Ask Not For Whom the Bell Tolls

The mourning process has begun for an old friend. While not yet dead, very sick; residing in hospice at the very least. Decomposition has already started, it has been sick for quite some time. I will be sorry to see it go. It has been part of my life for so long; I don’t know how I’ll do without it. There will always be an empty void. The daily printed newspaper is going the way of the horse and carriage, and the steam locomotive. Our parting will be bittersweet.

Arthur Sulzberger, the owner, chairman, and publisher of the New York Times sounded the first death knell for printed newspapers. He declared at the economic forum in Davos, Switzerland that he doesn’t know, or care whether The Times will still be published five years from now. If the most respected paper in the industry is on the outs, all other dailys are in the same boat.

For those of you who haven’t notice the pandemic that has infected the newspaper industry, it has come in the form of the Internet. Our multitasking, shortened attention spans, over encumbered schedules no longer have the time nor room to read a newspaper. Christ! Many parents don’t have the time to raise their own kids –they leave that up to various school systems – where the hell are they going to fit in a newspaper? Hey! Why don’t parents read the paper to their kids? That way, parents get to spend some quality time with their children, while their children hone their reading and comprehension skills! Wouldn’t that be novel; which is similar to what a newspaper will one day be considered. A novelty.

Don’t get the impression that I long for the days of yesteryear; that I’m some sort of reactionary wanting to slow the wheels of progress. It’s just that there is something to holding a newspaper in your hands first thing in the morning. And recently this is where my troubles began. But I get ahead of myself.

Aside from One Fish, Two Fish, Red Fish, Blue Fish; I learned to read from the Sunday comics. I learned fiscal responsibility through the toil of collecting old newspapers in my Radio-Flyer from neighbors, then after loading into my father’s Ford Falcon wagon, we’d take them to Newark to be weighed. I think I got two cents a pound.

My vocabulary increased along with my interest and knowledge of current events thanks to Paul Hamlen my sixth grade teacher. He required us to subscribe, through the school, to the New York Times, the daily of such integrity, that it told its readers within its pages held “All the news that’s fit to print.” Jimmy Whitehead was once chastised for crossing out “print,” and instead wrote “vomit,” prompting Mr. Hamlen to shame him before the entire class.

As a kid, I delivered the Morris County Daily Record, an afternoon publication of the lowest order. The Newark Evening News had nothing to worry about. My memories of the Record go back to when it was still called the Morristown Daily Record. That was when clusters of suburban hamlets had printed representation. The families of Chester, Mendham, and Bernardsville; all had their own specific weekly editions of The Observer Tribune; where during Little League season, I would search for mention of my name if I had any on-field heroics that week.

As I got older, I gave up the paper route, and The Newark Evening News gave way to the Newark Star-Ledger, a morning paper. Dan Castellano, a writer who used to cover high school sports for The Daily Record, moved on to a more promising career with The Star-Ledger. With his move, I switched allegiance as well.

My parent’s subscribed for Ledger home delivery, and when I reached adulthood, I followed suit. Every now and again I’d read multiple papers. The Wall Street Journal, The New York Post, and The New York Daily News all filled my idle hours. I came to learn that the last two papers mentioned were written on the third grade reading level, it was glaringly apparent, but mattered little due to their content. Some people even think the only thing those two papers are good for are house-breaking puppies. The Journal on the other hand, was written on the eleventh grade reading level; the highest of any daily publication.

Through The Post and The News, I became familiar with the work of Jimmy Breslin, Pete Hamill, Mike Lupica, and Dick Young. While I wasn’t very fond of any of the writings of those men, I found their columns to be immensely entertaining. It was through their editorials, and others as well; I learned that there were other viewpoints besides those of my parents or grandparents. I was sad to leave these people behind when I moved to Florida.

Down here, The Miami Herald and The Sun-Sentinel vie for readership. Ten years ago the Herald had a circulation of nearly three-hundred and fifty thousand; the Sun-Sentinel, almost two-sixty. Today the Sentinel is down to around two-sixteen, while the Herald has lost nearly one-hundred thousand readers. It doesn’t take an advanced degree to see what the future holds for these two publications.

Lately, I have seen layoffs at the Herald plant. I was told by a former employee that the reason for more typographical errors and poor grammar is the lack of editors the paper can no longer afford. Proofreading is done in India. Another job lost to outsourcing, and the end result is a lesser product.

