, wanted oh so much more. As more information trickled in, many questions arose that I’m here to tell you, I pretty much don’t give a shit about. So much so in fact, I won’t delve into them here. Besides, you’ve probably heard them all already. Here is something you may not have heard.

Did you know that Babe Ruth, arguably the greatest and most famous figure in the history of American sport, frequently had sex with multiple partners…at the same time…none of whom was his wife? Did you know that for all intents and purposes he was also a drunk? You know Mickey Mantle was one. Does now knowing that diminish either’s stature in your eyes? Did you know that Ty Cobb reportedly once killed a man? Did you know that Bill Tilden was gay? Did you know that Thomas Jefferson often had sex with his slaves? Hell, there was a time the majority of people in America didn’t know he even owned slaves; much less was fornicating with them. All of the above information came out long after these men were dead and buried.

In this day and age, we know that Bill Clinton had sex with someone other than his wife. We know that Pete Rose was a tax cheat. We know that Pete Rose bet on baseball. We know that a slew of Major League Baseball stars took drugs. However, we also know many of our friends and acquaintances who’ve cheated on their taxes, bet on sports, taken drugs, had affairs, and we still love them. Many of us might not even think any the less of them for doing any of those things. The difference is that none of our friend’s lives play out on television and in the newspapers. Friend’s we know, we only know the image projected by the others. This is the caveat concerning “Tigergate.”

The public that’s admonishing Tiger for his dalliances think they know Tiger Woods, when in reality we know nothing about him outside his golf game, charity work, and whose products he endorses. Based on that, America made him their hero, please; get a life. What has happened to Tiger should draw no more than a “Geez that’s too bad,” instead of a fall from grace, if there was any grace in the first place. But to be inundated from every “news” source available every day for the past two weeks to me, is nauseating.

I have done everything in my power to avoid any more than a passing exposure to such trite. I don’t find an insatiable need to read every piece of tabloid journalism, watch every version of Inside Edition, or worse yet, watch both the local and national news coverage of what is no more than a moral and ethical train wreck. When moral and ethical standards in this country become a topic of conversation we should look at Bernie Madoff and Scott Rothstein. Those two men bilked people out of their life savings to support a lavish lifestyle. The only thing Tiger took was maybe some delusional innocence. Whose lives were ruined by what he’s done, besides members of his family? Those holier than thou will say, kids who looked up to him. I say shame on those who instructed kids to put him on such a high pedestal.

Clint Eastwood, he the father of seven children by five different women, none of whom he was married to, never saw this type of media scrutiny. Fellow golfer Fred Couples, noted philanderer; had a very messy public divorce I’m quite sure many of you reading this never heard about. Yet, Freddy is one of the most beloved golfers on the PGA Tour. He is held in high esteem by other players and a loyal following. John Daly has made a living off of his tabloid life playing out in the tabloids, but as the “everyman,” still commands huge galleries. We watched him in tears withdrawing from alcohol while playing in a golf tournament. We saw his playing partner put his arm around him to help console him. We’ve heard about his Country & Western song “All My Exes Wear Rolexes.” Being the glutton for punishment that he is, after Daly records this tune, he marries yet again, this time to a felon. Granted, Daly has lost many big endorsements, his shirt now festooned with logos from companies like 84 Lumber and Hooter’s, and yet his galleries are huge because we can relate to him. Am I missing something?

Let’s take Tiger Woods for face value. He has donated his winnings from golf tournaments for several years now. He has started a very exclusive school for gifted inner city kids who would otherwise languish in the woefully neglected urban public school system. When Tiger was once asked if he could play one round of golf with anyone in history whom would he choose, Tiger said his father. This is the Tiger I see, not the one currently being portrayed.

Women can call him a cur. They can say how could he do such a thing. But what about the women who sold their souls for their fifteen minutes of fame? The company’s whose products he endorses better think twice before releasing him from his contract, particularly amid this media frenzy; he’s not O.J. He’s just a golfer.

Bertolt Brecht, the accomplished German poet, playwright, and director once said, “Pity the land who needs heroes.” Our societies problem is not so much we need them, as crave them. If we think about it, if we all treated each other the way we’d like to be treated, we’d all be heroes, and thereby no one would be a hero, rendering heroic status moot. So the next time someone who hasn’t sinned wants to cast that first stone, make sure you go outside, you don’t want to break one of the windows of that glass house.

It's Always the Darkest Before the Dawn

Since it’s the realm of sports that interests me most, this week’s events have provided plenty of fodder for an airing of my opinion on each topic. However, no one needs to tell you how stupid and selfish Carlos Dunlap of the University of Florida football squad is, by a getting a DUI five days prior to the team’s most important game of the season. I don’t need to share with you my frustration that had my services been retained to speak to the student-athletes on drunk and alcohol awareness at the university, perhaps Dunlap would have gained something from my experiences.

No one needs to tell you that contrary to popular belief, Tiger Woods does not owe anyone an explanation for anything. This notion, as perpetuated by the piranha-like, sensationalist media, is ludicrous. Had this unfortunate incident happened to any one of us, no one would give two shits. The public is not entitled to be privy to everything that happens in a celebrity’s life.

Lastly, if you even remotely follow college football, no one needs to tell you of the lasting legacy, the excellence as a coach, the fine moral fiber, and the rare undying loyalty Bobby Bowden has exhibited over his many years at Florida State University. That being said, let me move on to a subject that intrigues me no end, Black Friday. Not the one having to do with the stock market, but the one that has to do with the misplaced overemphasis placed on Christmas shopping.

As a kid, I loved to go Christmas shopping. I was given a nominal sum from both my parents, as well as my grandparents, to shop for everyone on my list. If I saw something extra special, I’d kick in some of my allowance that I had saved. One day was designated where my grandparents took me to buy my parents presents. My parents in turn, took me to buy everyone else. The Short Hills Mall-it wasn’t as exclusive then-was the first stop. Specialty items were purchased at Two Guys, or E.J. Korvettes, in order to stretch every penny. When I went with my maternal grandparents, B. Altman, Lord & Taylor, and Bamberger’s were our stops. Going to see Santa required a separate trip. Shopping was over, done, finis. When I obtained my driver’s license, the known world became my oyster.

By this time, malls dotted the landscape of North Jersey. No more sojourns to Newark, Manhattan wasn’t very economical on a teenager’s budget, though seeing the tree in Rockefeller Center was worth the trip. No, I was relegated to a life of shopping at the Livingston Mall, The Rockaway Townsquare Mall, and the Paramus Park Mall. Daryl Keitel, my one-time girlfriend, showed me the wonders of the Woodbridge Mall. A couple of years later the Bridgewater Mall was a stop on one of my many forays looking for that “perfect” gift. The internet changed all that.

When Cory and I moved to Florida, once again, one mall would be sufficient for all our Christmas shopping needs. Fortunately, the Pembroke Lakes Mall was merely a stone’s throw from where we lived. I hadn’t lived in Florida long enough to become adequately familiar with the shopping terrain to venture to the numerous other malls located in Broward, Dade, and Palm Beach counties. Besides, if the Pembroke Lakes Mall didn’t have what I wanted, it must not have been that important to get. I always had a soft spot for little out-of-the-way emporiums that, for some strange reason, always had precisely what I was looking for. Florida was devoid of these places, much to my chagrin. I was homesick for Christmas shopping in rural North Jersey.

