Beyond the Border of Reason

Occasionally there has been a major (depending on your perspective) news item that justified blogging about, but I’ve given said item token or no attention to for the fact the item fell into my “I don’t really give a shit” category. If you are a regular reader of this blog, you’ll know it isn’t often I am spellbound over what captivates the rest of America, or at least what the media has deemed relevant. Quite the contrary, I often find such “news” to be irrelevant and if ignored, in my feeble little head, the item should lose its relevance altogether. Most times, much to my chagrin, this is not the case.

However, a recent Arizona law is causing quite an uproar. It has to do with curbing illegal immigration, which in its own way, is helping bankrupt the last admitted of our forty-eight Continental States. The controversy, from what I’ve read, centers on the over-the-top, carte blanche racial profiling given to law enforcement authorities in their quest to identify illegal aliens. Welcome to the 21st century.

Reactionaries applaud this ill conceived legislation. Ultra-conservatives view the law as a step in the right direction. Level headed individuals see it as an oppressive violation of civil rights bordering on Nazism. Okay, maybe not Nazism, but close. I see it as a misguided, knee-jerk, short-sighted band-aid for a compound fracture. This is what happens when the smartest people choose to go into business rather than public service. This is what a poor education system breeds, as well as feeds on. This is my opinion, and we know what they’re like. Fill in your favorite vulgar analogy here.

There are several large concepts at work here that I will try to explain. Many of you won’t agree, but I don’t particularly care. I’m writing this and you’re not.

The topic of immigration is as old the country itself. The first bit of legislation was enacted in 1790, and government has been writing more expansive pieces ever since. Immigration is one of the great paradoxes of our democratic, capitalistic society. Our original predominantly white culture while wanting to open their borders and hearts to all those economically, ideologically, and religiously oppressed, didn’t want all these immigrants using up all the resources. They believed landownership to be virtuous but not at their expense. They believed in the Calvinist work ethic as long as it wasn’t something they didn’t want to do. That stuff could, and should be done by slaves; or at least the urban and rural poor who lacked the education to make a real go of it in this new bastion of “freedom.”

If any of these immigrants were industrious enough to scrape together a couple of bucks while starting at the bottom and working their way up, were lauded for their efforts. Though these exceptions to the rule were few and far between, they became symbols of what this country stood for, and the possibilities it held for “anyone.”

Long before Lincoln passed the Emancipation Proclamation, industrialization brought the first waves of immigrants from Europe. America needed the disadvantaged to mine coal and iron ore, and toil in sweatshops. “Natives” shouldn’t have to do the back-breaking work. That’s what the Irish, German, and Scottish were for. As Daniel Day-Lewis’ character “Bill Cutting” said so succinctly in Gangs of New York, “What the white man did for a quarter, the nigger did for a dime, the Irish will do for a nickel.” This referred to the notion that immigrants took jobs away from “Natives.” Next, America began fulfilling the concept of Manifest Destiny. The Transcontinental Railroad and the discovery of gold saw an influx of Chinese immigrants to do the unappealing work laying rails and hauling dirt from mines. When the Chinese started to mine on their own claims, and the last spike was driven, legislation was passed to stop Chinese immigrants from entering into the U.S.

The beginning of the twentieth century saw Italians and Eastern Europeans coming over by the boatload. That is until the rise of communism. Then more legislation was passed for fear our shores were besieged by communist sympathizers. Twenty-two major pieces of immigration legislation were passed between 1790 and 2005. There have been dozens of other lesser laws enacted as well.

Between April 15 and October 31 of 1980 America witnessed the Mariel Boatlift. This wave grabbed the attention of U.S. citizens to the Hispanic (for lack of a better term) immigration issue that had existed for years in states bordering Mexico. “All of a sudden” immigration became “a problem.” I am unclear on both the suddenness and the problem.

As I see it, immigration is not a problem but an issue. It has been anything but sudden. If you don’t like immigration, you do the work Hispanic immigrants do and accept what they get paid. As far as the legality of these immigrants; I believe this is an economic problem.