My newspaper delivery person, due to decreased subscriptions, delivers both the Herald, and the Sun-Sentinel. Aside from the terrific 5:00AM conversation with Robert Joslyn my former route driver, the arrival time was the same until a couple of days ago. My guess is “Tiffany” succumbed to the American way of mediocrity.

The Herald set six-thirty weekdays, and seven-thirty weekends as the acceptable time limit for home delivery. Anytime after that you can the paper to voice your concerns if your paper has not arrived. Tiffany must have figured out the absolute latest time she needed to awaken to get the paper to her customers within the parameters set forth. However, all it took was a week of procrastination until Tiffany found herself breaching the time limit. Now, this may not seem like a big deal to most people, but to a man with definite OCD issues, the lateness of my paper screwed up my entire morning routine; hence my entire day was then out of whack.

What is the point of reading a morning paper in the afternoon, when due to budgetary constraints and shorter shifts, going to press, is now earlier than ever before? For all intents and purposes the news was two days old. I am curious though. If papers are hemorrhaging money, why give valuable column space to tabloid journalism, and idiots in an effort to sell more papers? Are those the folks a reputable paper really wants to cater to? No wonder they’re in deep shit. An example appeared not long ago.

The Herald, who’d already given space to a ghost written editorial by none other than that intellectual wellspring Sarah Palin (she couldn’t have written the piece, there were words with three syllables in it), gave a forum to a portion of a blog item commenting on a recent event.

The writer (a misnomer if there ever was one) castigated a bright, articulate young lady who was disciplined when she was in high school, for voicing her opinion on Facebook about a teacher she did not like. The ACLU took her case, citing free speech, and is suing the principal. The blog post suggested this student would be of better moral character if she would read the Bible, and listen to Sarah Palin speeches.

Now I’ve written several Letters to the Editor on a variety of subject matter. Not once did they even warrant a “Thank you for taking the time to write us” acknowledgment, though several days after my words appeared verbatim in a column written by sportswriter Kevin Baxter. I guess plagiarism and idiocy are acceptable forms of journalism.

If the papers are no longer to exist, so be it. I’ll get over having my morning paper; doing the crossword old-school with a pen (I never have used a pencil). I’ll get over not reading the Sunday comics while I lounge in the tub. I’ll just have to find my favorite columnists on-line. Yes, I’ll miss newspapers, but not in their current form.

Going the Extra Mile - Conclusion

I have been humbled these past few weeks as I’ve made preparations for participation in the first annual Tour De Broward. The support from family, friends, acquaintances, and even total strangers has taken me aback. In this era where aloofness has been elevated to an art form, people readily offered me encouragement, and in a couple of cases financial assistance. I’ve already mentioned Hanger Prosthetics stepping to the plate; but two other local businesses did as well.

Aside from my past week’s blog postings, I only told a handful of people that I was running in this event. One person I told works out at the same gym I do. Steve is a real runner, as are his two sons. Steve participated in this past year’s Chicago Marathon, as well as the Disney Marathon held in Orlando. I mentioned to him that I would be in need of a Dry-Fit shirt in case the heat got too bad. He suggested that I try Runner’s Depot located a couple of towns over. The owner Renee Grant, had helped him out by giving him an entrance fee way back when, perhaps she would do the same with the shirt. Unexpectedly, she did more.

I told Renee of my dilemma, and that if she would be so kind as to give me a shirt, I’d gladly emblazon the Runner’s Depot logo on the sleeve. I spoke of the expected media interest, and assured her I would mention the store if the opportunity presented itself. Renee said that would be fine. She inquired as to whether I planned on running in the shoes I was wearing. I said that I was, and she said they would never do. Renee proceeded to outfit me not only with a shirt, but some bad ass Brooks running shoes, and Therlo running socks. Needless to say, I emblazoned her logo across the back of my shirt; the front was reserved for Hanger Prosthetics.

It is difficult to find a graphics company that will handle only one single item. Renee suggested that I go to Shirts-R-Us. The woman there Lydia, said she would be glad to help out. After I explained what the shirt was for, she remarked that as a member of the Broward County Rotary, the Tour De Broward had recently been a topic of discussion at their last meeting. Lydia also mentioned that her company had done the graphics on the shirt I was wearing that touted Miracle League Baseball. Lydia said that since I was running for such a good cause, there would be no charge for her services, even though I told her Hanger would pay the bill. There is goodness in this world, dispelling the rumor that goodness had been on life support for quite some time now. Because of the generosity of others, I was fully outfitted and ready to go. As a small gesture, I told Lydia to put her company’s logo on the sleeve.