Christmas shopping now became drudgery, as antiseptic as the malls themselves. Malls were a constant clusterfuck immediately after Thanksgiving. Florida had no snow, or freezing temperatures to make it feel enough like Christmas was in the air to tolerate the mall madness. I started shopping on-line. It became a personal goal to see if I could do all my Christmas shopping without ever having to leave my house. Screw reveling in the spirit of the season. To hell with shopping for the best price. The only evening ventures out would be to see the wonderful displays of Christmas lights that dotted every neighborhood; where each resident tried to outdo the other. Then I got married again.

My new wife Helen, shared my enthusiasm for playing my Christmas Rock N’Roll CDs, while we oooohed and ahhhhhed at the enormous light shows that gave every executive at Florida Power & Light an erection. She also introduced me to a new form of Christmas shopping that, to me, had been previously uncharted waters.
One year early in our marriage, on a whim, Helen suggested we go to K-Mart at midnight to fill in the voids on our Christmas gift list. I was wary to say the least. Why the hell would I want to go out at an hour when only the Christmas nuts were out? Helen assured me it would be fun. Guardedly, I went. It was a blast!
The store was nearly absent of any humanity aside from employees. We laughed, shopped unhurriedly, browsed just because we could. We sang along with the Christmas Songs being played over the PA system. Everyone we came in contact with was in splendid humor. Not a droll face among the K-Mart staff despite the lateness of the hour. I couldn’t wait to do it again. But, for some inexplicable reason, we never have. However, our under the cloak of darkness soiree has, in recent years, put on a new face.

A few years back, Helen had the brilliant idea to go Christmas shopping at three-thirty….AM. On Helen’s gift list was a new bicycle. Sports Authority would have a limited amount available for purchase, at some ungodly savings, some brand name-which I can no longer remember-high tech mountain bikes. We just had to be there when they opened Helen reasoned, if awakening at two-thirty to go shopping contained any semblance of reason. I silently thought my wife was under the influence of copious amounts of some sort of high potency prescription medication. Again, obdurately I went.

I need to explain Helen’s shopping habits here. She loves to window shop. She avoids congested shopping environments by being at stores when they open. She gets in, and gets out, by the time most individuals have finished brushing their teeth. No muss, no fuss, minimal brain damage. I assumed Helen used this sort of reasoning and applied to the early morning excursion. That, and she could save a shitload of money but demonstrating this sort of psychotic behavior.

In the dead of night we awoke, expediently dressed, for having showered the evening before. This first step threw my entire OCD ridden psyche out of whack. No newspaper to read, no crossword, no soaking the ache in my legs away. We were on a mission. We left the house at three-fifteen for a four AM opening. Believe or not, it happened to be very chilly that particular morning. I’d go as far as to say it was almost Christmassy if you know what I mean. Forty-nine degrees is rather nippy for South Florida, especially when you’d be standing line, yes, there was a fucking line. Not only was there a line, but several other assholes in that line were talking on their cellphones. Who the fuck do you talk to at that hour of the morning; I mean besides your analyst?

The closer to four AM, the crowd grew exponentially. However, no one was in danger of getting trampled, there were still no more than forty or fifty folks in line by the time the doors opened. We all went in an orderly fashion to the items we came seeking. Helen and I made our purchases in less than ten minutes. Off we went to other stores, in the dark, before sunrise, not after it had set. We duplicated this self-imposed madness last year, capping off our expedition with breakfast at IHOP; our shopping completed by seven-thirty, the sun had come up a mere hour prior. It was odd, but for a reason I couldn’t my finger on, I really enjoyed myself. So much so that we did again this year, only this year I figured out why I like getting up in the middle of the night to buy stuff.

About two weeks ago I started to pester Helen concerning our Black Friday shopping to be done in the black of early morn. She said that there was nothing anyone had requested that necessitated going out well before crack-o-dawn. I was truly disappointed. On Thanksgiving Day, Helen’s son, after much prodding, said he needed a couple of items the local sales fliers had on special one day only, Black Friday.
Like years past, we were up at three-fifteen, with the intention of being at our primary target store -Kohl’s- at four. This was the same store where we began our quest last year. It was located in a new strip mall, where it was the only store doing business. This year, the secret was out.

Instead of driving the deserted back roads to our destination; Christ, most roads are deserted at that hour; I preferred to drive the up main thoroughfare, home to every conceivable major store chain. I was not disappointed by my decision. The line to the front door of Best Buy snaked through the parking lot for nearly a quarter of a mile. I was glad we needed nothing there, “need” always being open to debate. The line had started to form in front of the local Target, shoppers readying themselves for a five AM assault. It was about this time it hit. Amid our giggles of laughter, I realized “people watching” was my favorite part of this form of shopping experience.

When Helen and I reached Kohl’s parking lot, we found the spaces were quickly filling up. The game was afoot! With Swiss watch-like precision, Helen and I went to our predetermined departments, snapped up what we came for, and checked out, making sure we made our sales clerk smile first, she had a long day ahead. I love that component almost as much as eyeballing the nudniks. At each store, Helen and I would engage any employee who assisted us. We greeted them with a smile and a kind word. Sometimes we empathized with their plight, but let them know we appreciated them being there for us. We’d sometimes make comments about the insanity that surrounded us, and with any luck, they’d let out the smallest of laughs one can only muster at that ungodly time of day. Me and my companion, taking pleasure in what formally to me, was an unpleasant endeavor; the opportunity to exude optimism at the event at hand, to share this optimism with another. Even in the darkest hours before dawn, isn’t that what the Christmas spirit is all about anyway?

Turkey is a Fowl Bird

A couple of weeks ago, the air down here in Florida started to look and smell a little different. I commented to my wife, that if you weren’t aware of the temperature, just by the look outside it could be fall anywhere in the continental United States. At night, windswept clouds created a desert in the sky. There’s a crispness to everything brought on by the fronts pushing down from the north, as opposed to all weather being driven by the equatorial lows out of West Africa. In Florida, we don’t enjoy the nights by the fireplace, the first snowfall, or the opportunity to test our driving skills on black ice. However, we do get to celebrate the holiday season with the same enthusiasm as those to the north.

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving, a curious holiday, but one of great importance nonetheless. The first Thanksgiving school children are taught occurred in 1621, one year after the Pilgrims landed at Plymouth, in what soon would become the Commonwealth of Massachusetts. It wasn’t referred to as “Thanksgiving” per se. That first celebration might have been called “We’re really glad we didn’t die Day.” You see, forty-seven of the original 102 voyagers who boarded the Mayflower, died that first year. Had I survived, feast, schmeast; howling at the moon would not have done justice to the elation felt by one of the lucky few spared during that miserable shitstorm of a first year of settlement. But feast these folks did, if you can call crap even a vegan would turn their nose up at a feast.

Under the circumstances, anything outside of dirt was probably pretty grandiose. While the menu for these hearty souls may have left something to be desired, their spirit of fellowship was high, as it should be today. Isn’t that what holidays are really about? It doesn’t matter what the date has been referred to over the years.

