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.

Jumping Through College Hoops

I love this time of year. For those of you who read this blog on a regular basis, you’re probably surmising I love any time of the year if it has to do with sports. Conversely, I fall into the dark abyss of melancholy when the calender signals a sports lull. This supposition is not entirely true. I am grateful for each day and the promise it holds. However, sports do brighten my mental landscape. With that being said; when an annual athletic event of great importance - to me and the rest of the sports loving world- occurs, I become a bit giddy with anticipation.

I have previously voiced this sentiment concerning sports “perfect storm” of early fall. When college and professional football are in full swing, Major League baseball reaches its crescendo staging the World Series, and college and professional basketball are just getting started. While not as much in terms of sheer volume happens in early spring, the import of the competitions is no less noteworthy. The March Madness of the NCAA basketball tournament and the start of a new Major League baseball season happen in a three week span.

I had to type that last sentence three times before I got it right my hands were trembling so with excitement. Before you pass judgment on what brings me pleasure, think of what interests aside from your families that floats your boat. I thought so. Unless your hobbies are stem cell research or oncology let’s not be rash in our opinions shall we? I know some of you may think who cares about an over hyped competition of pituitary cases? Let me say, Luther Halsey Gulick might be if he were alive today. I’d venture to say he’d more than care; he’d be ecstatic.

You see, it was Mr. Gulick who instructed a student of his at the Young Men’s Christian Association Training School that Gulick headed, to come “up with a game that could be played indoors in the winter and integrate the YMCA’s holistic principles of mind, body and spirit.” The students name was James Naismith; the game he came up with was basketball.

The hooligan Irish and German immigrant youths of nineteenth century Boston needed something to occupy their time other than their normal shenanigans. I love using “hooligans” and “shenanigans” in the same sentence. These incorrigibles couldn’t very well play baseball in the snow could they?

Theodore Roosevelt didn’t like what he saw was happening to America’s middle- and upper-class younger generation of boys. Roosevelt coined the term “sissies” when he referred to these lads spoiled by the comforts of urban life. Roosevelt felt they hardly seemed prepared to take over industries their more “manly” fathers had worked so hard to create. “Only aggressive sports can create the brawn, the spirit, the self-confidence, and the quickness of men essential for the existence of a strong nation,” Roosevelt asserted. Christ, his head would explode if he saw the “mere animal sloth and ease” and “the gradual failure of vitality” of today’s video game playing couch potatoes.

Unlike baseball, basketball was relatively inexpensive to play. Naismith hung peach baskets to crossbeams. All that was needed was a pair of shorts, a pair of athletic shoes, and a ball. It is this aspect that makes the game so appealing for university athletic departments on a budget. As I’ve said before; nothing brings a university notoriety like success in a major sport.

Academics are great, but no one hears of great academic schools without doing some research. Sure, aside from the Ivys and the Academy's, there are ten or so schools known primarily for their academic standing. Even a couple of those schools, like Stanford for example, have outstanding athletic programs. The University of Chicago was known for its sports before it was known for its academics. For small schools, funding a football or baseball program can be cost prohibitive. But a top notch Division I basketball program can exist even at the most obscure minimal enrollment institution.

The NCAA has made the format for entrance to the “Big Dance” as the NCAA tournament is sometimes referred, quite enticing for smaller schools. Most DI conferences, no matter minuscule, have their own tournament at the end of their regular season. The winner automatically qualifies for the “Big Dance.” That’s how schools like St. Mary’s (enrollment 4300) or Quinnipiac get in to face juggernauts like Kansas or Kentucky. Not only does this bring recognition to the school by being on national television, but every once in awhile one of these lesser programs emerges victorious. Because it occurs only every once in awhile, Greg Cote, that paragon of sports insight who writes for the Miami Herald, lobbied in his column prior to the start of this year’s tournament, to do away with automatic entry for the smaller conference winners. What an asshole. Almost as if his piece served as the motivation, several schools were able to give Mr. Cote a collective middle finger salute.

Small schools’ beating big schools is one of the main reasons why I become immersed in the tournament. Another reason is the thrilling finishes. This year I got both.