Think of the industries employing illegal immigrants. The McDonaldized farms, the sweatshops that still remain so prevalent; the lawn care industry, both housing and commercial construction work to name just a few. How about the caregivers, cooks, and cleaning women of the affluent? Aren’t they just as much at fault as large employers? Think of any industry that can employ anyone who will work for any wage where the employer doesn’t have to contribute into the system these workers eventually wind up exploiting. See anything wrong with this picture?

Greed is a powerful emotion. It is what I believe to be a driving force with the entire immigration problem. Companies will hire illegals (again, for lack of a better word) so they can make more profit. Companies don’t have to make any social system contributions as well as state and U.S. government taxes on behalf of their illegal employees. They can pay lower wages because no one else will do the work. Intimidation serves as the great motivator. If an illegal thinks their treatment is unfair, the threat of being deported hangs over their heads.

In turn, approximately twenty million illegals become a burden to American social systems without contributing a dime. I have a suggestions, make that several suggestions. Call me an idealist.

Instead of looking to deport- at huge expense- all of the illegal immigrants, let’s come up with a feasible amnesty program for those that are here. Since they are quite willing to do the shit work, I say stay, but you better fucking pay. This would entail companies to recognize illegals within their employ and make the necessary matching contributions. Tough shit if this cuts into the bottom line. Relative cheap labor remains, while dollars start coming in for taxes and social services. How can we do this assuming amnesty is granted? Let the IRS do the profiling. Target companies in industries like the ones previously stated that commonly hire illegal immigrants. The IRS should maybe do these audits in person so nobody has a chance to cook their books, or purge themselves of illegals.

The illegal immigrants should owe America a debt of thanks if they’re not too greedy. No more free health care for you. No more social services. The taxes you now pay in would help educate your children. But there is one small favor to ask, stop sending money back to the country you came from. If you still have family there, pay for them to come to the U.S. where they can be processed into the system legally once you who are here have obtained work for your relatives. Don’t bring them here to plop their asses in Barc-o-loungers. Don’t send money back to your country of origin in order to improve your lifestyle after you’ve taken what you wanted from America and return to your homeland. Under this proposal, you’ve been given a tremendous opportunity, don’t ruin it for others.

Oh, and you wealthy who hire illegals as domestics, you’ll have to pay in too; you can afford it. Besides, if they’re live-ins you can claim them as deductions on your taxes.

Is this idealistic, of course; is it doable, probably not. However, it’s better than the S.S., I’m sorry; I meant law enforcement, rooting out illegals for deportation. So Arizona legislature, put your collective diminutive brains together and come up with something better. And you constituents, wake up, don’t be show your ignorance by letting people like Glenn Beck tell you what to think because he believes you can’t think for yourselves. There is a viable solution and the one before you isn't it.

Not like the brazen giant of Greek fame,
With conquering limbs astride from land to land;
Here at our sea-washed, sunset gates shall stand
A mighty woman with a torch, whose flame
Is the imprisoned lightning, and her name
Mother of Exiles. From her beacon-hand
Glows world-wide welcome; her mild eyes command
The air-bridged harbor that twin cities frame.
"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
' With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tossed to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"

I've Been "Drafted"

Tomorrow night, for reasons some even unbeknownst to me; I will forego a prior commitment, so I can stay at home to watch television. I would not do this under normal circumstances, but this year the NFL Draft for the very first time in its history is being broadcast during prime time. If it were any other Thursday night program I would fulfill my obligation. Tomorrow I will make other arrangements. You may wonder, “What’s so special about the NFL Draft?” What about the draft is so riveting that it would cause me to shirk a responsibility? The answers to both those questions seem to escape me for the time being.

Forty years ago the NFL Draft wasn’t even televised. I’d wait to see the draft results in the following day’s newspaper. You remember those, right; when we got any information worth getting in depth from the newspaper. I’d scan the sports section for the draft results, focusing on the marque names in the first round, and peruse the other rounds to see how my team, as well as the local teams (Giants and Jets) fared. The following Monday in school there would be minor discussions concerning the draft among the pro football fans in class; they were a small minority. Eventually the draft made its way to TV, but interest among my peers remained limited. In the ‘80’s, ESPN made its debut and the status of the draft changed.