First, that initial get together happened on December 12th. It would be many years before November even entered into the picture. Subsequent years following the Pilgrims whoopty-doo, different settlements celebrated on different dates; and it wasn’t celebrated as “Thanksgiving,” but Forefather’s Day. In 1755, the Continental Congress stated December 18th to be a National day of Thanksgiving. George Washington declared a day of Thanksgiving after the Continental Army victory at Saratoga during the Revolutionary War. It would not be until 1863, when Abraham Lincoln ordered the last Thursday in November be the National holiday known as Thanksgiving Day. Once Americans started buying all kinds of shit, Franklin Roosevelt moved Thanksgiving to the forth Thursday in November. I’m sure you’re all delighted that has been cleared up. It may consume more time when you have to tell your grandkids the origins of Thanksgiving, but the stories that families repeat about their Thanksgivings are what make the holiday truly memorable.

It is said, “You can pick your friends, but you can’t pick your relatives.” Depending on the results of your own personal genetic lottery, the level of enjoyment one experienced on Thanksgiving could vary tremendously. Being from a rather small family, there was only so much brain damage that could be inflicted by those present.

As a child, most of my memories have to do with the Macy’s Parade, the great food, and Thanksgiving’s close proximity to Christmas. My paternal grandmother Hazel, was a phenomenal cook. She shared her kitchen expertise with my mother. I was always thankful for that. My maternal grandmother Mary, so inept at meal preparation was she, rumor had it she often burned water. I could never understand why we never spent Thanksgiving at the home of my father’s parents. It would have been easier to just let Hazel do all the cooking. Also, all family members, extended as well, lived within twenty-five minutes of each other. It wouldn’t be until I was older, and became aware of the term “strained relationships” to see why two distinct Thanksgiving dinners were prepared in different locales. My mother’s parent celebrated with us, while we didn’t even venture to my father’s parents, where his sister and her brood gathered. As I grew older, the Thanksgiving tradition of “running around like a lunatic to overeat” became the norm.

A steady girlfriend, and later a wife, necessitated spending Thanksgiving with two families. Invariably, my mother served dinner late. Late like 6:30 late. This meant I always ate at my significant others first. The mothers of my significant others all must have gone to the same school, the University of Havesomemore. They also all did their graduate work at Areyousureyouhadenough. Stuffed, we’d make our way to my Mom’s for round two. Not wanting to hurt her felling, plus as I said, she was a terrific cook, I ate yet again. And yes, I took seconds. Loaded with tryptophan, and on the verge of an internal combustion catastrophe of epic proportions, myself and whoever went out to meet friends. After I got married, most times it was to meet for cocktails.

It was during this period of my life, my mother’s cooking started to deteriorate. My mother never went out to meet up with friends. However, she didn’t wait until after the Thanksgiving meal to have cocktails…many cocktails. This fact may have contributed to the decline in the kitchen. My first wife and I often took my mother’s lead before we ventured off to her parents, due to the unusual nature of social interaction that went on. There, while my wife’s parents drank in moderation lest the meal be ruined, we young ‘uns made it a point to get hammered. We had to endure barbs, gibes, and criticism over our life choices, appearance, lack of success etc. I was always thankful they stocked my brand of scotch. There was always plenty of wine with the meal as well, like any of us needed it, but drink we did. About fifteen seconds shy of R.E.M sleep; my wife would jostle me and whisper, “Isn’t time we left for your parents.” So off we went for my mother’s attempt at a multi-course meal.

No longer was everything made from scratch, and if it was from scratch, we had to endure my mother’s long-winded Ode to Chef’s Martyrdom about what a trial and tribulation this selfless act done strictly out of her love for everyone. Christ, it made me want to puke up everything I at my in-laws. The upside to that prospect being, I’d have room to eat enough my mother wouldn’t be able to lay a guilt trip on me about how I no longer liked her cooking, which was essentially true. After my first wife and I divorced, I was finally free of the dual dinner indulgence.
Oddly, I still spent my Thanksgivings at my ex-in-laws; having a kid brings people together, just not always the husband and the wife. After a falling out with my mother, I even tried to do Thanksgiving by myself, with mixed results. My son Cory, and I one year traveled to my father’s in Ohio to celebrate the Thanksgiving. That was the year I became the relative you wished wouldn’t show up for familial holiday get togethers. Contrary to popular belief, one’s excessive drinking does harm others. When Cory and I moved to Florida, I spent my Thanksgivings alone for several years.

I was cordially invited by friends and neighbors to spend Thanksgiving with them, but rather than share my misery at Cory spending all holidays in New Jersey with his mother, I decided to spare those kind folks and be miserable by myself. One benevolent neighbor would make me a plate from her table, and leave it outside my front door. Some years later, she became my wife. With her came new relatives in all sorts of shapes, sizes, and demeanors to share the holidays. Some have now moved away, and have not been so moved to reunite at Thanksgiving.

For Cory, the Florida-Florida State football game justifiably takes precedent at Thanksgiving. Rather than schlep five hours south just to go five hours north the following day; he spends his Thanksgiving catch as catch can. This year, he’ll be spending it with his mother at her newly purchased home in Daytona; a mere hour drive from Gainesville. He’ll be back on campus for all the festivities. Besides, he’ll be home in a little over two weeks for Christmas.

I’ll be celebrating the holiday the way I began as a child. The focus will be on Macy’s Parade, the food, and then maybe a schmaltzy first Christmas movie of the year. I am always glad to see my wife’s few relatives who remain in the area, but I don’t think fellowship is a priority for them. I will watch football, a tradition absent from my early youth. I will have leftovers, one thing missing all those years of going to two households. There was never enough turkey to satisfy me. What does satisfy me is the aftermath. The quiet reflection of gratitude for my life, the turkey sandwiches,the excessive farting,the appreciation for my abilities that remained dormant for so long, the chance to bring happiness to others, the satisfaction to know I have a people in my life whom I love, and they love me back in spite of myself, especially my wife Helen, and my son Cory. These are all the things I’m thankful for, except maybe the farting.

Loyal to a Fault

“We are not descended
from fearful men, not from men who feared to write, to speak, to
associate and to defend causes which were, for the moment, unpopular."
Edward R. Murrow

This week’s blog is inspired by Gail Oehling, a former high school classmate of mine. I did not speak with Gail, nor ask her opinion on any particular topic. All I did was make an entry on Facebook, the social network website. Gail, I promised I’d elaborate on my abridged answer to your simple question of “Why?” when I posted “F the Steelers.”

I am a Cincinnati Bengal fan. I’ll say it again for those of you who think that perhaps I wrote that down in error, or had a momentary lapse of reason. I am a Cincinnati Bengal fan. I have been a fan since their inception.

The year was 1968. Some of you who read my balderdash every week weren’t even born. Like the nation, my life was in a state of flux. My parents had divorced the year before. My father relocated to Columbus, Ohio. In my youth, I regularly harassed my father to take me to sporting events. Rarely was I successful. However, on one of my all too infrequent visits to Ohio, he procured tickets to a Cincinnati Bengals game. The Cleveland Browns were the hot ticket back then. Judging by the attendance that day, Bengal tickets, on the other hand, were pretty easy to come by. It didn’t matter; I was at a professional football game with my Dad, a first.