Unlike eighteen years ago, I did not agonize for weeks in advance over what the future held were the race was concerned. It wasn’t until last Wednesday that I had the first inklings of any trepidation at all. The cause for this tightening in my scrotum, Sunday’s weather forecast. A North Face parka would have been more appropriate attire rather than my Dry-Fit shirt I was so concerned about. Maybe I could get a nice pair of red long johns with one of those cute little trap doors in the ass, might as well make a fashion statement while I was at it.

David Bernard, our local CBS4 News weather anchor, was predicting a cold front to come sweeping into South Florida Saturday night. As I watched the television screen in horror, I could have sworn he was sneering directly at me. The Sunday morning temperature would be in the neighborhood of forty degrees. Oh yeah, by the way, David happily chimed in; a stiff breeze will make it feel in the low 30’s. Are those fangs I see in David’s mouth?

Sweatpants are out of the question, too difficult to run in. Because of all the effort this will take, a sweatshirt is out as well. I was confident I’d be sweating profusely without the shirt and pants that are supposed to bring sweat forth. I addressed my angst diplomatically. There wasn’t a goddamn thing I could do about the weather. I needed to shut-up, and cowboy-up.

Saturday night I loaded up on carbs, protein, and electrolytes. I went to bed early since I had to be up at four-thirty for a seven AM start time. I had stretched everyday for four weeks. I was as prepared as I possibly could have been. I was reminded of what I used to tell students I saw cramming the morning of an exam; “If you don’t have it by now, you’re not going to. The last ten minutes before class isn’t going to make a shit of difference, except it will make you more nervous.”

True to his word, David Bernard was spot on with his forecast, rat bastard. I didn’t need to go outside to know how cold it was. The rods in my femurs sung like they were tuning forks hit against an anvil. I ate a banana, a piece of toast with peanut butter, and four ibuprophen. I washed it all down with some Gatorade. My wife Helen and I made our way in the dark to Miramar Regional Park, the scene of the upcoming crime if you will.

I registered for the race, and received my race number, goodie bag, and an electronic bracelet that would register for all posterity precisely the amount of time it took me to complete the 3.2 mile course. I wisely wore a sweatpants and a hoodie to try and fend off the cold. Sadly, I would begrudgingly remove those items about ten minutes prior to the start of the run. Oh look! The sun is finally coming up! This solar event did not have any effect on the temperature, thank goodness for adrenaline.

My neighbor and former Miami Herald delivery man Robert was there with his wife Janet. He seemed gratified that I was participating in the run. Robert and Janet enter marathons on a regular basis; 5K was nothing to them.

My friend Walter and his wife Marcy were there to show support. It didn’t hurt Walter any to be there anyway since he’s a bigwig with Memorial HealthCare.

My friend and prosthetist Jesse eventually arrived. He had planned on running after I said I would. I told him I didn’t want him babysitting me. I’d see him after I was finished.

On my way to the starting line a gentleman asked me if I was cold. I told him that yes, indeed I was. Just because a part of me is missing doesn’t mean that I’m impervious to the weather. He shook his head and told me he hoped I didn’t have a heart attack. Every fiber of my being wanted to reduce him to a puddle of amoeba snot right there in front of his wife, but I summon all my restraint, I didn’t want to be late for the start.

I took my place at the back of the field so I wouldn’t hold up the other more adept runners. When it came time for me to move, I did my best impersonation of someone attempting an unreasonable facsimile of running. Into the “brisk” wind I headed. By the time I reached the one mile marker I felt as if I had logged enough miles that the remaining race distance would surely put me just over the Georgia border. The race leader then passed me on his way back to the finish line. He was kind enough to yell over some words of encouragement.

I saw a couple of people throw up; I did not join them. I saw several people gasping for breath while they clutched their sides; my gait never wavered. At the two mile mark with my sweat arriving as anticipated, a woman felt it necessary to dispose of her empty water cup into a refuse bag carted around by one of the race volunteers. She cut directly in front of me, nearly causing me to fall. While my stride was temporarily disrupted, I stayed the course. I presumed she drove the same way, as if she were the only living being on the planet.

As I made my way down the home stretch, I could see Jesse standing outside the park gate waiting for me. Once inside I saw Helen. Her look was one of relief rather than exultation. I espied the race clock; it read 48:17 as I crossed the finish line; I had bested my time from eighteen years ago. There were hugs all around. I said to Jesse that perhaps a 10K was feasible. Helen rolled her eyes.

