Master of All He Surveyed

As was George Steinbrenner a paradox, my feelings about him were as well. I have lauded him and cursed him, sometimes within the same breath. Words that spring to mind when asked about him would depend entirely on the year. Loathing, hate, revile, admire, respect, honorable, dishonorable, magnanimous, generous, spiteful, bombastic, compassionate, cantankerous, gracious, determined…you see what I mean. At any given time, depending on the topic, any of these words I may use to describe my feelings about George Steinbrenner.

Never to be upstaged, in typical Steinbrenner fashion, he died yesterday on the day of Major League Baseball’s showcase of talent; the All-Star game. His team was in first place of its division. A mix of home grown talent, players acquired through trades, and pricey free agents, have melded together to make a patented Yankee run at securing the American League pennant. Nothing could be viler in my sports world than another World Series appearance. If that team from the Bronx does indeed secure the flag, it is due to what George Steinbrenner created, and will endure as long as a member or members of his family own the team. For this George Steinbrenner is to be lauded and commended…hated, detested, and abhorred; oops, there I go again.

As a Mets fan, I am not jealous of the Yankees success. I wish the Mets brass and ownership were as shrewd and driven as Steinbrenner. Though I must say; I find many Yankee “fans” nauseating. It’s as if they are personally responsible for the team’s achievements. This group of “fans” swear they have been loyal since the days of Babe Ruth. Some of them will attest after having consumed enough alcohol, to having seen Ruth play though they may have been born in 1980. This phenomenon George Steinbrenner is also responsible for. Good for him, the sly bastard.

Yes sir, Steinbrenner was one sharp individual. His Dad was wealthy, but not rich by any means. His father, after graduating from the Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), ran a shipping enterprise that was started by his grandfather which managed traffic through the Great Lakes. It provided the family with all the amenities a successfully maintained business is expected to. However, George received no allowance. Instead, he was given chickens as a form of payment for the duties assigned by his father. Inventive George, instead of selling the chickens for his spending money, started an egg selling business. He was so successful, when he left to attend military school; he gave the business to his sisters. This business acumen would serve both George and his father well one day.

Steinbrenner was an avid sportsman, running track and playing football while at Williams College, a very prestigious small private institution. After a stint in the military, Steinbrenner went on to receive his master’s degree at Ohio State University (I refuse to use “The”…). There, he assisted legendary taskmaster and football coach, Woody Hayes. Steinbrenner briefly served as an asistant coach at Purdue and Northwestern. The sports bug had bitten George.

Against his father’s wishes, Steinbrenner bought the Cleveland Pipers franchise of the fledgling ABL. He also hired the first black head coach in professional sports. I bet you didn’t know that. The minor league basketball team promptly collapsed after two years. Rather than file for bankruptcy, Steinbrenner paid off his investors the $25 million they had coming to them. It took several years.

When his father’s shipping business radically declined, George stepped in to save it. He convinced investors on his plans for the future of the company, renamed it American Shipping, brought his father out of retirement to help run things, and both men became quite wealthy. His father owed George a debt of thanks, but one never came.

Undaunted by his failed basketball enterprise, Steinbrenner made a play to buy the Cleveland Indians. When that was unsuccessful, in 1973, a consortium headed by him and Mike Burke, bought The New York Yankees for the tidy sum of $8.8 million dollars. The rest they say is history.

Players could now become free agents due to the perseverance of Curt Flood, Andy Messersmith, and Dave McNally. Steibrenner had the vision to seize this opportunity as to where Major League Baseball was heading. The days of sole ownership were numbered. After eighty-eight years of relegating players to subservience, owners reaping huge profits while crying poverty, while the men who put the asses in the seats made whatever the owners felt like paying them; the jig was up. Steinbrenner, for all intents and purposes said, “Okay fellas, put on your big boy pants, there’s a new Sheriff in town, he wants to win, and he’s got a lot-o-money to spend.” With that money Steinbrenner signed some of the biggest names in baseball, and he reaped the fruits of their labors. However, for every Reggie Jackson there was a Dave Justice. For every Jim “Catfish” Hunter, there was an Ed Whitson. But Steinbrenner didn’t care.

Baseball had finally been declared a business by the Supreme Court of the United States, and George ran his team just like his shipping business. If you didn’t perform, you were fired and replaced by someone who would; to George’s specifications. You’ve got to spend money to make money, and make money he did. That baseball team investment of $8.8 million dollars is now worth well over $1 billion. The New York Yankees have the highest value of any professional sports franchise. Fuck the Cowboys. As an added sweetener, the YES network that broadcasts all Yankee game is also owned by Steinbrenner. When combined with the Yankees, that package now has a price tag of over $3 billion.

Steinbrenner saw pay TV coming and he invested. Just like he saw that the anti-trust exemption wasn’t going to pertain to baseball forever. Those owners who weren’t willing to open their checkbooks and play by the new rules sold out. George just said “Too bad.” He probably said something a little more colorful than that.

Just like his shipping business, at the Yankees George surrounded himself with the best and the brightest. He was just as notorious for overpaying his employees as he was for making “unreasonable demands. However, it was never anything more than he asked of himself. He was notoriously loyal to those who were loyal to the Yankees save Yogi Berra, and that fence has been mended.