We drove down from Columbus in my father’s red Corvair Monza, at a rather rapid rate I might add. The Bengals were playing the Houston Oilers, now known as the Tennessee Titans. The Bengals did not have their own stadium yet, so they played their home games at Nippert Stadium located on the University of Cincinnati campus. The facility held only about thirty thousand spectators. It was a good thing too, since the Bengals were never in any danger of selling out. The only times the stadium was filled to overflowing was when fans of the Browns or the Pittsburgh Steelers made the roadtrip. For many years after that inaugural season, Browns or Steelers fans usually outnumbered Bengal fans at Nippert, and later, Riverfront Stadium. The day I was there, there were few Bengal “fans,” and fewer still Oiler fans who’d venture from Houston for a football game.

The Bengals were new. They hadn’t been around long enough to develop a following. The old American Football League was still considered by many, a joke; a novel experiment, not a threat to NFL supremacy. None of this mattered to me. They had an honest to goodness Bengal tiger in a cage on the sideline for Christ sake! The Bengals were owned and coached by the legendary Paul Brown. The same Paul Brown who previously owned and coached the Cleveland Browns; the same Paul Brown who helped force the merger of the All-American Football Conference and the NFL; the same Paul Brown who ignored the gentleman’s agreement to not sign African-American players. I got to see him and his new team in the flesh. I was hooked. I became a fan of the Cincinnati Bengals though I resided in New Jersey, no easy task.

You see, for many years the Bengals… how shall I put this…sucked, or blew, depending on how you look at things. University of Cincinnati star Greg Cook, became my favorite player. I am sure none have a clue who he is, nor do you give a shit. The Bengals made him their first draft choice in 1969. Greg Cook was the AFL Rookie of the Year. That same year, he led the league in passing efficiency, as well as the Bengals to a 3-0 start. Sadly, he tore his rotator cuff in the forth game of the season. While enduring incredible pain, he played the rest of the season because he “felt obligated.” That season became his only season. Then assistant coach Bill Walsh, claimed Greg Cook would have become “one of the greatest quarterbacks in NFL history” had he had the medical care available today. That was who I chose as my favorite player. The Bengals have followed a similar path as their first “franchise” player. That is the team I chose to lasso my loyalty wagon to.

While the Steelers, a team that plays in the same division as the Bengals, were winning four Super Bowl Championships; the Bengals have had two near misses, bookends to the decade of the eighties. Both losses, one in 1981, the other in 1989, came at the hands of the San Francisco 49ers. The latter game remained in doubt until a 49er touchdown with fourteen seconds to play snatched victory from my team. I had hoped to attend that game in person.

At the beginning of that season, my friend Gregg had promised me if the Bengals made the Super Bowl, since it was in Miami where Gregg’s parents lived nearby, we would go. The notion of the Bengals in the Super Bowl seemed so absurd, Gregg felt confident of his declaration. When the time came, Gregg was so inundated with work, taking off for a football game was impossible. Undaunted, I went to a bar called “The Bartley House” located in Flanders, N.J. the Friday before the game. I offered hotel, game ticket and airfare to anyone who would accompany me. There were no takers. Obviously, those present thought me unstable. I was relegated, unhappily, to watching my football world crumble on television.

Their souls now crushed after that devastating Super Bowl loss, The Bengals then went on to register the greatest level of futility for a decade in the history of professional football, a .245 winning percentage for the nineties.
Once in the last twenty years, the Bengals have seen their record climb above .500. So unappealing to network ratings are the Bengals, that the team went nineteen seasons between Monday Night Football appearances. The Bengals lack of a national following warranted a span of fifteen years between nationally televised games. The Detroit Lions, whose name for the past several years has been synonymous with ineffectual play, at least appear on TV every Thanksgiving. Merchandise was another vast wasteland of ignominy I was cast to while obsessed with my Bengals.

For many years there was nothing “Bengals” available for purchase in central Ohio. Geographically, Columbus was closer to Cincinnati than Cleveland. No matter, the Bengals just didn’t sell. Chronic losing has that effect. The idea I could purchase anything Bengals in New Jersey was sheer madness. The only Bengal items I owned until the advent of the Internet, were my Bengals pennant bought at that game in 1968, and a cheesy baseball cap acquired at a Jets/Bengals game that took place in New Jersey. Today, with the help of my wife and other relatives and friends, I own many things Bengals.

My wife Helen, had two sets of pillowcases custom-made for me, one orange, one black, festooned with the Bengals logo. She forbade the sheet idea, so I take my small victories where I can get them. My wife has gone to great lengths to feed my Bengals addiction.

There is the orange and black Bengals cooking apron, with matching oven mitts of course. There is the foyer of our home where she has adorned the wall with my hats, yes, there is now more than one, on my custom-made Bengals hat rack. The newest hat was given to me by my son. Above the rack , a custom-made sign tells a visitor they are in “Bengals Country.” Framed, signed pictures of former Bengals hang near the sign.

My wife purchased Bengal floor mats for my car. She has contributed three of the nine t-shirts I own, her daughter and granddaughter, one each. My friend Barbara kicked in one; my step-mother two. In addition, I own three replica jerseys with player’s names on the back. My son is responsible for one. Two of the players are no longer with the franchise. For when I travel to see the Bengals in cold climates, I bring along my Bengals ski hat and gloves. A couple of years ago I bought a pair of Nike basketball shoes that match all of these articles of clothing. They are a conversation piece at every game, and I’ve been to a few.

As a New Jersey resident I’ve seen the Bengals play the Eagles in Philadelphia. I’ve seen them play the Jets twice, once at Shea Stadium, the other at The Meadowlands. In 2004, while spending Christmas with my father for the first time in thirty-five years, as a present to him, I got tickets for three generations of Berstler’s to go see the Bengals play Cory’s team, the Giants. I referred to it as returning to the seen of the crime.

I wrote a five page e-mail to Jason Williams of Bengals ticketing describing my lifelong love affair. He told me he was so taken with the story; he circulated the e-mail throughout the organization. I was able to purchase fifty yard line seats for the three of us. Little did I know I’d be returning one year later, to a playoff game no less.

As hard as it was for the rest of the football world to comprehend; the Bengals won their division title in 2005. Their first game would be against the Pittsburgh Steelers in Cincinnati. I called my friend in the ticket office. I got two handicapped tickets for Cory and I. We flew up the day before the game and stayed at my father’s house, a two and a half hour drive from Cincinnati.

We had to pick our tickets up at the “Will Call” window. We left my father’s in plenty of time to get there before the window opened. When we arrived, we saw a massive tailgate party commencing, satellite dish, twenty-five watt sound system and all. I made my way over to see if the contingent planned on watching my son’s Giants do battle at 1:00. “Tom” said he was. He asked me where I was from. I told him originally New Jersey, but now I lived in Florida. He thought me a real trooper to fly up for the game. Tom then asked how long I’d been a Bengals fan. I said since 1968, and proceeded to tell him what I’ve just said here. Tom said, “That makes you a lifer; let me go get the other one.” Amid the huge expanse of parking area cluttered with hundreds of Bengals fans, Tom knew of only one other “lifer?” From that moment on, Cory and I were treated like royalty. A chair with the Bengal insignia crocheted by the other lifer’s wife,(Tom’s mother)was brought out for me, and placed directly in front of the TV. No one had ever sat in that chair since Tom’s mom passed away. It was her chair. I was the first. Loyalty has its privileges.