In the first round: Murray State defeated Vanderbilt. How many of you know in which state Murray State - since there isn’t a state called “Murray” though maybe there should be- is located? I thought so. It’s Kentucky by the way. Cornell, yes that Cornell, beat Temple. Ohio University, not Ohio State, soundly defeated a heavily favored Georgetown team. Old Dominion beat Notre Dame. Anytime a Notre Dame team loses anything I’m thrilled. Wofford nearly upset Wisconsin who would lose to Cornell in the next round, and BYU needed two overtimes to beat the underdog Florida Gators. If you want to know what state Wofford’s in, look it up.

The University of Washington squad not only upset Marquette in the first round, they duplicated the feat by beating favored New Mexico in the second. St Mary’s of California with its forty-three hundred enrollment, beat powerhouse Villanova, officially fucking up my bracket. But the biggest story was UNI, or the University of Northern Iowa for you laypersons.

Not only did UNI beat UNLV (I like typing that too), but they beat the overall number one seed of the tournament and the top ranked team in the country Kansas. This was all the more exciting because UNI plays on Robert J. McCoy Court. This thrills me no end because my son was once roommates at the University of Florida with Robert J. McCoy Jr. the elder member of The Brothers McCoy previously mentioned in past blogs. The hero for UNI was guard Ali Farokhmanesh whose specialty was shooting three-pointers from the parking lot. He also played with gonads the size of bowling balls and as tough as titanium. Take that Greg Cote.

CBS did a wonderful job keeping me abreast of all that was happening. Only a couple of too soon cutaways and an errant selection of the featured game for my region caused by producer brain farts kept the coverage from being nearly perfect; those missteps and Gus Johnson, one of the CBS announcers yelling about everything. I didn’t purchase the DirecTV package. I think had I been able to watch each game in its entirety, watching multiple games on fifty inches of splits-screen HD television, I may have popped a blood vessel due to sensory overload.

I think the NCAA tournament should stay exactly the way it is…unless I have a stroke. That would be bad.

Anemoi

It seems as though I should be writing about the health care plan our government is attempting to institute. However, I find it too daunting a task to condense to fifteen hundred words. The bill is over twenty-eight hundred pages. It is written in such legalese that I sincerely doubt any member of Congress or their staff members have completed such an arduous task; imagine combining three copies of Atlas Shrugged written in the style of Paradise Lost. I’ve decided to tackle something simpler, yet no less perplexing.

I am grateful for the lake I live on. It is not only pleasant and calming to gaze out on, particularly at sunset; but it also provides me with a gauge for the direction of the wind. Here in South Florida, the wind cannot be judged by which way the clouds are moving. There are times when the low lying nimbostrati are going in one direction, while the altocumulus or cirrus are heading in another. Thank goodness for the lake. All I have to do is look to see which way the water going to know where the wind is coming from. This revelation gave me pause. The wind is really quite remarkable when you think about it.

In ancient times, early civilizations denoted the wind as one of the five elements upon which the fundamental powers of anything were based. This elemental form serves a special place for those who practice the occult.

The wind never laughs, but it does wail, moan, and Jimi Hendrix said that it cried Mary. Bob Dylan said the answers were blowin’ in it; The Scorpions confirmed that when they sang of the winds of change being felt in the U.S.S.R. in 1989. We can’t see the wind, but Mocedades said we could touch it (Eres tu) which may be possible since we can feel it.

Tex Ritter said it was wayward, confirming Churchill’s observations of the winds of war at work prior to World War II, which illustrated how an ill wind can blow no good. But it also can bring despair when it’s a picture of health.

A strong wind can blow a gale, bringing destruction in the form a hurricane or blizzard depending on the time of the year. The wind is moody. It can be gentle as a breeze, it can be a breath of fresh air, or be as tempestuous as a…well…a tempest. It can cause a home to be drafty, and a house to be homey when the smells from a kitchen waft throughout.

Just as quick as a gust can come up, a tornado can blow a house down; no wolf needed. If you must have a wolf, check the wind in the willows.

Frank Sinatra sang of a summer wind as mild as a zephyr, yet that very same wind can bring a blast of hot air that’s stifling, very much like those who are full of it. Still, Seals and Crofts said a summer breeze can make one feel fine. Come to think of it, the wind is a paradox.