He believed in second chances. Just ask Dwight Gooden, Darryl Strawberry, and Dale Berra. He believed in giving some of his good fortune to those who weren’t fortunate at all, and if you were fortunate, he gave you more so others could give more.

Steinbrenner built a new building on the University of Florida campus that now bears his name. He never played in a band, but sang in the glee club. He never went to the University of Florida, but Florida was his primary state of residence. That’s all the connection Steinbrenner needed to make life a little better for others.
Each year Steinbrenner allowed the Florida State High School Baseball Finals to be played at Steinbrenner Field (formerly Legends Field) the Yankees training and minor league facility. He didn’t charge the state a dime.

He had his personal secretary with the Yankees scour the papers daily for someone in need that had nowhere else to turn. Steinbrenner then would step forward –anonymously if he could get away with it- and offer financial assistance.
In homage to his father, George built a brand new baseball stadium and facility on the campus of MIT. His father’s response? “That’s the only way you’d ever get onto the MIT campus.”

Steinbrenner saved the family business, made his father wealthier than he ever imagined, and built a tribute to him on the campus of his father’s alma mater. Yet, whatever George did was never good enough for his father. A close personal friend of Steinbrenner’s said that George would have traded all of his championship rings just to hear his father say “I love you.” Steinbrenner lived the life he did because of, and due to, his father. The elder Steinbrenner taught him a toughness that never allowed for second best, but for some reason even being the very best wasn’t enough.

My fiercest resentment toward Steinbrenner perhaps mirrors Steinbrenner the man. I was not a Yankee fan, but I was a devout fan of Reggie Jackson. I went to nearly thirty games at Yankee Stadium each year Reggie played in pinstripes. At the end of his contract, and two World Championships, and a World Series performance for the ages, under his belt; Steinbrenner let Reggie go the way he came, via free agency. Reggie went from working for one of the strictest most difficult owner’s, to one of the nicest in Gene Autry (yes, the cowboy), owner of the California Angels. I vowed I’d never go back to Yankee Stadium except for Reggie’s first game there in an Angel uniform.

True to my promise, I was in attendance that night with my now ex-wife. Reggie did not disappoint. He hit a home run in the rain off Yankee ace Ron Guidry. As Reggie rounded the bases to thunderous applause; I stood on my seat and chanted at the top of my lungs, “Steinbrenner Sucks!” Like a rising tide, the chant was duplicated throughout the ballpark (Reggie makes mention of this in his biography). Still standing, I turned to Steinbrenner’s suite to give him the middle finger salute only to find Steinbrenner was not in attendance that evening. The Boss had the foresight to not be there that night, a big enough man to silently admit he made a mistake, and a wise enough man not to be shown up by someone lesser than he.

Years later, as my toddler son and I drove past Yankee Stadium on one of our many trips to Shea Stadium to see our beloved Mets, Cory asked me,

“Who plays there?” I replied “The Yankees.”

“How come we never go there to see them?” he continued.

“Because a bad man owns them” I said sternly.

Steinbrenner changed the game I loved, and as I saw it then, not for the better. He deprived me of witnessing my favorite player work his magic on baseball’s most hallowed ground. My pettiness came from a lack of understanding a man that couldn’t be understood by what you read in the press. I commend the man I know of now. May he rest in peace; he’s done the game of baseball a great service. Many have offered their thanks in and outside the realm of baseball. Too bad his father missed the boat. No pun intended.

Father Time's Watch is Fast

At the risk of bumming some people out, this blog is meant to be cathartic. I am writing this because I need to rather than want to. I’ll understand if I don’t have any hits on my blog this week.

My maternal grandfather was a vibrant man. Even in advanced age he was always busy with one project or another. His mind was sharp, and he able to convey his ideas and viewpoints –no matter how antiquated or absurd- clearly. Sometimes too much so for those who disagreed. He was always grand company regardless. Then one day he had a heart attack, but that was the least of his worries.

His wife of sixty-two years, in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s, had been institutionalized six months earlier. She passed shortly thereafter. Their relationship was one only because they happened to have a piece of paper that said so. My grandmother had become something alien to the rest of the family. While most of us summarily dismissed her senility, my grandfather held on to memories of what once was so tightly, he only put her away out of fear she may cause bodily harm to herself, or worse yet, to him. Little did he know the damage had already been done.

My first wife and I were away on vacation in Barbados. Two days after we’d left, “Pop” walked to the end of the driveway to retrieve the days mail, just like he had done for all of his retired life. He became short of breath, and he felt a sharp pain in his chest. He drove himself to the Immediate Medical Care Center the next town over. The doctor determined he’d be better off in a hospital where he could undergo a battery of tests to find out the precise cause, and exactly how much harm had occurred. This was the first time he’d ever been admitted to a hospital in his ninety-two years on the planet.

No one bothered to notify my soon-to-be-ex-wife or myself. No one wanted to disturb our vacation because they assumed my grandfather would be fine in a few days. We were told of the news immediately upon our return six days later. That afternoon we went to visit him not bothering to unpack.

We found him in good spirits. He was sitting up, and his demeanor was jovial. He wanted to know all the details of our trip. He was confident he’d be home in no time. Five days later we visited him again.