As game time approached, we all made our way into Paul Brown Stadium. On the very first play of the game, Carson Palmer connected with Chad Johnson (now Ocho Cinco) for a sixty-seven yard pass play. My first thought was how was I going to afford to go to the Super Bowl? What I saw erased that thought. The Steelers lineman had made an extra lunge toward Carson Palmer after he released his pass. He struck Palmer awkwardly on his knee, ending Palmer’s day, and effectively any chance for a Bengals victory.

All Cincinnati radio stations had urged Bengals fans not to sell their tickets to anyone from Pittsburgh. Hence, only about two-thousand Steelers faithful occupied seats. When they saw Palmer go down injured, some of these assholes began to cheer. I seethed, cursing every one of them.

The Bengals fought on valiantly. The Steelers did not have the game completely in hand until the forth quarter. While I mulled over what should have been, The Steelers went on to win their fifth Super Bowl title. They would win another still, while the Bengals wallowed in mediocrity. Ever since that day, I hear a Pittsburgh reference, or see anything Steelers, I’m compelled to say aloud either “Fuck Pittsburgh,” or “Fuck the Steelers.” My wife thinks I may need psychiatric help to rid me of this defamatory tic.

I have seen other games since that trip to Ohio. Cory and I drove to Tampa the following year for a game against the Buccaneers. Where again, “lifer” status was bestowed upon me. The other Bengal fans spoke to me with a certain reverence. The year after that, Cory and I saw them play ten minutes down the road versus the Miami Dolphins, a game I had waited fourteen years for. It was the Bengals first trip to South Florida since I moved here in 1993.

Over the years I have dealt with the catcalls, been poked fun of, and heard my team referred to as the Bungles. I have withstood the barrage of insults from countless fans of other teams; yet continue to wear my colors proudly, win or lose. I watched every Bengals game broadcast for the past three years by purchasing NFL Ticket. The mouse pad I’m using at this very moment is decorated with the Bengals logo, as are the sticky notes in front of me. I have never once considered jumping ship, and onto the bandwagon of another. That’s what makes what’s happening this year so special, however fleeting it may be.

The Bengals sit alone atop their division. Their record is 7-2. It would be 8-1 had it not been for what’s been referred to as “the greatest fluke play to end a game” in NFL history. (There’s a whole other story behind that game alone) A recent newspaper article calls them “the upstart Bengals.” Had anyone watched HBO’s series “Hard Knocks,” they would have seen that perhaps something special was going to happen this season.

Thus far, the Bengals have twice beaten two teams favored to finish ahead of them in the standings, the Baltimore Ravens, and the Pittsburgh Steelers. They swept the Steelers for the first time in ten years. Yet, both teams are ahead of the Bengals in football Power Rankings. Television commentators still act surprised that the Bengals are winning though the season is more than half over. Granted, the Bengals could win only one more game and finish with yet another record of .500 or less. I don’t think that will happen.

I do derive some self-satisfaction from the gratuitous congratulatory bullshit I received so far, even though I don’t need it. Unfortunately, unless my financial situation changes drastically in the next two months, I won’t be able to experience the playoffs first hand. Besides, there is still a lot of games left to play.

It has not always been popular for me to maintain my unwavering loyalty. That’s just how I roll. It’s so much sweeter when things go well. Like life, I’m enjoying it while I can. You never know when it’s going to end.
Oh, and Gail; “Fuck the Steelers.”

Dealt a Fine Hand

The other day I was washing a silicone sleeve that I wear over my partial left leg. I needed to turn the sleeve inside out in order to wash both sides. Silicone, when wet, is rather difficult to manipulate, covered in soap, harder still. Most people would have to grasp both sides of the sleeve and roll it down so the inside was exposed. I did not have to attempt this with slick hands. I reached inside, and pulled at the very end with the tips of my fingers, (I was grateful for their length) turning the sleeve outward. I kept one hand dry, making it easier to wash. This moment gave me pause. If you are still reading, this may not seem life altering. It may very well not be, however, this small act gave me a renewed appreciation for the things my hands can accomplish. No wonder zoologists who study primates are fascinated by the opposable thumb.

Those of you who have all your appendages may take them for granted. I am here to tell you, if one is missing, you tend examine a little more closely what the others are capable of.

I have had the good fortune to have very large hands, and no, for those with filthy minds; it is not always true about everything being proportionate, though my shoe size is relative to my glove size. These hands have been able to palm a basketball since my junior year of high school. They have made using a baseball glove a little easier, as well as more deftly. As for the winter gloves, yes, it has been harder to find ones that fit. I often had to settle for what was in stock, rather than the style I may have wanted.

One hand alone was large enough to support my five pound premature son immediately after he was born. Those hands, you may think could be clumsy, particularly after reading “A State of Disrepair,” were nimble enough to gently change innumerable diapers, make a thousand lunches. They were tender enough to wipe a nose, bathe an infant, and roll one mean joint without tearing the fragile rice paper or spillage. My hands have tied thousands of tight, concise, Windsor knots. They’ve tied a toddler’s shoes more times than I can count, and they’ve dressed a wound when a little boy fell down.

I have been fortunate enough to attend many hundreds of live events. My hands have applauded the excellence I’ve witnessed. Often, the New York Mets were responsible for me to bring my hands together. Every so often it was Broadway shows. Sometimes it was the concerts. Seeing Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers front row center for my son’s fifth birthday; my hands made more noise than I thought possible. My hands have never learned how to play a musical instrument. There’s still time for that.

I have also brought these hands together to stop a cat from clawing the furniture, or a dog from pissing on the carpet. But the times my hands were happiest was when they celebrated an achievement of my son Cory. His exploits on the baseball field would often serve as the driving force behind my hands coming together. The holiday shows he participated in with his classmates gave my hands great satisfaction exhibited in the form of applause. But I believe their proudest moments were when I brought them together to recognize his high school and college graduations.

My hands have built things, albeit most of them poorly, but they were responsible for the completion none the less. I have raised them singly in a variety of academic environments. In high school it was to tell my excuse du jour for not having completed an assignment. Most recently, at the collegiate level, it was because I had something of substance to add to the discussion, quite a change for my hands, they hardly knew how to act.

My hands have been raised to volunteer for countless school fundraisers and group functions for organizations I’ve been affiliated with over the years. A hand has been raised to toast a happy event. They have held up friends, sometimes at these very same events, when if my hands were not available, they’d have fallen over. Occasionally, back in my young and stupid days, I kept myself amused for lengths of time by waving my hand back and forth in front of my face while under the influence of some hallucinogenic. My hands have struck another individual in anger. These last two I am not proud of.

My height also matches the size of my hands. This has enabled me to reach things others of smaller stature were not physically able to. The grocery store is where I am most frequently put to good use. Another place is the kitchen, where I can put away the dishes my hands have washed, in places my wife can’t reach.
My hands are also rather strong. They came in handy when Cory and I first moved to Florida. We did not have a car. I was able to carry four full bags of groceries, doubled of course, the quarter mile walk back to our apartment. Had you met me after the sixth grade, you’d be well aware of the strength in my hands.