ESPN gave America twenty-four hours of sports coverage. That’s a lot of air time to fill. What better way to do it than with the NFL Draft. Hours and hours of monotonous, bland, analysis of every college player that ever donned a uniform. Then ESPN decided to employ Mel Kiper Jr. along with his hair, or whatever entity that is that sits on his head. To this day Mel takes the draft as seriously as a doctor describing his groundbreaking cancer research. Kiper’s delivery of said information is done with the exuberance of someone on the verge of a cure.

The ESPN draft package has been honed and refined over the years with such precision and care, that it puts network Presidential election coverage to shame. The NFL Draft now takes place at Radio City Music Hall, home of the Rockettes. And when some college kid’s name is called, you’d swear he’s going to break into dance at any moment; justifiably so due to the amount of money he’s about to sign for.

Over the last decade or so, my interest in “watching” the draft has increased. Please don’t ask why that is. I don’t have an answer for that either. The draft is about as boring a television event as has ever been concocted. There are huge gaps in time between picks. There are way too many commercials. There are way too many talking heads. There are way too many people with absolutely nothing of interest to say. The draft provides little to no redeeming entertainment value outside of Mel Kiper’s hair per se. Yet each year I am drawn to the television like a moth to a flame on draft weekend.

With the launching of the NFL Network, the siren song of the draft has begun earlier the last couple of years. You see the NFL Network televises from Indianapolis, the NFL combine for prospective pro prospects. I watch bits and pieces of that as well. And no,; I don’t know why. As a matter of fact, all evidence should point to the contrary; that these two events are of such little significance in determining professional football success, that it’s a wonder anyone with half a brain watches at all, unless of course they have a vested interest in the outcome.

Over two thirds of those players drafted never make it in the NFL. It is frequently pointed out throughout the two day broadcast that a player is better off signing as a free agent after the draft has ended rather than being selected in the late rounds. But still I watch.

Personally, I have several reasons not to watch. As a Bengal fan, I’ve seen my team squander more number one picks than any other franchise. I’m not talking about first round picks; I’m talking about first player chosen picks. Some of the ignominious players (if you can call them that) have been Ki-Jana Carter, Akili Smith, Dan “Big Daddy (my ass)” Wilkerson, and Peter Warrick. Do any of those names ring a bell? I thought so.

Since 2004, I’ve watched the NFL Draft in the hope of hearing the name of a player from my alma mater the Florida Atlantic University, announced. I befriended, tutored, and taught many of their players over the years. It would bring me as well as the school great pride by attaining the milestone of having an NFL draftee. No such luck to date. I also have a special interest in which University of Florida players are taken. My son has become friends with several of them. It’s always nice to see someone he knows make good. This year is no different, but the viewing schedule has changed.

The first round to the NFL Draft will be broadcast live, from a sold out Radio City Music Hall, tomorrow night beginning at 7:30. Yes, I said sellout audience. Fans show up to sit there to watch Roger “I’m in charge here” Goodell says someone’s name every fifteen minutes. And I thought I had serious brain damage watching on TV.

At least I can do other things while I’m waiting. What do you do at Radio City? You can’t throw Frisbees or knock around beachballs.

After the first round is completed, and Christ knows what time that will be; I will have to wait until Friday at 6:30 for ESPN to resume coverage of rounds two and three. Rounds four through seven will be aired still live, on Saturday beginning at 10:00am. Three days. The NFL Draft has been spread out over three days. ESPN and the NFL are banking on enough fan interest that people will stop what they’re doing, change viewing habits, and tune in to the draft at different times over three days. If you can’t tell, this is all very hard for me to fathom.

Wouldn”t it be just as easy for me to track the draft online at ESPN, without having to subject myself to the idle banter of a bunch of football blowhards. What back story will be so intriguing that I won’t be able to pull myself away from the TV? Must I know that there is a player sweating it out Aaron Rodgers style off stage in the green room? The answers to these questions are: 1. Yes 2. None 3. No.
And yet I’ll watch.