Doctors had found his body was riddled with several different forms of cancer. This time when we saw him he was heavily sedated and semi-conscious. This is what they commonly refer to as “making one comfortable.” He was unable to even acknowledge our prescience. He died in his sleep two days later. It’s different with my Dad.

Like many sons, when I was young I worshipped the ground my father walked on. Any time he spent with me alone was precious. Whether he was telling me his stories of sailing the world as a teenager with Standard Oil, or taking me on clandestine rides on his motorcycle (my grandparents disapproved), or on the rare occasion of going to a ballgame (football or baseball), each moment I valued as if it were gold. And then my parents divorced.

I resented both parents, but my mother more than my father for a while. My mother found it necessary to abase my Dad at every opportunity, saving the most damning denunciations for after I returned from visiting him in Ohio. Without fail I’d return from one of these bi-annual excursions in tears, inconsolable for having left him. I begged to come live with him. He said he wouldn’t be able to take proper care of me. In my adult years, I knew that was horseshit.

In 1968, he decided to remarry. I was devastated. He took on a whole new pre-made family and I became in my mind, Wade-who? I still felt the same about him, but I no longer thought it reciprocal. When I turned eighteen I was convinced this was true.

A disagreement over college funding caused a rift so severe; I didn’t speak to my father by choice for the next seven years. Occasionally, I sent off derogatory missives written while in an altered state, and I was cordial at two family funerals, but that was about as far as it went. My first wife insisted that he and the rest of my extended family be invited to our wedding against my protestations. Subconsciously, I set out to make him feel as uncomfortable as possible. Regrettably, I think I succeeded. If you consider snorting cocaine off the roof of my car in front of him enough to cause an estranged parent to feel anxiety. Now that my first wife had opened the lines –no pun intended- of communication, a trip to Utah to see my father was planned.

My hair in a ratstail, sunglasses even at night, all my clothing black, including requisite leather motorcycle jacket, my ear pierced multiple times, and an earcuff for good measure, made quite a picture for him to absorb. Most graciously he kept his opinions to himself. And when a patron at a local supermarket pointed at me and declared “WOULD YOU LOOK AT THAT GUY!” My father came to my defense chastising the individual for being so uncouth. We shared beers at a local bar. We laughed again just like we used to. I felt sad of the seven years I could have with him, even if it was only a part of him. I was looking forward to his next trip east to visit us after the impending baby was born. My father came sooner than he expected.

I had had my now infamous motorcycle accident that I’ve mentioned before in previous blogs. When I came out of my coma, my father’s face was the first one I saw. I thought to myself: Didn’t I just visit him? I must be in some serious shit if my Dad is here. My ex tells me she couldn’t have gotten through that period without all his help and comfort. He was a bigger man than I for sure.

After I got divorced, my son Cory and I made another trip to Utah followed by several subsequent trips to Ohio once my Dad relocated there again Cory more frequently than I). He didn’t chide me when he observed my drinking had become a serious issue. Ten more points for him on the better man side of the chalkboard. When it came time for my father to have part of a lung removed, I stepped up to the plate like he did for me.

I flew to Ohio, spending my days at the hospital watching the NCAA Basketball Tournament at his bedside. In my heart I loved my Dad all over again. In my mind, I was mending my side of the fence.

In 2001, I again traveled to Ohio. I noticed changes in my father. He smelled of the funk. I cane to find out he developed an aversion to bathing regularly. In addition, he wore the same clothes for consecutive days. He was smoking again. He drank a little more. During this visit, we spent our days with my childhood friend Tom Rowlands, watching his daughter play in a high school softball tournament. Tom didn’t notice anything different about my Dad and he hadn’t seen him in at least ten years. Funny disease Alzheimer’s.

When my father and stepmother came to Florida for Cory’s high school graduation, I saw he had changed again and not for the better. He became disoriented now and then. He was a tad forgetful. He couldn’t remember details of stories he had told a hundred times. He repeated himself in short spans of time. I was worried.

In 2004, my wife Helen, Cory, and I spent Christmas in Ohio. It was the first Christmas I’d spent with my father in thirty years. Alzheimer’s was sinking it’s mentally debilitating claws into him. Instead of worried, I was now sad. A return visit the following year saw more signs of this dreadful disease. I’d gotten my father back before it was too late, and now he was leaving me again.

In 2005, he made his last unaccompanied trip anywhere. He came to Florida to see his former derelict son graduate from college Magna Cum Laude. He was in attendance to hear the President of the University and former ex-Lieutenant Governor of Florida, hail the son’s accomplishments to a crowd of four thousand. My Dad didn’t recall anyone I’d introduced him to. When it came time for him to leave; he had trouble navigating through the Airport. I had to wait until I knew he got on the plane okay.

Cory, Helen, and I made plans to spend another Christmas in Ohio before the ravages of Alzheimer’s completely took any memory of us, or ours of the Dad we knew. My stepmother, and my father’s wife of forty-two years Charlene, told us if we were going to come at all, we’d better do it before the holiday season arrived; my Dad was that far gone.

We only had the means for Cory and I to make the trip. When we arrived my father was suspect about letting us in the house; a preview of things to come. That first night while smoking cigarettes in the garage, my father made his confession; “I know I have a son “Wade” and a grandson “Cory” but you and the young man in the living room aren’t them as I know them.” Tears were shed by all parties involved. When it came time for Cory and I to leave, we wondered if this would be the last time we’d see him alive.