Drew Lindstedt, my middle school gym teacher, taught me how to shake hands. One day while giving instruction on wrestling, Mr. Lindstedt demonstrated the proper decorum prior to the beginning of a match. The combatants shook hands first. I was the guinea pig. When I took Mr. Lindstedt’s outstretched hand, he dropped mine, and chastised me.
“What is that, a dead fish!?” he bellowed. “Let the other guy know you’re alive for crying out loud! Now try it again!” From that moment on, whenever I’ve been introduced, or bid a farewell, I’ve let my hands do the talking as to the status of my current physical condition. I have shook hands with the famous, and the not so famous, friends and those who became friends, relatives and those who I consider irrelevant. I let each one know they had my full attention. One of my hand’s favorite handshakes was with an individual whom I admire and respect. It happened twice; both times he was giving me a diploma. Frank Brogan, Florida’s former Lieutenant Governor, now Chancellor of that states university system, is the former president of Florida Atlantic University. He congratulated each graduate personally at every commencement he presided over during his tenure.

The same hands that have twisted off stubborn lids, held hands with numerous females, have also been responsible for signing documents that have altered my life. One hand has been broken, as well as a couple of fingers on each, but the documents they signed did not break me, or my spirit.

There have been movie characters depicted with only one hand; the constable in Young Frankenstein, and the military uncle in Harold and Maude.
There are those too with one hand who deserve our admiration. Professional baseball players Pete Gray and Jim Abbott succeeded at their chosen endeavor despite the lack of one hand. Aron Ralston chose to cut off one of his rather than perish in the desert. Then there are many who serve in the armed forces that have lost hands not by choice.

Most of you who’ve gotten this far, I’m sure have all the limbs you were born with. The next time you bump your funny bone, or stub your toe, instead of curse, remember there are some who wish they could experience such a moment. Well, I’ve got to run. Oh, wait a minute; I can no longer run anywhere anymore. I do however, have both of my hands. They are responsible for, among many other things as you’ve read, writing this piece. I’m really thankful for that. It would suck to type this blog each week with only one foot.

Maybe, Just Maybe…

There are secret societies throughout our culture: you just have to know where to look. Some, like the Masons, cross cultures. Others, like the Skull and Bones of Yale, are culturally exclusive. Rumors abound to their habits, practices, and by-laws. Most of us know of these fraternal organizations, but very few of us know about their inner workings. An air of exclusivity casts a pall over what actually occurs at meetings, making them even more mysterious. It is an honor to be asked to join, and with membership, comes privilege. Much has been written and glorified in film about the Masons, and Skull and Bones.

Dan Brown has made a nice living off his written speculations regarding the Masons. The Skull and Bones was prominently featured in the Matt Damon film The Good Shepherd. The movie infers that the newly formed CIA was outfitted with Skull and Bones members. At one time, there was speculation that Skull and Bones were privy to who really killed John F. Kennedy. There is another fraternity that’s not so secret. However, what goes on within its ranks is as guarded as that of either the Masons or Skull and Bones. Who is this other clandestine organization? Why it’s Major League Baseball.

Please don’t be so naïve as to be surprised at this revelation. I have spent much of the last six years researching Major League Baseball on many levels, pertaining to many topics. One thing I have learned is that for nearly one hundred and fifty years, the powerbrokers of the sport only allow the public access to what’s “good” for the game; most recently, the Congressional hearings focusing on the abuse of steroids by players. The committee was only going to find out what the honchos at MLB wanted them to. For evidence, you need only look as far as the now infamous “list of 200,” the supposed “leaked” findings of players who had tested positive. This is not new behavior. It’s been going on for years.

As far back as the nineteenth century, owners, who were the only ones who did the regulating, often kept each other in the dark when it came to future plans for the sport. This blog does not allow me the space to cite each specific example, but I assure you there are many. One issue you may be aware of, is over ninety years of America’s courts denying that baseball was a business which protected the owners from anti-trust and monopoly laws. It was only until baseball was firmly entrenched as America’s Game, that the Supreme Court relented, and finally ruled against the owners, ushering an era of escalating player salaries and player freedom. When one entity can wield that kind of power, it may not shock you as to the “Dan Brown-like” supposition I will now set before you to consider.

The New York Yankees are, and over the course of time, the most successful sports franchise in the history of organized sports. Their success is not just measured in wins and losses, or their global popularity, but the Major League’s financial well being. The Yankees have won forty American League pennants, and twenty-six World Series Championships. The franchise winning percentage is .568. The Yankees since 1901, have won an astounding 2281 more games than they have lost.

The Yankees are so popular, that when Iraqi television aired the program Sport of the Week, ratings are highest when the Yankees are featured. Neighbors would gather around those fortunate enough to own TVs, just to catch a glimpse of this storied franchise.

For years, the Yankees have had the highest payroll in the Major Leagues. They are literally, “the best team money can buy.” This is not said with resentment, but with envy. I admire their success, though I am a staunch Mets fan. No matter what my personal feelings may be, I cannot deny that the Yankees are one of the finest teams assembled year in year out. It is for that reason alone I want to see them achieve their goals without their accomplishments being tainted.

Much has been written recently concerning the poor umpiring that has marred the American League Division Championship, the American League Championship Series, and now the World Series. Sure, a couple of calls have gone against the Yankees, but the majority have gone in their favor. Phil Cuzzi’s 11th inning “inexplicable game-changing miscall” of a hit that was hit by Twins catcher Joe Mauer, that was ruled foul, though no replay was needed to see it was fair. The Yankees went on to win the game. Would the Twins have won that game? No one will ever know. Had they won, would that game have served as the springboard for more wins? No one will ever know. The umpire made sure neither scenario would ever take place. The game changing bad calls continued in the American League Championship Series between The Yanks and the Los Angeles Angels.

The Angels did plenty to sabotage their chances to win the series. They didn’t need the umpires assuring the outcome. I personally witnessed two calls in one game that were such blatant examples of incompetency, coming on the heels of the series against the Twins, to question how legitimate was the umpiring? Both calls, as with the Mauer hit, did not require instant replay. Knowledge of the rules, and decent eyesight would suffice. Why was this happening on baseball’s biggest and most scrutinized stage? A light bulb came on. Major League Baseball needed the Yankees to win.

Major League Baseball finds itself in a very unfamiliar position, though they refuse to acknowledge it. Football is more popular than America’s Game. The reasons are too numerous to go into here. Attendance figures for the 2009 season dropped by 16% from 2008. Baseball will say it was the economy. Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t the economy pretty putrid in 2008 as well? MLB bases attendance figures in both leagues on the total number of tickets sold, not the number of people who walk through the turnstiles. That figure was lower still. The television contract agreement for airing baseball games is coming to an end. New negotiations are in the works for a renewal. MLB is hoping for an increase. I have a newsflash. Network TV does not want to see all those empty seats behind home plate when games are aired. Those seats are not for “fans,” they are for corporate write-offs. Advertisers don’t want to spent mega-dollars when ratings are down. Their money dictates how much networks will pony up to MLB for broadcast rights. Network money is all that keeps many franchises afloat. If less people are watching, and less people are going, why does MLB think networks will pony up? Let’s take a look at what makes fiscal economic sense. Oh, that right, the Yankees do.

The networks did not want to see the Twins against the Angels. That would have been a ratings nightmare, the same for a Red Sox versus Twins League Championship Series. The Yankees are MLB’s ratings savior. Their fan base is global. As long as the Yankees advanced, hope remains for a new TV contract bonanza. The Yankees will get great ratings, they always have. It’s like death and taxes, it’s one of those things you can be sure of.