"This One's For Friendship"

In 1984 Bruce Springsteen came out with a five album compilation of what he and the E Street Band’s considered their best music to that point. Several tracks were rearranged live versions of songs that had previously appeared on other albums. Contained within this box set was a live acoustic rendition of No Surrender, another of the Boss’ coming of age anthems of fonder days remembered. Before the first chord is struck Springsteen announces to the crowd that “This one’s for friendship.” That particular rendering remains one of my all time favorites.

Yesterday, after many years of dead ends consisting of fruitless inquiries, unreturned calls, wrong numbers, and other aspects of any wild goose chase, I struck paydirt. My annual Google search unearthed a dear friend I’ve been out of touch with for quite some time.

As usual, in the “search” box I inserted the name he used his whole life that did not correspond with the one that is printed on his birth certificate. After the requisite nano seconds, the first page of results appeared, and there about halfway down, I saw it; “K.C. Cary.”

That name may not mean anything to many of you who read this, but if your relationship with me is what you’d consider close; you’ve heard me mention his name more than once. That name has crossed my mind infinitely more times over the last fourteen years. 1996; that was the last time I saw him, at my mother’s funeral.

I was afraid he wouldn’t come since he’d been harder to get in touch with of than Jimmy Hoffa, as were his whereabouts equally shrouded in mystery. Even under such melancholy circumstances, I was delighted to spend the better of the day with him. Of my friends, K.C. along with Tom Rowlands had been my mother’s favorites.
For nine years of my life the three of us for all intents and purposes had been inseparable. In the summer of 1965 Tom and I moved to Chester, New Jersey. I am unsure when K.C. arrived, but I do know the Cary's pulled up stakes in Belvidere, while Tom and I came from Willingboro and Springfield respectively. That summer a bond was forged that’s been tested yet remains firm, but I can only speak for myself. If either of them disagrees, they can write their own fucking blog.

I met Tom first. Since both my parents worked, on most days my maternal grandparents were my primary caregivers. They lived a couple of miles away in a little “Melrose” development consisting of nineteen tract homes. Our family had purchased a house- I call it that because it was anything but a home- in a fledgling new development that at that time only had four other houses on the street. One afternoon while moping around my grandparents, a moving van made its way down to the last house on the cul-de-sac. My curiosity piqued, I bolted down the block to see a family unloading their belongings. Eschewing all the manners painstakingly taught to me throughout my young life, I entered the house unannounced and declared “Hi! I’m Wade your new neighbor and I have three holes in my head.” My behavior left little doubt in the minds of everyone present as to the ingenuous nature of my statement. Aside from the parental units, the four kids were all of “playmate” age; Tom happened to be about three months older than I.We spent weekdays of the remainder of that summer doing all things kid-like.

On the weekends my companion choices were limited due to the proximity of others my age. Peter Lorber, who would graduate the high school valedictorian, lived next door. Looking back, I probably should have spent more time cultivating that relationship, me being the anti-valedictorian and all.

The Simmons brothers Dwight, Bruce, and Scott, lived a stones throw (if you had a really good arm) from Peter. Since the only thing I had in common with them was that we all breathed the same air; I limited my time in the pleasure of their company.
Charlie Jeffers lived next door to the Simmons. Unbeknownst to either of us, our parents were engaged in some sort of bitter asinine chess match where Charlie and I were pawns.

The Drabs lived across the street from Charlie. The son Danny was my age, but again any commonality was nonexistent. That may have been due to Danny’s limited capacity. That, and he frequently made all sorts of horse noises which kinda freaked me out.

A little further down the street my playmate prayers were answered in the form of Warren Whiting. I spent a lot of time at his house every weekend until my grandfather heard about it at church one Sunday. You see my grandfather was a tremendous bigot, and Warren, well he happened to be black. My grandfather hard a stern talking to my mother about the company I kept. My visits to Warren’s were severely curtailed, but I still snuck there whenever I could. My first sign of a rebellious independence that later would cause my mother great angst. One afternoon while playing at Warren’s K.C. and I made our first acquaintance. It was a banner summer on the friend front.