What drives individuals to try and accomplish certain things can vary greatly. Pacification (my parents) served me as a high school student. Competition, the need for attention, and the fear of failure are a few of the other psychological cattle prods that spur us on to greater heights.

Sometimes we do things so we don’t let down those most important in our lives. Sometimes we do things to impress them. Sometimes we do things so they’ll be proud of us. Then there are times we are driven to do things because it’s the right thing to do for ourselves and for others. Running in this past Sunday’s 5K Tour De Broward was one of those. I didn’t need to run this race to validate my life. I didn’t need the media there to acknowledge my accomplishment. As a matter of fact, it was more rewarding without them. I do things now because I can, and I should.

Going the Extra Mile- Part II

My motivation for running was strictly for the sake of shameless self-promotion. I was filled with self-pity, though I rarely let on to others the demons I had been dancing with for eight years. The Chemical Bank Corporate Challenge was my moment to shine. I was sure press would be there, and I would seek them out. “Look at me” I would tell them in the nicest, most politically correct way as possible. I would surround myself with friends and acquaintances to cheer me toward the finish. I’d show those able bodied spectators; I’d show everybody who didn’t have the gumption to run themselves, I’d show everybody! I‘d show them I was more than just a handicapped guy with a drinking problem.

So I trained for the run in appropriate fashion by getting hammered the night before. This is the first cardinal sin when one expects to do anything requiring extreme physical exertion. Granted, it wasn’t a marathon, but the last time I “ran” any distance was seventeen years earlier in high school.

There were many excuses I used for tying one on (I just loved Chinese food!); there were concerns about my mental and physical well being.

Would I get hurt? If so, how badly? Could I finish? Would I come in last? Oh Christ! I don’t want to come in last! Will anyone care that I’m doing this? Why should that matter?
“Bartender, may I have another please.”

The race wasn’t until 1:00 in the afternoon. That left me plenty of time to recover. By the time I was dropped off at the race site -didn’t have a license after my 2nd DWI infraction- in front of the Headquarters Plaza Hotel, I was in as fit a running condition as I was going to get.

I awkwardly ambled around amongst the crowd of runners, looking for someone from the media. When the Star-Ledger reporter covering the event didn’t approach me, I approached them. I told the reporter that I was running to inspire others, which was partly true. I didn’t include the little sidebar about wanting people to recognize me for what I’ve been able to do since my accident. I felt cheap after our conversation. I had an odd feeling in the pit of my stomach as I lined up at the rear of the pack with the other slower runners, and it wasn’t nausea from the prior evening’s festivities.

When the gun went off signaling the start of the run, my heart raced. What the hell have I gotten myself into? I completed the run without incident, aside from the hallucinations at a mile and a half. Though I stopped for water at every drinking station along the way, I still got a little dehydrated. That was what was behind my minor visual impairment. Running up hills was much easier than running down. As a matter of fact, I walked down all the hills along the course. As I passed Macy's leading down the home stretch, I sped up. I actually passed other runners on my way to the finish line. Had I not been so engrossed in the task at hand, I’m sure I could have sensed a tingle in my loins. Egged on by the cheers of friends and strangers alike, I crossed the finish line. The Star-Ledger reporter asked how I felt. I said “At least I didn’t finish last.” Afterward me and a couple of my buds went out for a couple of Buds. I don’t anticipate any type of celebration this Sunday. My head’s on straight for this run.

Since that day in Morristown in 1992, I have participated in many physical activities without fanfare. Accolades were no longer the reason. The pure unadulterated join of being able to participate at all was satisfaction enough. Couple that with how proud my son Cory was that I was able to do all I could do; well then, did I really need anything else? My motivation for such things had been inexorably changed once I became comfortable in my own skin; a process that took sixteen years from the date of my accident.

It has been a long row to hoe indeed, and still obstacles remain. These last couple of years since obtaining my master’s degree has been particularly hard on my psyche. Not debilitating by any means, but a struggle nonetheless. I tread water while trying to gain speaking engagements and get my book published… hell, to get any writing gig at all. The lectures are few and far between. There’s the occasional editing work, and I get to write my blog every week. But as Felix Unger once said, this kind of stuff “doesn’t feed the admirals cat,” So while I continue to submit resumes, articles, and queries, every now and again I need to do something that makes me feel nothing is impossible.