Last week I received an emotional call from Charlene. The time had come where she could no longer take care of my father at home. She was nearly disconsolate. Her guilt overwhelmed her. I tried my best to assure her she was doing the right thing. She had held on eighteen months longer than anyone should have. She had done all she could and then some. Like my grandmother, my father was sucking out the lifeforce of their caregiver. In the next week or two, my father is going to be institutionalized.

He sometimes kinda-sorta recognizes my voice when I call. He sleeps most of the day. He can’t remember anything immediately after you say it. Everything frustrates him, sometimes to the point of violence. We will be making another trip to Ohio soon; the next to last one. I don’t anticipate my father dying anytime soon, but I am sure he won’t know who any of us are if we wait too long. After that, who knows? All I know is I’m finally at peace with my Dad.

Thanks for letting me do this. I’m not in the financial position to take up space on a psychiatrist’s coach for the amount of time it took me to write this. So please, don’t anyone who reads this send me a bill.

The World's Reaction to Landon Donovan's Game Winning Goal

It's About America

When my son went to a World Cup “friendly” soccer match over in Tampa several months ago; I told him to have a good time. He responded, “It’s not about me, it’s about America.” While I laud his patriotism, let me make a couple of things clear.

First; I don’t have any idea what a “friendly” match is; are there “unfriendly matches? Taken in context, I’d assume a “friendly” match means the outcome has no bearing on anything. Now “anything” could mean a multitude of things, none of which I’ll venture a guess as to its significance.

Second; what I know about soccer, or what I cared about soccer up until this past year, wouldn’t fill a Nyquil dosage cap. The minuscule amount I do know I learned in gym class annually reinforced each fall since sixth grade. It’s a damn good thing a quiz was given on what knowledge of “the beautiful game” I retained, because I probably would’ve consciously erased all information out of disinterest, kinda like I did with any subject having to do with math.

Whenever I engaged in the play of the game, I held my own but no more. My limited unsheer athletic ability allowed me to not embarrass myself. In the summer before my senior year of high school, I once played goalie well enough in a pick up game to have several members of the team who played that day remark, I may want to try my hand at it when school reconvened in the fall. It would help me get in shape for basketball they said. I could cover more goal area due to my height and wingspan they said. I’d be given a better opportunity because I was a senior they said. I said no.

Since that time my interest in soccer has waned if that was humanly possible. I found the game boring due to the lack of scoring. What I saw was a slower version of hockey without the fighting played on grass instead of ice. The lack of physical confrontations appealed to me, the larger expanse of area in which to play did not.
I could not understand how thousands of people could watch live and on television, a soccer match for ninety minutes –plus stoppage time- (I won’t get into that) and have the game end in a tie. I saw a similarity in holding a bridge tournament at these very same venues. And for an added thrill, have the players run around while the opposing two member team tries to stop the other from playing a trick at the table set up in the center of the field. I had a hard time differentiating what the difference was in terms of excitement.

I thought I was becoming a quasi-fan when the North American Soccer League formed. Led by the jewel of the league, the New York Cosmos; they played their games a mere forty-five minute drive from my home. The team was loaded with every imaginable global star. Gorgio Chinaglia from Italy, Franz Beckenbauer from Germany, and Pele all were on the Cosmos roster. If soccer can make it there, it can make it anywhere, or so thought the league hierarchy when they bet on the Cosmos to stir America’s interest in the game the rest of the world favored over all others. Sad to say, even Ralph Lauren designed uniforms couldn’t save the league once the international stars careers came to an end. While soccer flourished elsewhere, in America it became the game you could sign your kid up for as part of their socialization process.

Sure, some of these kids went on to greater things in the game of soccer, but they did it in other countries. Tony Meiola and Claudio Reyna became stars. Both hailed from New Jersey. I followed their careers because their exploits found their way into local sports sections. Aside from them, I’d be hard pressed to name any other past American soccer prodigies.

What makes this phenomenon of my disinterest in soccer all the more inexplicable, is my insatiable appetite for sports in general. Even what I deem to be secondary sports like boxing and horse racing hold a certain appeal. Soccer never made it to that category until the last twelve months.

Eight years ago, my step-son and my son followed the World Cup; a complex conflagration of qualifying games and tournaments…I think; the importance of which knows no limitations in terms of National pride. Men are murdered, riots erupt, death threats abound, and family members are kidnapped, all due to some transgression by a player, coach, or referee.

I did not care about the World Cup eight years ago and refused to gain any interest though prodded by both my son and step-son. They tried to engage me in a conversation about what a wonderful and exciting game soccer is; I yawned. They’d go on about how the rest of the world views the sport; I’d say “good for them.” The World Cup came and went. While my son was getting up in the middle of the night to watch a game between Saudi Arabia and Whogivesashitastan; I’d sleep blissfully, and await the baseball results in the morning paper.

Four years ago, I feigned interest, occasionally storing a nugget or two of insignificant information garnered to recall at precisely the appropriate moment were the subject of the World Cup be brought up. Again, the hours my son would keep to watch each tournament game no matter how obscure the participants. He’d teach about rules that I was unfamiliar with. He tell me of player strengths and weaknesses. I could even be enticed to watch a minute or two if he was watching on the living room TV and not in the confines of his bedroom. I saw France’s Zedane headbutt an Italian player at the very worst moment. I read about it the next day. Oh my God, I said to myself; I know another player’s name from the last decade other than Diego Maradonna. That may have been the pivotal instant that my interest in World Cup soccer was altered forever.