For the most part it was easy to see how we all gravitated toward each other. Sure, geography played a certain role, but wait there’s more. Tom, K.C., and I all would be willing to play any sport all day long, or at least until the streetlights came on or a parent whistled. Football, baseball, basketball, and general roughhousing topped our activities list. We each had a certain amount of talent for each organized sport, Tom and K.C. of a greater degree. We all were relatively intelligent. And we all had a sense of humor that appealed to the other two. That was as good a foundation to build a lifelong friendship as any other I’ve heard of.

For the remainder of our school years we were often in the same class or classes. Our junior year Tom moved away to Ohio. After high school K.C. went off to Trenton State; I just went off. Tom graduated from Ohio University, K.C. from Trenton State after an elongated stay. I on the other hand, continued to sabotage whatever prospects I may have had. I’m sure this erratic behavior was at the root of my snubbing Tom’s nuptials that occurred right after he finished school. The awkwardness for me lingered for several years. However, K.C. and I picked up where we left off. He and a few other friends rented a shore house in Belmar. I went there every chance I got. By this time K.C. had taken up playing the guitar, poorly, but he had taken up nonetheless.

I won’t go into the sordid details of that summer’s debauchery; you can fill in the blanks. When summer concluded K.C. decided it was time for him to try his act out in public. He and Mike DeSaye formed “The Hot Damn Brothers.” For a lounge act, they were pretty good actually. I went to see them play whenever I could. One Christmas as a sign of my appreciation, and the respect I had for K.C. and his craft; I hired a bagpiper to play “Mull of Kintyre” along with them. There’s more to this story, but it’s in my book.

Along this time I was a serious student at HB Acting Studio in New York. Any time I got a part, K.C. would come support me. One good turn deserves another. Like any good starving actor, I waited tables; my place of employment, the Publick House in Chester. It just so happened The Hot Damn Brothers had a regular gig there. They played the Publick House the night of October 4, 1984. You may ask how do I know this. I know because after the gig had ended, and K.C. and I squeezed into his oversized Captain Lou Albano shirt, I left the Publick House but didn’t make it home. And when I did, it was sans one leg and casts on my other appendages.

K.C. came to visit me in the hospital religiously. He organized a benefit for, well, my benefit. After I started feeling better, I also started behaving worse. K.C. took a break from me, for his own sanity is my guess. Once I physically healed we got together now and again. However, now I was a Dad, I had responsibilities I needed to attend to. Tom and I headed in the opposite direction relationshipwise.

My father had retired, and moved from Salt Lake to a burgh just south of Columbus, Ohio. On my yearly visits out to see him, I always made it a point of getting together with Tom if it was feasible. During a 2001 trip, Tom and I discussed K.C. at great length, rehashing old memories and such. Tom informed me that K.C.’s son was quite an accomplished guitar in his own right. We decided we’d try to call K.C. while we were together. We both had made some futile attempts in the past. We thought that perhaps with the energy of the two of us focused on the same goal… Again, our efforts yielded nothing. We both vowed not to give up.

Tom and I call each other a few times a year. We’ve had the good fortune to see each other a few times since ’01 either here in Florida or up in Ohio. We exchange Christmas cards. Tom was even magnanimous enough to look after my son Cory on his trip to check out Ohio State University. Tom’s son Tommy allowed Cory to stay at his dorm one night. Tommy also served as Cory’s personal guide around campus.

Mike Marelli, another friend since I’ve been eight, at my request, found a number for K.C. a couple of years ago. A strange voice answered the phone and asked me not to call the number again. Back to square one. Thank goodness for the internet.

Last year’s search uncovered that K.C. had played at a Black Potato Music Festival in Flemington, New Jersey a couple of years earlier. This was the most concrete lead I’d had in awhile. I was happy to see he still had the creative juices flowing. This year maybe the stars truly are aligned.

Yesterday after speaking with Mike Marelli on the phone; I saw it as an omen to search for K.C. once again. I had made previous attempts to locate him on Facebook, but knowing K.C. as I think I still do; K.C. signing up for Facebook is about as likely as an agoraphobic criss-crossing the country campaigning for political office. I was relegated to my normal investigative Google search. Lo and behold, staring out at me from print below a YouTube posting was the name “K.C. Cary.”
I clicked on the link and watched the video with a fondness normally reserved for one rehashing old wedding tapes. I send a message to K.C.’s YouTube account, whether I get a response or not remains to be seen. Who the hell knows if he’d be as happy to hear from me as I would be to hear from him? Christ! After all this time I was beside myself just watching the video. Amid this gold rush my phone rings; it’s Tom Rowlands. No shit.