Is all this speculation plausible? No one will ever know. This kind of premise exceeds Watergate secrecy by a long shot. Woodward and Bernstein would never, ever, get to the bottom of it. Major League Baseball would make sure. If there ever was an inquiry, MLB would swear umpires are beyond reproach. If that didn’t pacify the masses, MLB could point to the human error element that makes baseball endearing. They’d point to all the other bad calls that altered baseball history as evidence to dismiss any claims of foul play. No pun intended. I can smell the bullshit now.

The Yankees didn’t need any unsolicited assistance. They play like a well oiled machine. I think the Yankees should win each and every game on their own. They don’t need help, they’re that good, and for this excellence they should be commended. I am not surprised no sports journalist has broached this hypothesis. I am quite sure if they did, their career would be over. MLB has that kind of influence.

Using instant replay will not change what goes on behind closed doors at the Major League Baseball offices. The system for assigning umpires may change, but that is for MLB to decide without input from anyone on “the outside.” MLB will not ever bend to anyone when it comes to saying what is best for their sport. What MLB will definitely admit to is that the New York Yankees are the best thing to ever happen to baseball. MLB used to rail against George Steinbrenner and his business practices. You don’t hear much criticism anymore. MLB knows who its cash cow is; they don’t have to pass it off as counterfeit.

So sit back and watch the rest of the World Series secure in the knowledge that everything is above board. Can the outfield be considered a “grassy knoll?”

I Wish Hal David Knew

Many of you don’t have any idea who Hal David is, nor do you probably care. Tough shit, I’m going to tell you anyway. He was a lyricist who, along with composer Burt Bacharach, formed one of the most successful and prolific music tandems ever. They were the Rogers and Hammerstein of my parent’s generation. Think a schmaltzy version of Lennon and McCartney, or Elton John and Bernie Taupin for that matter. The point is, the opening line to one of many corny songs he wrote asked the question “What’s it all about…” Well, several events featured prominently in the past week’s news make me ask the same question.

I have been blogging for over a year. Every Wednesday without fail, I weigh in on some subject matter. The content ranges from the irreverent to the sublime, from the ridiculous to pieces historically factual, sometimes all of the above. It was my understanding that a blog is just such a forum for that type of thing. Today, I ponder. I also apologize for the Debbie Downer content. If you’re not up for it, pass this week, I’ll understand.

As a disclaimer, I am not a pillar of virtue. I was never purported to be. However, all that “he who has not sinned,” “judge ye not, lest ye be judged” crap aside, murders disturb me. Due to their frequency, I have not become so jaded that when I hear one has occurred, it at least elicits a shaking of a cast down head. Two murders happened recently that have grabbed headlines. One has garnered national attention, while the other happened a mere twenty-five miles away here in South Florida.

The murder of Connecticut Husky defensive back Jasper Howard has received attention because Howard was a college football player of note. The murder of fourteen year old Matthew Gorzynski of Coral Springs is notable because the alleged perpetrator is Matthew’s fifteen year old brother William. One does not sadden me more than another. Christ, people are dying everyday everywhere. There are two separate conflicts going on where people intentionally try to kill each other. In the big picture, all of this upsets me, but the killings disturb me in terms of what’s happening in our society.

I’m not stupid. I know murder, though we may not like it, is part of our culture. That does not mean I have to understand it. As a matter of fact, I’m trying to wrap my brain around why these murders have taken up space in my head. Why did a kid from Miami, who wanted to get out of his environment so badly, that he went to a college town located, as my son put it “in the middle of nowhere.” He devoted himself to the goals of getting his college degree, and while he was at it, perhaps honing his football skills to such a level that playing professional football might be in his future. If he did indeed succeed at the next level, the money provided would allow him to move the rest of his family out of the toxic environs of inner-city Miami. The very thing Jasper Howard desperately sought to escape, found him sixteen-hundred miles away.

I don’t know the particulars of this case. Authorities have not indicated the motive of the three assailants currently in custody. Police investigating the crime said that one of the suspects pulled the fire alarm to vacate the building where a campus dance was taking place. Once, outside, a fracas broke out. It was during the melee Howard was stabbed by John William Lomax III. (why do killers always have three names when being identified?) Did these three young men travel thirty miles just to start a ruckus for lack of something to do? Was a girl involved? Was this a crime of passion? Was this a crime of boredom? These are questions that keep running through my head. The bottom line is, why did it happen at all? I don’t much like not being able to figure any of this out. To compound my inability to grasp the meaning behind this heinous event, another occurs even more bizarre, sad, and puzzling.

Yesterday, the news reported that William Gorzynski (maybe he doesn’t warrant a third name because he’s a minor) stabbed his younger brother Matthew in the chest with a kitchen knife. What drove William to commit such an act? The two brothers had an argument over the volume on the computer speakers. When I heard this I thought my ability to disseminate information had gone drastically awry. Again, all the information surrounding the confrontation is sketchy at best. Was the suspect a troublemaker at school? Had he been causing problems since his mother left “several” years ago. Is this an isolated incident? What’s been building for so long that would prompt this sort of outburst over speaker volume? I can’t even fathom what the father of these two boys must be feeling, and/or agonizing over. Then to add insult to injury, my wife watched Oprah yesterday.

The program focused on a case involving a woman who loaded seven eleven year old girls into her minivan after a sleepover. She drove at a high rate of speed eventually crashing. Two of the girls were seriously injured. Another, the woman’s own daughter, did not survive. The woman was drunk. She killed her own kid. She’s hospitalized, under police guard while she recuperates from her injuries. She’s under a suicide watch. WHAT THE FUCK IS GOING ON!? My god, I’m getting depressed (incensed) all over again writing this.

As I get older, there are several nagging questions l don’t have definitive answers to. The standard “what’s the meaning of life” is one. Why do some people die, while others get the opportunity to live? Why do some kids get cancer at age six, and others live to ninety before they’re diagnosed? Why do things happen that gnaw at me, like the ones I just mentioned? I don’t want to summarily dismiss it as “all part of god’s plan,” whatever the fuck that’s suppose to mean. That sounds like a copout to me. I used to say I hope the answers to these questions, and all the others much less significant, will be revealed to me when I die. It won’t matter then though. This “me” will no longer exist and I won’t give a shit. I give a shit now!

Taking a Stroll

I have often been asked the question of my age. My standard response has always been another question, “Chronologically, physically, or mentally?” To state, mentally I like to think twenty-one, though people who know me don’t even give me that maturation level. My chronological age is fifty-two. However, physically, I’m well over one hundred. But, as far as my memories go, they occasionally fall into the “old” category. Today is one of those days, as I wax nostalgic about the Halloween’s I remember which remotely resemble the one being celebrated next Saturday.

The Halloween’s of my early youth let both good and bad recollections out of my mental foot locker. If Halloween fell on a school day, we were to wear our costumes to class. It was either first or second grade, I don’t exactly recall, or want to for that matter; my mother made me wear a panther costume she had fabricated, complete with little pointy ears, and straw-filled tail. I was mortified. I cried at the very thought of appearing at each of the front doors of the neighbor’s when it came time to go trick or treating. Going to school dressed like that, I was confident my grandfather would not have to pick me up from school that afternoon, for I was surely going to die from embarrassment at some point in the day, and the local first aid squad would be bringing me home. At least I would get out of trick or treating in that humiliating atrocity. The costume my mother had made was not for my benefit, but hers. She considered the get-up “cute,” while I thought it “sissy.” Her little boy was growing up, and she wanted to keep him little for one more holiday season. I wanted no part of it. My father coaxed me until he was blue in the face, I eventually relented. If my father didn’t see anything wrong (outwardly) with wearing such a heinous outfit, I would go to school and suffer the barbs of my classmates. That was the last year my mother “surprised” me by making my costume.