I read the account of the final in that week’s Sports Illustrated and wondered how a player could make such a monumentally bad decision at the worst possible time. How could he let his team down? His country for Christ sake, and with so much at stake! Four years later everything changed for me.
I watched qualifying matches with my son. He got me interested in some other Cup, and I watched those matches where the USA was a participant. He bought a team jersey, I bought into International soccer. Once the USA qualified for the World Cup, I was on board. My son didn’t need to sell it anymore; I would watch albeit only the USA games.

On game days I flew the Stars and Stripes outside my front door. I made time in my schedule so I wouldn’t miss a match. I squirmed when things didn’t go Team USA’s way. I rejoiced when they scored a goal. I was thrilled when we tied England. I was irate when a referee virtually took a win from our grasp due to a phantom infraction. I revel in announcer Ian Darke’s eloquent depiction of play.

The man can sure turn a phrase. He uses words like “clever,” and “crafty” to describe a player’s abilities. The hyperbole used endears me to the game rather than stir my notions of cynicism. In soccer, he does not say “the tying goal,” but rather “the equalizer.” He expressed “outrage” at the referee’s incompetency; he being “a completely neutral observer from England.” It wasn’t just the picture of the action he painted that intrigued and delighted me; the culture surrounding FIFA (Fédération Internationale de Football Association) soccer also enthralls.

The seemingly arbitrary nature of some of the referee’s calls reminds me of the NBA. The unwritten rule that this type of behavior is acceptable does not. There is no disciplinary action taken by FIFA. A team cannot, and does not protest the game. The Federation is tight lipped prompting one Scottish journalist to observe, “It’s great the Americans are complaining. They don’t know any different. Maybe now something will be done (About poor refereeing).”

The incessant buzzing of the vuvuzelas at every match in South Africa is both charming to a point, and incredibly annoying. They are distinctive to the host country, but it sounds as if thousands of baritone bees are circling a hive.
I think it’s wild that North Korea hired Chinese men and women to be paid “fans.” It seems that the North Korean government wasn’t feeling really confident about the motives behind anyone requesting travel visas. They vehemently deny this is true, except these North Korean “fans” have to be prompted when to cheer for their country’s team.

I think it’s wild that to show you are truly American, several fans have dressed up as Elvis impersonators showing how truly American they were. I’m sure I don’t have to explain “Elvis who” based upon his iconic global recognition.

I think it’s bizarre that players get looks of incredulity when, in their and the announcers mind, they “just missed” an opportunity to score a goal. Granted, it would take at least three other events to happen precisely just for the chance, but I guess they believe something I see as remote.

I like that the team captains exchange jerseys at the end of each game. I like that my country is playing in the most prestigious soccer tournament in the world.

Today I flew the flag; USA was playing Algeria in an elimination match. For over ninety minutes I wondered if the Americans were going to get the opportunity to advance to the next round. Time and again chances for goals were denied. One such scoring prospect caused Ian Darke to exclaim, “Maybe in another time, in a parallel universe, the ball would have bounced off the goalie’s leg and into the net, but not this day.” Another goal was waved off by the referee on a bad call.

England, who is also in the same group as the USA, took a 1-0 lead over the Slovenian team. If the final scored remained that way, and the USA match ended in a stalemate, the Americans would be heading home. However, four minutes (another arbitrary referee decision) of “stoppage time” was added. In the very first minute, Landon Donovan, the team’s most recognizable player, scored the games lone goal. Alone in my living room I howled cries of triumph! We not only were moving on to the next round, but we won our group for the first time since 1930; the year of the first World Cup.

My son apologized last week for getting me involved in following World Cup soccer. No need, even though I still have not come far enough along to call it futbol. Like he said, "It’s not about me, it’s about America.” Thanks Cory.

The Lamplighters

We all have taken a journey through the halls of education. Some of us have walked. Some of us have run, like Michael Kearney. He graduated from the University of South Alabama at age ten. He received his Master’s degree from Middle Tennessee State at fourteen. Some of us have taken leisurely strolls, aimlessly wandering around without a pass, occasionally stopping by the boys room to smoke; now and again peering curiously through a random classroom door, but never mustering the courage to enter.

Some of us have raced down, on motorcycles no less, like the guy I went to high school with, Mark Noll. Some have run naked when that was in vogue, like Charlie Jeffers, another of my high school classmates. Some of us have felt like we’ve being going to school our entire lives, though we haven’t set foot in a classroom in years.

Today, it is quite normal to have a child go to some sort of structured learning environment from three months old until he or she is twenty-two; even longer if they decide to go to grad school without any interruption, or they have a serious mental breakdown.

Some of us have gotten our educations voluntarily, some with the constant prodding of our parents. I know several people who’d still be in bed to this day, sans any formal education, had a parents not coaxed them out of bed each and every morning. There is also the short list of individuals who couldn’t wait to go to school each day and were deeply saddened when summer vacation rolled around. I secretly loathed their enthusiasm.