I tell Tom of my findings. He tells me of a party he’s planning for June. He tells me he’d be delighted if I could come. He tells me a friend of his Ellis Paul is playing at the party. I don’t know who that is. I’ll have to Google him when I get off the phone. Tom tells me how great it’d be if both K.C. and I could make it this party. I send Tom the link so he can check out K.C.’s video. After speaking with Tom, I Google “Ellis Paul.” I find out at one time he too played The Black Potato Music Fest. Yes Tom, by all accounts it would be fucking unbelievable to get all of us in the same room together. I sure hope K.C. reads this blog. I sent him the link. The song he sings on his video? Growin’ Up by Springsteen. Oh them stars!

22 and Counting

With the Master’s golf tournament; the season’s first major set to get underway tomorrow, the number twenty-two in the title could refer to how many women it has been determined Tiger Woods- who is set to compete for the first time this year- has slept with. Since I fall among those who feel the whirlwind, tabloid fixation surrounding Tiger Woods’ personal life by the media is utterly distasteful; the number twenty-two signifies something of much greater value.The number twenty-two represents the number of consecutive Opening Days I share with my son Cory.

Baseball is something I’ve imparted with Cory even before he was born. During the course of my ex-wife’s pregnancy, the fetus soon to be known as Cory attended many a softball game where I was a participant. In the months leading up to the birth, I watched numerous games on the television with my ex as company. We even went to one or two games at Shea Stadium that summer of ’84.

Pre-natal exposure comes in many forms. We’re told to watch the tone of our voices; that shouting and arguing can cause the fetus great angst. They can feel the tension. Some parents-to-be play classical music in the hope their offspring will become the next Mozart; or Clapton, banking on the notion that their child will become a guitar virtuoso. I had no such grandiose dreams.

I love the game of baseball. The child was just being exposed to what interested the father. After Cory was born my interest did not waver. By default, Cory’s senses were inundated with anything baseball. Had I been a fan of ballet, perhaps that would have piqued his interest, but I wasn’t; I was a fan of baseball. However, I will confess that once the seed was planted, I may have gone a little overboard (as I did with many things in Cory’s infancy) with the cultivation and nurturing of said seed.

We attended the Mets victory parade in 1986; Cory was three months shy of his second birthday. I happened to see a copy of the New York Daily News the next day. On its cover was a crowd shot from the parade. Leaning against a lamppost was a rather tall gentleman holding his small child on his shoulder, on his other shoulder was a diaper bag. I didn’t see anyone else standing close by us the previous day. I assumed it was Cory and I in the photo.

For Cory’s second birthday he received his first bat (aluminum not plastic), his first glove (a Mizuno not some plether piece of shit), his first baseball (not soft and rubbery, but hard and official), and a batting tee.

I brought Cory with me to Shea Stadium the following month to select our seats for the upcoming season. We entered the stadium through the player’s tunnel. The gates behind home plate that led to the field had been left open. There was at least six inches of snow on the ground. I carried Cory out onto the field so he could witness the grandiosity of the ballpark. The feeling must have been as overwhelming for him as one who first looks up at the Empire State building; he began to cry.

As we quickly made our way to the visitor’s clubhouse I regaled Cory with the significance of our surroundings. I explained this was where just three months earlier, the Boston Red Sox were making preparations to celebrate their first World Series Championship in sixty-eight years. I explained how each locker stall he saw was covered in plastic in expectation of the champagne that was going to be sprayed. I pointed out where the platform was erected by the NBC crew where Bob Costas would interview the winning manager and players. I told him this was where the Championship trophy would be handed over to the Red Sox owner. Then I told him how it all had to be removed in a matter of just a few minutes because of what happened on the field. I reminded Cory he had watched what happened many times whenever we played the videotape recapping the Mets 1986 season. Whether or not Cory absorbed any of the information I prattled on about was immaterial; for some strange reason I felt I was obliged to share this information.