Francois de la Rochefoucauld, the 17th century French author noted how it blows out candles, yet kindles fire. But Buddha noted it can’t erase our good deeds. Nevertheless, the Antebellum South civilization was gone with it, and still wisdom sails with it.

You can break wind, as well as be long winded. Heaven forbid the two are ever combined. You can’t change the direction of the wind, but if you’re breaking A Mighty Wind, it’s good you do it down from it.

The Bible says if you trouble your own house, you can inherit the wind, but if you inspire others they will rise up on your wind beneath their wings according to Bette Midler.

Socrates would be pleased we still held his notion of humanity’s insignificance in the big scheme of things. The band Kansas reiterating centuries later that we’re all just dust in the wind.

Wind can bring the greatest golfers in the world to their knees, yet a flag waving in it can cause us to stand up and feel a certain pride. A hard enough wind can knock us over, but we can get carried away on it as well; just ask Dorothy and Toto.

For clarification for those who’ve seen Jersey Shore, or been to Seaside Heights or any place where there are amusement rides; the wind can be a cyclone, but not a wild mouse.

The wind can be selective. Convertible owners like to put the top down so they can feel the wind in their hair. Motorcycle riders claim the same thing; this is why some prefer to go helmetless. I’ll check back with you to see if you hold those same sentiments after you kiss a telephone pole like I did. Dogs love to hang out car windows to have the wind in their faces, but if it’s in a humans face, we struggle. Bob Seger would say this is against the wind. Instead, if it’s at our backs, we are filled with optimism.

Forrest Gump claimed to run like it. The Lone Ranger extolled Silver to ride like it. Woody did the same to Bullseye in Toy Story. Maybe just to prove this wind was not exclusive to the cowboy community, Christopher Cross said we all could, not just heroes and their steeds.

Mark Twain said the wind can bring doubt, as demonstrated by the evening weather report. Each night fisherman everywhere check to see how calm the seas will be the following morning to confirm if they should venture out. But as some of you probably know, you don’t need a weatherman to tell which way the wind blows.

I know this entry is shorter than normal; I don’t want you to think I’m just some tired old bag of wind. Besides, if I sit here much longer, I may get a second one, and I’ll never be able to wind this thing down. Did I fool anyone with that last gasp of “wind?”

Down for the Count

Hey kids, guess what time it is? It’s time to take the U.S. Census! Isn’t that exciting? The census is taken in the United States every ten years. I don’t know if other countries conduct a census, but I don’t live there, so I don’t really care.

The census is taken to get an accurate account of how many people live in the United States. There are two very important reasons why the government needs to know how many people live here. First, the government doles out over $400 billion dollars to states and municipalities based on population. So if you want a piece of that legislative allocation, you make damn sure to fill out your census form.

The census is so important; the census sends you a letter stating that the census form is coming in the mail. Now there’s a fine use of tax dollars. There has also been an endless stream of television ads telling everyone how important the census is, and that you’ll be getting a form in the mail. I wonder what those ads cost. Maybe the census takes all the census costs out of the $400 billion.

The elderly get money for services pertaining to them, so we need to make sure to get an accurate count on them. Approximately 6700 people die every die in America, many of them elderly. Getting a correct tally could be tricky. Some of the money goes to schools, so it’s important to get a fix on how many children there are. However, about 11,800 babies are born every day in the U.S. That can really mess with the figures the government has to work with.

The other reason is that our representation in Washington is based on census figures. The population of districts determines whether or not the district is entitled to another unneeded legislative asshole that doesn’t have his constituents interest at heart. That’s the clincher for me in a nutshell. I don’t know about you, but I certainly want my tax dollars going to another out of touch imbecile’s salary who doesn’t give a shit about the needs of the voters, and all because the census determines we need one.

Personally, I think the census is a great idea in theory; in practice the census is woefully flawed. Let’s take the illegal immigrant population shall we? The U.S. Census estimates that there are between 7 and 20 million illegal immigrants living in the United States at any given time. The census estimates that approximately 200,000 illegal immigrants enter the U.S. every year, and have been doing so at this rate since 1986. Correct me if I’m wrong; my math skills are a bit weak, but 200,000 times 24 years, gives me about 5,000,000. That’s a far cry from 7 million, and it’s a blood curdling screaming tantrum from 20 million. Where the census gets their figures from escapes me? Oh, that’s right, they get their figures from census estimates. There’s that word again that’s bandied about so freely; “estimates.”