Most of us fall somewhere in between with different degrees of the characteristics previously mentioned. Growing up, we all had our favorite classes as well as the classes we dreaded. As far back as I can recall, aside from PhysEd, lunch, and recess; social studies was my favorite. Later, when social studies became the more specialized “history;” while my classwork suffered exponentially, my interest did not wane. In high school, I even took an interest in Political Science, another topic that came under the umbrella of “social studies.” And true to the subject matter, psychology and sociology tickled my fancy when I felt like going to either class.

I have had many teachers. I can remember many of them. All have taught me something no matter how insignificant it may have seemed at the time. Some of these little life lessons I carry with me to this day. My road to higher education has always had numerous potholes, and it has also had its share of multi-car pile ups. I have taken many exits along the way, gotten lost, didn’t ask directions of course, but somehow made my way back on the main thoroughfare armed with plenty of change for tolls. Here are some of the folks who assisted me along the way.

At Elkwood Play School I was mentored by Mr. and Mrs. McGiffin, who I always referred to as Mr. and Mrs. Santa Claus due to their striking resemblance. They taught me to not try to jump on the merry-go-round while it was moving lest become subject to great physical harm and emotional anguish. They didn’t say the last part, but after having tried it at both three years old and much later in life, I can attest that that was the lesson I was supposed to learn. They frowned on me shitting in my pants, and I would be better served going to the bathroom immediately when the warning signals of possible impending disaster loomed on the horizon. They also scolded me for eating locust shells, which is always a good tip. Some twenty-five years later; I would work at the Chesapeake Bay Seafood Restaurant for the son of one of my teachers at Elkwood Play School.

For some strange reason I don’t remember my kindergarten teacher’s name, bringing me to the conclusion that Robert Fulgham was full of shit. If I can’t remember my teacher’s name, how the hell could I possibly have learned everything I needed to know in kindergarten?

Mrs. Porter, my first grade teacher, gave each student a hug when we went home from school. What a kindly gesture by a kindly woman. Today, she’d be arrested and vilified and labeled a community pariah.

Miss Schmidt was my second grade teacher. She had lost her husband prior to my arrival in her class. I then proceeded to test the very limits of her patience with my affinity for not completing class assignments without the aid of some psychoanalytical acronym to serve as a crutch.

In third grade, after my parents had completely disrupted my world by moving to Chester, New Jersey; I had the good fortune to be put in Mrs. Duane’s class. Despite her close talking ways, chronic halitosis, and constant expectorating when painstakingly and futilely trying to get me to master cursive handwriting, I was fortunate to have been mentored by one of the ten teacher finalists to travel on the space shuttle Challenger. I’m glad she wasn’t picked for obvious reasons.

That same year, recess at a new school brought bullying by Joe Drake and Dean Conklin. I learned that year that fighting never solved anything, and I didn’t need Mrs. Duane for that. I learned fighting was stupid all by myself.

Forth grade started with Mr. Peter Joseph and ended with Walter “do ‘dem problems” Hoynownski. Mr. Joseph taught me to appreciate reading, while Mr. Hoynownski unknowingly unearthed my knack for ass kissing, which got me by on more than one occasion.

In fifth grade, Mrs. Polly DeHart, over the course of the year, read the class the Tolkien Lord of the Rings trilogy. I sat enraptured each day listening to her bring to life in melodic tones, the hobbit adventures.

Mr. Paul Hamlin was my sixth grade, and finest teacher I ever had in my life. He saw through my ruses. He commanded respect. He didn’t cut me any slack. He made me accountable. He also loved sports. A combo like that was unrivaled until I entered college.

It was also in the sixth grade I had the pleasure of having Drew Lindsteadt as my gym teacher. He taught me to shake hands and all the responsibilities that came with its meaning, many of which I’m still working on.

The seventh grade brought changing classes for different subjects. What I got out of seventh grade was an inability to accept disappointment concerning a variety of circumstances. Seventh grade brought an overwhelming feeling of inadequacy on many levels. Hell, my utter lack of pubic hair caused such trauma; it directly inhibited my growth towards interaction with those of the opposite sex. Eighth grade was no better. I did have pubic hair, but constant disappointment reigned supreme.

And if eighth grade was bad enough, the following year I suffered the indignities of a high school freshman. The disappointment continued to dog me almost to the point of changing schools my sophomore year. In addition, I had to walk in the pall my demon seed sister had cast over West Morris Central High School. Her feats of incorrigibility became lore. I felt as if I was in a constant state of mortification. That is, until I blazed my own nefarious trail.

I learned from Mr. Schiller and Mr. Steffan; Mrs. Schmidt and Miss Ruscyk, the latter whom I had a latent schoolboy crush on. I learned from Coach Harry Zingg and Vice-Principal Ronald Batistoni. I learned from Mrs. Young, Mr. Yurkison, Mr. Scheller, Mr. Lamar, and many others. Nothing really stands out as being anything extraordinary. The things I learned weren’t all positives, but each one necessary to experience to survive in the real world. High school was high school. I left thinking what all the fuss was about.

In college I failed miserably. I was thrown out once, and flunked out the second try at community college. There were a couple of professors I feel bad for now that I didn’t put forth my best effort as a student when they were doing so instructors. I may have no longer been in a formal classroom setting, but oh how my education continued!