Cory’s mother forbade him to attend the upcoming Opening Day three months after his second birthday. I vehemently argued my position to no avail. Had my powers of persuasion been successful, the number would now stand at twenty-three. Cory would have to wait another year.

Opening Day was not the only game Cory and I attended together. While a Mets season ticket holder, it was commonplace for me to attend fifty games a year though driving seventy-three miles to and from Shea Stadium. I was told by the Mets public relations department that I had the longest drive of any season ticket holder. Cory made this trip with me no less than twenty times over the course of any given season. I always reveled in the time we spent enjoying baseball games together, but Opening Day together has a certain distinct aura.

This year some of the zest for Opening Day has dissipated for me. Now that Cory and I live in South Florida, though still avid Mets fans, we have gone to every Florida Marlins home opener, save the team’s inaugural one in 1993. Personally, I feel no loyal attachment to the local team. Sure, I root for them, except when they play the Mets, but I’ve soured on the franchise itself.

I’ve done extensive research concerning the Marlins franchise in the last year. Many of the circumstances, past and current, surrounding the team disturb me; particularly the new stadium issue. I am frustrated by the attitude of Major League Baseball as I try to unearth what’s at the bottom of the leagues decision making process. I am appalled by the lies from ownership, as well as the unrealistic expectations and demands these executives put on the manager and the team. It is for these reasons Opening Day had lost its lustre this year...until a recent phone conversation with Cory brought everything into perspective.

Each year it is my job to procure tickets for Opening Day. Some years I get them the first day they become available, some years I wait until I have the funds. It never affected where we’d be sitting. I do not get the “traditional” best seats available. I have found, due to the stadium configuration, that seats by the visitor's bullpen are best for a couple of reasons.

Since it is a football stadium, the seats down the left field line by the visitor's bullpen allow me to watch the game without having to keep my head crooked to one side. Other seats allow for this as well, but they’re minimally twice the price, others even more.

Another reason I like these seats is access. The end of the row seat is always available. This lets me stick my artificial leg out in the aisle. If I sat in an inside seat, I’d have to remove my leg for any sort of comfort.

Lastly, most games this section is rarely sold out. Since South Florida baseball fans have absolutely no semblance of proper baseball game viewing decorum, sitting where we do, there is minimal patron distraction. By that I mean fewer people obstructing my view while the game is being played. The ying-yangs down here can’t seem to grasp the concept of leaving their seats during lulls in play. And if you’ve ever attended a game, that’s one thing baseball isn’t short on it’s lulls in play. The dopes down here can’t seem to wait for an out or for the half inning to end before they go take a whiz or purchase something that will require you to take one. They’ve got to do it right when there’s action. Sheesh!

This year the Marlins home opener is at night. I’m all about tradition. I like that the Cincinnati Reds always played the first game of the new season because they were the first professional team. MLB did away with that tradition in 2003. Hell, the Reds used to play all Opening Day games at home in deference to their elite status, but that too went by the wayside.

Remember, it’s all about the money, hence Opening Night instead of Opening Day. More “fans” can attend. I say just more casual schmucks that’ll get there late and leave early.

When I told Cory the reasons for my lack of exuberance this year, he said that’s not what this day is about. It’s about him and I doing something that we’ve done together every year since he was three. My guess is that very few fathers and sons have ever gone to as many Opening Days together as Cory and I have, much less consecutively. It is our day, no matter who else may be with us. It’s something we share exclusively. That alone makes Opening Day special. My friend Gregg once said, “In order for something to be an annual event, you have to do it every year.” Cory and I continue to have that privilege.

Last year Gregg, who has spent many an Opening Day with us, brought his two daughters to their first “Opening Day;” this delighted me no end. Sometime in the future perhaps our paths will take Cory and I in directions that for some reason will not allow us to continue our streak of consecutive Opening Days together; that will be a sad day indeed. But the possibility also exists that the streak will go on unabated, and if I live long enough, another generation of Berstler will join in the annual tradition. The very thought of that makes me smile.