I go to the gym at Memorial Hospital West four days a week for the past two and a half years. It used to be six days a week, but I kept aggravating injuries old and new. My wife Helen works for the Memorial health care system. It made sense to join that facility. That and after six years of sitting on my ass in a classroom, I put on about forty-five pounds and got a little zaftig.

About a month ago, while amid another paying gig dry spell, I noticed a poster heralding The Tour De Broward, a fundraiser for a new Joe DiMaggio’s Children’s Hospital. Joe DiMaggio had given considerable time and money to the construction of the first of Memorial’s children only facility. Joe D has since passed, but his legacy lives on bigger and better than I’m sure he ever envisioned. The original kid’s hospital is located in Hollywood in the eastern part of Broward County. The new unit is slated to be built right across the street. The two will be connected by an over-the-street crosswalk. Events for Valentine’s Day included a 100K bike spin, a 50K bike spin, a 3K Family Walk, and a 5K certified Run.

Wow! I haven’t done a run in eighteen years. Can I still do it? Well, let’s worry about that later. Helen works for Memorial. I umpire for the Miracle League that’s affiliated with Joe DiMaggio’s. They ‘re going to be treated for cancer at the hospital. They could wind up just like me. I’m in a bit of a mental slump right now. This may be just the thing to snap me out of it. What a perfect cause to see if I can still do something like this. Ok, I’m in. Geez, I don’t even have the entry fee. Maybe Hanger will sponsor me. Maybe they’ll even give me a shirt to run in.

Hanger Prosthetics makes my artificial limbs. Jesse Mitrani is my prosthetist. A nicer guy you’ve never met. He was all for me attempting this run, under a couple of conditions. Yes, they would sponsor me, but Jesse wanted to know how much I planned on training. I told him not at all. I have to save myself for this kind of thing. It’s going to cause me physical trouble, how much will be determined. I certainly don’t want to waste the pain on training. I think his concern arose out of liability on Hanger’s part. If they didn’t advise me with my best interests at heart, they wouldn’t be doing their job. Jesse said they’d give me a shirt, but I’d have to obtain one and they’d reimburse me. I didn’t have the money for that either. Lastly, Jesse said he would contact Hanger’s public relations department, to try to get me some coverage. I said feel free, but that’s not the point. If anything comes of it great, if not, no harm, no foul.

Memorial’s PR department said there’d be all kinds of media interest, and maybe even a story written about me in the paper. I really don’t give a shit one way or the other. Just don’t blow smoke up my ass and tell me I’ve got a forest fire. People wanted to know how much money I’ve raised. I said this wasn’t about people giving me donations out of sympathy. Once I run, maybe they’ll donate just because I thought enough of the cause to run in the first place. You know, “If that guy can do that for the kid’s, giving a little money is the least we can do.” Hanger’s press release stated that I was running as an inspiration. Not true I told the nice young lady, and I’d appreciate it if she reworded the release to say I was running for the cause. That’s how it should be.

To shut Jesse up, two weeks ago I did 5K on the treadmill. It took me twelve days to recover. This Sunday ought to be a regular walk in the park, or run if you will. I’ll tell you how it went in next week’s blog.

This is the first of three installments covering what led up to, what motivated me, and the outcome of an event I’m participating in.



We often do things for ourselves to give us feelings of self-worth. “Warm and fuzzys” are nice even if we have to administer them ourselves. These mental pick-me-ups frequently provide the motivation to keep trudging forward toward our goals. Sometimes they provide the necessary impetus just to endure. As an amputee, over the years I’ve had to set the bar at varying heights just to keep me from feeling “less than.” In twelve days the bar has been raised in order to feel “more than;” not just for me, but for others as well.

Having a part of your body removed when you’re in the prime of your life initially is a difficult concept to wrap your brain around. There are two approaches one can take. You can lament the loss of the limb; mentally prepare yourself for spending the rest of your days as an amputee, and move forward cautiously and with care, tackling each hurdle as they come. Or, you can jump into the deep end of the pool not knowing how to swim, catching as catch can, and never mourning your loss. While the latter may sound gallant and admirable, it is not prudent; there can be repercussions. They may not rear their collective ugly head for months, sometimes years, but they will come back to bite you on the ass. Needless to say, this was the cure all of my ills I chose.

After I regained consciousness from the coma injuries from my motorcycle accident induced, I learned of the loss of my left leg.