Twenty-five years and many war stories later; it was suggested to me to make another attempt at higher education. Attending classes as a non-traditional student with classmates half my age was a humbling experience. Particularly when most of them distinguished themselves better than I academically. I still suffered insecurities, just not the same ones that had plagued me in my younger days. One thing that hadn’t changed at all was my love for history. As a matter of fact, it intensified. Once I got my bearings at the community college level, I was ready to tackle a university setting.

It was at Florida Atlantic I had the honor and pleasure of being mentored by one Dr. Stephen Engle. There are many other professors whom I hold in reverence, but Dr. Engle taught me more in two years than I learned in the twenty-five years prior. I will always be eternally indebted to him. The most important thing he first taught me, then later reiterated by my other instructors was; “It’s all about the process.”
That means everything; the learning experience, relationships, child-rearing, reading a book, going to the food store, life in general. It took me forty-three years to get that.

Yesterday, I registered for my first classes as a PhD. candidate. I weathered my first meeting with my advisor, who happened to be one of the administrators who interviewed me for the program. She’ll get used to me as I’ll get used to her. It’s a process. Our apprehensions toward each other will evaporate. I look forward to a fruitful and fulfilling relationship working under her tutelage as she takes through this most lofty of educational aspirations. I’m confident she’ll do this without spittle on my work.

Mea Culpa

This is not the piece I intended to write this week. I knew on Monday what the topic would be, and when Wednesday came, I started what I thought would end up as the blog I envisioned; the service appointment for my car. What happened was something I never imagined.

I never start a blog before the day I publish it here. Posting the same day gives me a sense of urgency. It teaches me to perform with a deadline hanging over my head. This week the deadline was attached to a guillotine, and my head was in a prone position.

I know my friend Cynn understands the quandary I faced this week. I set about to writing as I always do. Introduction, examples, conclusion; an informal version of the basic premise of academic writing; thesis, support, conclusion. Today, somewhere amid the support parts and explanations and examples in the form of humorous (or so I thought) anecdotes, something went drastically awry.

I have written blogs previously that I may one day develop into something more. Today I wrote something more, and don't want to post it as a blog.

My normal blog word count of no more than fifteen hundred came and went. At about three thousand words the clock read 3:00, and I knew I was done for. The blog took on a mind of its own. When one thing really did lead to another, I saw the makings of what I perceive to be a rather clever short story. Perhaps, once fully developed, it might even be worthy of submission somewhere. I've submitted stuff in the past with no luck. I'd reread what I sent in to determine where I went wrong. I vow to clean up the mistakes and try again. What was to be today's blog calls for a little more pro-activity.

I can't very well post what I wrote in its unfinished state.I also can't publish what I wrote as a "blog" with the full intention of what I hope will be so much more. Lastly, I can't expect those who read my weekly ramblings to wahdai through what may very well turn out to be over five thousand words. As I understand it,that's not what blog posts are for.

So for this week all I can offer is this sincerest apology for what I'm passing off as a poor excuse for a blog entry. I'll have something better next week. It may not be meaningful or relevant, but I hope it will certainly be worth spending the five minutes most of my blog postings take to get through.

If for some reason the piece I was working on all day does get published,; I'll let everyone who gives a shit know. If it doesn't, then maybe in the future I'll post it in separate installments so I don't bore you to death.

Witnessing History

Sometimes we are fortunate enough to witness history right when it’s happening. Not the kind of history those who brought picnic lunches to the Battle of Bull Run at the beginning of the Civil War witnessed; but the kind of event one doesn’t pay much mind to then realizes something historic is about to occur. Neil Armstrong walking on the moon falls in the former category, while a Super Bowl falls in the latter. I have been fortunate enough to witness several examples of both kinds of history.

Last Saturday, through no doing of my own, I got to watch Roy Halladay of the Philadelphia Phillies pitch the 20th perfect game in Major League history. I did not have the foresight to attend the game in person even though the stadium is a mere fifteen minute drive from my home, being the Florida Marlins were the opponent. My wife and I were relegated to watching Halladay’s gem on television, at her suggestion no less. This was the first perfect game I’ve seen, but not the first no-hitter. And for you laypersons, there is a significant difference.

A no-hitter is exactly was it says; no hits allowed by the pitcher. Sure, the fielders must make the plays, which is what’s so special about a perfect game; all the players made the plays when called upon. In a no-hitter, there can be errors, men can reach base via walks as well. Hence, the game is not “perfect.”
My wife will say the game was far from perfect anyway; the final score was 1-0. For a non-aficionado, watching only one run score is an exercise in tedium. I on the other hand, am enthralled with pitchers duals. Each batter becomes more noteworthy, each play more important, each move made by the manager comes under more scrutiny, each confrontation between pitcher and hitter becomes a game within the game itself.
Some of you may think I need to be on some sort of prescription medication.

People don’t normally attend or watch games on TV anticipating a no-hitter. They tune in or show up to see runs, preferably home runs. If you wanted to see the effect Halladay’s excellence had on the average person, all you had to do was see the expression on the face of the female companion of Marlins owner Jeffery Luria.
At various times throughout the game, she could be caught yawning, glancing at her watch, or chatting with anyone who’d listen. I could picture both my ex-wife and current wife acting the very same way had either been in attendance.