In subsequent years I dressed up as a hobo, a football player, a skeleton, the devil, a baseball player, GI Joe, Frankenstein, and with my sister’s creative help, the headless horseman of Sleepy Hollow. My machismo was never threatened. I wore these costumes to school proudly, never enduring ridicule from my peers. I may have, but that’s the way I remember it. The parties at school were nice, but trick or treating was what I thought about the nearest one was going to get to childhood nirvana.

Oh I participated in what was commonly known as “Mischief Night” the evening before Halloween. My friends and I rang doorbells, soaped windows, toilet paper was strewn about, and as we got older, the pranks became more sophisticated for lack of a better word. Bags of dog shit set aflame accompanied the ringing of a doorbell. Soaping windows became an art form. Still, the tomfoolery did not compare with what was to follow the next evening.
Once I turned nine, my friends and I were allowed out way beyond our normal curfews. Parental whistles, cowbells, and bellowing that normally began about an hour after dusk, were delayed until at least nine o’clock. By the time Tom Rowlands and I had reached the sixth grade, ten o’clock was quite an acceptable hour to return home from our legal pillaging.

Collecting candy was a no holds barred exercise in conspicuous consumption. Once school let out, Tom and I, being the oldest of the brood we were entrusted with bringing home without incident; would gather those joining us to map out the proposed route of plenty.

There were twenty-one homes considered by our parents, to be part of our neighborhood. If we were to go beyond that predetermined boundary, we needed to give an approximate time and whereabouts. Tom and I shrewdly, with the input of our co-conspirators, devised alternate means with which to “hit” as many houses in the time allotted. Darkness fell around six-thirty, if we could clean up Valley View Road in thirty minutes, that left us three hours to ravage the surrounding area.

Halloween was the one night of the year my parents made the concession of eating dinner before seven. Under normal circumstances, my friends all ate between six and six-thirty. Then they were allowed back out for about an hour as long as everyone stayed in the neighborhood. I on the other hand, once called in for dinner, due to the lateness of the hour, had to remain indoors to do the homework that never got done. In order to make the six-thirty rendezvous, we ate at six. I was grateful.
Once the sweep was completed of the immediate area, we’d make our way through the Mowles’ back yard to the homes on Hillside Avenue. There weren’t many homes, but the owners knew all of us, and were always glad to see us. No turning off the lights making it seem as if no one was home back then. Sometimes we’d bump into other classmates. Some joined our assemblage, others stuck to their appointed rounds. We would then double back at The Hillside Lounge, making our way past Cooperative Industries, ending up at the intersection of Furnace Road and Pleasant Hill. If time allowed we’d make a quick pit stop at the McGloghlins and the Knox abode. About this time some of the younger of our gaggle began to run out of steam. The prospect of heading up Furnace to another of the “Melrose” developments seemed daunting to them. Some years we made Ernie’s the last stop.

Ernie was, at least to us, a very old man, who lived alone, in a very old house. Hell, he was old, and so was the house. It served as a tool and die establishment since the late nineteenth century. Ernie, by the looks of him, may have worked there from the very beginning. A rumor that circulated was the house was haunted. Very few children ever dared enter, much less on Halloween. But as Tom and I, and the rest of our inner circle knew, Halloween was the best time to go inside Ernie’s.
Ernie could be espied several times a week walking to town to buy groceries. Due to his advanced age, Ernie had to be prudent on the quantity of his purchase. He used a cane, and a ride back the two miles home wasn’t always a certainty. My guess was, around Halloween, he needed to make two trips to town just so he could haul back the candy he bought for the kids who did venture inside his decrepit looking domicile.
On Halloween, a low wattage bug light was lit on the front porch. If it no longer shown, Ernie had gone to bed. Timing was crucial. It was worth eschewing an entire neighborhood just to make sure you made it to Ernie’s before he retired for the night.

The porch stairs creaked as we all made our way up. The faint of heart had baled. The ones in our crew who the seasoned veterans convinced going to Ernie’s was a wise move, ventured forth, albeit with a certain amount of trepidation. Us big kids assured the younger we wouldn’t let anything happen to them.
There were no decorations hinting it was a holiday. There was no jack-o-lantern aglow, or scarecrow guarding the doorway as at other houses we had been to, just the bug light which, technically speaking, was a festive orangey-yellow. There was always a discussion as to who would do the knocking; this was done mostly for the benefit of those who’d never been there before. The one designated to hail our arrival, opened the unoiled screen door, and pounded on the solid oak front door. Ernie was hard of hearing; you had to make your presence known. Even though Ernie kept his vigil from a chair right inside the door, it took a couple of beats for him to answer.

The door did not slowly creep ajar as with most “haunted” houses. Ernie opened it with a hardy, toothless “Oh my goodness!!” He waved us in with his cane, absolutely delighted to have visitors, any visitors, even if it was only the neighborhood kids who weren’t afraid of him. Once inside, a huge old cauldron that was once used for smelting metals sat in the middle of the room, brimming with the largest assortment of candies one could imagine. He’d quietly fuss over our variety of costumes; he’d gently muss a head of hair or two while he led us to our very own version of Candyland. Inside the caldron rested a ladle. As we all gathered around the caldron, Ernie instructed us to open our bags, pillow cases and the like. With the ladle, Ernie would dig down into the sweet booty, and begin to pour the goodies in our various receptacles. One, two, three ladles full, we all got the same VIP treatment. Had we left our bags open Ernie would have continued to fill them until there was no more to be had. You see, this was Ernie’s treat, not just ours. He was so appreciative that we would stop to see him, the candy was our reward. I didn’t know then why he went to so much trouble, or why he was so kind to us, but I certainly know why today.

After Ernie’s we’d scramble back to our neighborhood to divvy up our haul. Trades for personal favorites would be made. We’d comment on who gave out “full size” candy bars. We’d admire who went to all the trouble of making real candied apples for god knows how many kids. We did this all alone, without parental interference. We knew the rule of throwing out all loose unpackaged candy. We didn’t need to have our candy X-Rayed. Sure, you always heard about some asshole putting pins or razor blades into apples, so you kept an eye out. The people handing out treats really aren’t that much different today than the way they were back when I was a kid. However, the paranoia, and those that fan the flames have grown considerably.
Gone are the days of seeing a hundred or more laughing children come up your walk-way. I haven’t seen a UNICEF container in years. Most kids are in and done by 8:30, even though anything considered a neighborhood is lit up like Times Square. Most kids are accompanied by parents, no more older kids looking out for the little ones. The media warns of the possibility that a John Wayne Gacy lurks behind every door, and poisoning candy is commonplace, though I believe no more prevalent that when I was a young.

I no longer have the same feeling for Halloween I once did. Everything has been scaled down. The time allotted for trick or treating, the care taken in preparing a costume, the “fun size” candy bars, the number of kids coming around has dwindled. The whole thing now seems like Halloween is being rushed to a premature conclusion. Kids today probably wouldn’t be given the opportunity to experience going to “an Ernie’s.” I’m glad I got the chance. I’m quite sure Ernie is.