Surprise! Guess what? Your life is now irrevocably altered. No one will ever look at you the same way again. Strangers will forever stare at you wherever you go. If you had a big ego, kiss it good-by. You will never do anything the way you did it prior. Have a nice life.

I refused to acknowledge any of those things my mind was trying desperately to tell me. I immediately requested that I be given a set of five pound dumbbells, and a set of two pound dumbbells, so I could begin my rehabilitation right away, casts and all. If there was a question how injudicious the first request was, the second gave undeniable support. “I’d also like a beer please” I asked the nurse. Wisely, I didn’t get either until I was stable (physically, not so much mentally) and moved from the ICU. My projected release date was for after the first of the year, over three months away. I rejected such a notion. I made it my business to be out of the hospital as soon as humanly possible; but first I had to learn how to get out of bed.

After a rigorous and ambitious physical therapy program, where I’m quite sure at one time or another, I mother-fucked every hospital staff member within earshot; I returned home after twenty-seven days; refusing to be wheeled into my home on a stretcher. I told the paramedics who drove me, if I can’t walk in, I don’t deserve to be here. With the aid of a walker used by the geriatric set, I made my way through the front door.

They said it was a miraculous recovery; my first wife begged to differ. I then set off down the unhappy road to recovery unable to avoid many of the landmines I didn’t see. And if I saw them, I was woefully ill-prepared to sidestep them.

The everyday pain was non-negotiable, so I learned to live with it. Proudly, I avoided taking any prescription medication, yet my cocaine use and alcohol consumption skyrocketed. I couldn’t work, except at getting back to the proverbial “shadow of my former self.” No truer words were ever uttered.

I was fortunate for all the support I received from friend and family, yet I was misguidedly determined to rehabilitate myself in the only way I knew that would allow me to feel a sense of accomplishment; through participation in physical activities.

Before even receiving my first prosthetic limb--and what an emotional ordeal that was!---the timeline for walking unaided was August, ten months away. Got the first limb in March, and with the help of my friend K.C., played nine holes of golf on April 7. What I shot didn’t matter. As I saw it, I was out there “doing it” and that’s what counted. Bring on the Olympic Games!

It would be quite some time before I came down off my disillusional cloud. I got reinforcement from taking care of a newborn on a daily basis. I was forced to do things a normal person wouldn’t have considered just out of sheer necessity. Selfishly, for whatever reason, I needed more to validate myself. I wanted to play softball again. I wanted to play basketball again. What I wanted, and what was best for me became muddled.

Slowly, I returned to the arena of sport. I coached youth basketball from my crutches. A year later, it was youth baseball.

Hey, I can pitch batting practice! I can swing the bat pretty good. I can even play catch to help warm up the players. If the kid throws it where I can’t get it, I’ll make him go it. He’ll start throwing more accurately pretty damn quick! Hey, I think I’ll join a softball team! Now, who’ll have me like this?

But join a team I did. I think I was allowed on as an act of sympathy. Once I was given the opportunity to show I could hit and field (first base or catcher only) with above average ability, the pity ebbed. And who needed pity in the first place!? Certainey not me!! Running the bases was another matter entirely.

Due to my injuries, I was left with limited range of motion in both knees, the left in particular. My patella had been crushed, so a hinge was wired in place. I was no longer able to run one foot in front of the other. I employed an aborted hop-skip method. At least it could get me to first base. It just meant I had to hit the ball farther. At that point, a designated runner was substituted. That mountain climbed, I then received a call from my friend Gregg.

The law firm he worked for in Manhattan put together a team for a local touch football team. One particular Sunday, Gregg called to tell me that the team was a player short, and if I was interested in playing. Without any forethought, I said sure, I’d play.

The next hurdle was basketball. A local Hoop-It-Up Tournament served as the proving ground for this attempt at some sort of return to normalcy. Fueled by this new confidence in what I was physically able to accomplish, I then received an invitation to try out for the Paralympic Standing Volleyball Team.

The tryouts were in Cleveland, Ohio. It would take me away from my job for a week. My employer felt this was an unnecessary leave of absence. Today, if that were to occur, there would be a public outcry. Today, amputees are featured in advertising, amputee event coverage is televised. Back then, I wallowed in obscurity.

I would do something that people would notice what’s possible if you try. I would run in the Chemical Bank 5K Corporate Challenge. I would be a team of one. Maybe then somebody will notice what I can do, because it wasn’t good enough just to be doing for myself…
To be continued