Both my ex-wife and current wife enjoy baseball to a point. The first no-hitter I saw pitched, my ex-wife begrudgingly got to see as well.

It was the first NBC Game of the Week broadcast back in 1984. I had promised to mow the lawn. I was just going to watch a couple of innings before I got started. At the end of the second inning my ex inquired if on was going to start mowing before the grass reached a height that would make it impossible to see out the living room window. Such a kidder! I told her I couldn’t leave the game now, Jack Morris of the Detroit Tigers was pitching a no-hitter against the Chicago White Sox. The likelihood Morris were to continue such mastery for seven more innings was unfathomable. No one ever gives a shit if a pitcher throws two no hit innings to start a game. However, it was enough to convince my ex to take a seat next to me to watch. With each subsequent inning in the books, the excitement level rose in our living room as well as with those who were announcing the game for television. By the time Morris registered the final out, we were jumping out of our skins. Morris did indeed wind up throwing a no-hitter that day. He did walk somebody negating the perfect game. Still, it was exciting to witness. I wouldn’t see another no-hitter for twelve years, but this one I’d get to see in person.

I have been fortunate enough to see well over six hundred Major League baseball games in person. Up until May of 1996, I had never witnessed a no-hitter. I was in attendance when the ground ball went between Bill Buckner’s legs in the 1986 World Series, but I’d never seen a no-hitter in person.

I was at Wrigley Field in May of 2001 to see Jon Leiber throw a 79 pitch one-hitter delayed by rain for forty-seven minutes midway through; but no no-hitter.

I watched Tom Seaver (on television) give up an opposite field single to Jimmy Qualls (who you may ask, but probably not?) of the Chicago Cubs, ruining Seaver’s perfect game with one out in the ninth inning; but I’d never seen a no-hitter live.

Then in 1996, Pembroke Lakes Optimist was selling Marlins tickets for a girl’s softball fundraiser. I was broke. I didn’t even have enough money to buy the nosebleed tickets being offered. Other Optimist members wanted me to come along. They said I could pay the tickets off in installments. Hell, at that time I needed to buy a stamp in installments. It was so bad, (How bad was it?) I needed a quarter down and two co-signers if I wanted two stamps. My son wanted to go, so we went.

Al Leiter was pitching that night. Leiter hailed from New Jersey, Cory’s and my home state, so that was a bonus. We did not go in anticipation of a no-hitter being thrown. You never do. You might say kiddingly after the batters in the first inning go down in order, “Hey, he’s got a no-hitter going.” But baseball superstition frowns on bringing up the subject of a no-hitter while in progress. However, among the throng from Pembroke Lakes Optimist a buzz started to swirl in the top of the seventh. When the last out was recorded I cried a little. The tears were fueled by the copious amount of beer I consumed, but also by the thought of being eyewitness to an historical baseball event. Last, Saturday night no tears were forthcoming. I have long since given up drinking, and it was only a goddamn baseball game for Christ sake. Besides, Halladay pitches for the Phillies.

Saturday night at our house is normally movie night on TV. HBO, Starz, TMC, and Showtime run new releases. Pay-per-view offers up their new lineup as well. This past weekend, nothing on the movie menu held any appeal for my wife or I. I’m too lazy to go to Blockbuster only to find out what I want to see is not available. I’m too cheap to go to the multiplex unless there’s a movie out that I believe will change my life as I know it. That being said, I was ready to channel surf until Helen suggested to check and see if the Marlins were on.

It is a rare occasion indeed when the wife suggests turning on a sporting event. Helen is up for watching golf if Tiger Woods is playing, and the Dolphins when in season. Aside from that, I’m on my own sportswise. That’s why we have multiple televisions right? I jumped at the opportunity to watch a baseball game with Helen. I switched to Foxsports Florida to find the Phillies (ugh) coming up in the top of the second inning. Josh Johnson the Marlins pitcher was at the top of his game as well. He only happened to be on the short end due to a Cameron Maybin three base error.

In the fifth inning the need-to-create-excitement-when-it-can-stand-on-its-own announcers pointed out prematurely that Roy Halladay had was perfect thus far. I commented on what dickheads they were by bringing the issue up so soon. So for the next four innings all these baseball “experts” could talk about was pitch count- which drives me apeshit- and the possibility of Halladay throwing a perfect game; which was made reference to at every airtime lull; which drove me batshit. I don’t know which form of antagonistic shit is worse, but I do know two dipshits were responsible for both.

Helen and I hung on every pitch in the last inning. As much as I hate the Phillies, I was rooting for Halladay, as were all the Marlins fans at the game. We all were watching history in the making. Major League baseball has been played for one hundred and thirty-four years. The amount of teams and games played has varied over those years. But well over two hundred thousand games have been played during than time. Only nineteen other times has anyone thrown a perfect game. Twenty-seven batters faced, twenty-seven retired. That means that less than 1/100th of 1% of the games pitched are perfect games and my wife and I got to see it.

To me, that’s historic. It may be only baseball historic, but it was a significant enough story to be aired on every national news broadcast. No, it’s not walking on the moon. Hell, many of you might even think it was just a stupid ‘ol baseball game. You may even think my wife and I wasted three precious hours of our lives watching a game on the idiot box. Well, I really don’t care what you think.