In my estimation, that leaves between 2 million and 15 million illegal immigrants unaccounted (?) for; the difference being roughly, since we’re using round numbers, twice the population of New York City. That kind of number can really skew where $400 billion should go. But don’t be alarmed; the census has a contingency for just this kind of inaccuracy.

There is a Federal law, which means it must be so, which states, and I’m taking this right from the back of the page of supplemental information:

Federal law (see, I told you!) protects your privacy and keeps your answers confidential (Title 13, United States Code, Sections 9 and 214). The answers you give on the census form cannot be obtained by law enforcement (whew!) or tax collection agencies. Your answers cannot be used in court. (whew again!) They cannot be obtained with a Freedom of Information Act (FOIA) request. As allowed by law, census data becomes public after 72 years (Title 44, United States Code, Section 2108). Wow! No government agency can gain access to any census information. Do you really buy that bullshit?

I knew there was a catch. That means if you are an illegal immigrant, and stay in this country for 72 more years, you can then be deported. There is also another catch. All of the information in the previous paragraph is written in English!
When I opened my census form, two things jumped out at me. One was the first two questions.
1. How many people were living or staying in this house, apartment, or mobile home on April 1, 2010?
2. Were there any additional people staying here April 1, 2010 that you did not include in Question 1?

If you don’t believe me, look for yourself. Is this some sort of second chance to come clean? Is the census bureau saying, “Okay, we know you didn’t tell us the truth in Question 1, so here’s your last chance. Think carefully about your answer to Question 1, and see if you really want to stick with that.” I guess “additional,” and “did not include,” are underlined to emphasize how important this figure, and that the census bureau means business!

Imagine being the person whose numbers from the first two questions coincide. What do they say to themselves? “Whoa! I guess the jig is up. Nothing gets past these sharp census folk. Okay, you caught me. Rats!” Or is the number in the answer to question one so high, that you forget everyone who’s living with you?

I propose to get a truly accurate census that the United States declares a “National Census Day.” Everyone is given the day off. Schools are closed. All businesses cease operation. You know, just like Sundays back in the ‘60s. That day, everyone at their predetermined time, MUST stand outside on the street they live on, and each town’s census takers will drive around to get a physical head count. No names, no addresses, no phone numbers; just bodies. The same “Federal laws” would apply.

The second thing that perplexed me was the absence of any European classification. Question 8 covers every “Hispanic, Latino, or Spanish” background. Question 9 allows for all Asian, Pacific Islander, Black, African American, Negro (people still refer to themselves as “Negro” in 2010?) Native American, and White. Are Europeans supposed to be just bunched together with all “whites?” What if Euros take offense to that? Am I allowed to use the term Euros? I’m so confused.

So are the folks who live in states with little or no illegal immigrant population. They feel they are going to get a skinnier piece of the government pie because their states can’t pad their population figures the way states like Arizona, California, and Florida can. New York illegals don’t count. They’ve included themselves for years with impunity. However, a problem exists in California, Arizona, and Florida that could gum up the works.

California and Arizona have really cracked down (Florida not as much) on illegal immigration. Florida’s approach to illegals has always ebbed and flowed like the tide, relying on the general mood of public opinion. With this kind of uncertainty and the innate distrust in government; I’m sure illegals everywhere are suspect as to whether filling out a census form is in their best interest, though they would also gain if a little extra government coin was to flow into their community. What a conundrum! This gives new meaning to the adage “fish or cut bait.”

As the dutiful good American that I am, I will fill out the census and return it in a timely manner. I will do this for the same reason I vote; it gives me the right to bitch. It gives me the right to point my finger at those that eschew this responsibility, and reinforce the pandemic apathy that plagues this country. I certainly don’t want to become part of the reason my community’s schools are underfunded. But then again, I don’t want to be included as part of the reason we get to elect another legislative douchebag to Congress. Maybe I’ll just fudge my answers to questions 1 and 2.

You know; if you say the word "census" enough times, it almost sounds like "senseless."