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?