Once upon a time, there was a 12-year old boy who lived in Detroit and was a big hockey fan. It was the days of the six-team National Hockey League. Although it was a competitive league, the Montreal Canadiens were the gold standard. They won five Stanley Cups in a row from 1956-60 and seriously contended just about every year they didn't win.
The hometown Red Wings? They made the playoffs just about every season but couldn't get over the hump, even losing in the Stanley Cup Finals two years in a row.
The boy knew all this and a lot more. That’s because he listened to just about every game -- the only way for a youngster to follow the team. At the time, there was no local television of Detroit games. On Saturday nights, when he could convince his mother to switch away from Lawrence Welk (which aired at the same time), he would get to watch “Hockey Night In Canada.” But Detroit games were blacked out. (Playoff games were televised on tape delay at 11:30 p.m. Try explaining that one to your mother.) Olympia Stadium, their home rink, was usually sold out. Even if he could find a ticket, the rink was located in a "bad" area of town, a place his mother wouldn't dream of letting her young son visit.
The only time the lad ever saw his favorite team play came when Detroit played a nationally televised Sunday afternoon game from Chicago, New York or Boston.
Christmas, 1965 came with the usual trimmings. As was house tradition, the lad and his brothers were allowed to open one gift when the family came home from Midnight Mass. He scouted the horizon in advance for possibilities. There was the usual thin box from Aunt Marcie – handkerchiefs. There were big boxes (toys, he hoped). There were square boxes that he knew from experience were clothes.
Then he spotted something unusual. In the corner of the pile of gifts was an envelope with his name on it. Since it wasn't stamped or addressed, his mind began to race. What kind of gift could be in an envelope?
For some reason, he reached for it as a first choice. His mother stopped him, saying "Save that for Christmas Day.” When you tell a kid that at the holidays, you drive the interest level up astronomically. Fearing he might miss out on another gift, the boy reluctantly obeyed.
A restless night was spent wondering what could kind of gift could be in an envelope? Why couldn’t he open that one first?
Morning finally came. When the feast of gifts was nearly complete, the boy was left with the envelope. Go ahead, said his mother. Now you can open it. The boy opened it and stared in disbelief. It was two tickets to see the Red Wings play, of all teams, Montreal at the Olympia the next night. His older brother Johnny was going to take him to see the players he knew so well but had rarely seen.
His joy was such that the boy never noticed the location of the seats. The tickets were stamped "Standing Room” – a concept he knew nothing about. "Oh, it will be fine," his brother assured him.
For once, Christmas dragged as he eagerly waited the next night. The Olympia was a wonderful mystery. The boy knew the building was red on the outside but that was it. Walking in the door, he was struck immediately by the large scoreboard hanging over the center ice. It was an old clock with smaller clocks for the penalties. In the final minute of play, it changed colors (green to red is the way the lad remembers it.)
"Where are we sitting?" the boy asked his brother.
"We're not," he said. "We have standing room."
"Where's that?"
"Wherever we can find a place. Quit asking questions.”
The two walked around the building for a long time, looking for a place to stand. As game time neared, they still hadn't found a place where they could see the ice very well. The pair wandered into the balcony. At that point, an angel appeared in the form of an usher.
"Where's your seats, boys?" he asked gruffly.
We showed him our tickets. "Can't stand up here," he said. "Standing room is downstairs."
The boy began to cry. "This is my first game ever and I can't see anything," he said.
The usher stopped waving people to their seats. "First game, eh?" he said. "There is one place you can stand but you can't tell anybody I told you about this."
He took the two boys to a corner of the upper deck. There was a small platform with a spotlight – the kind you used to see when the circus came to town. "Stand here," he said. "Nobody will bother you. It's kinda high but you'll see everything from there. I like watching the game from here myself."
The usher was right. The players looked like ants in the far corner of the ice but you could see everything.
The Red Wings and Canadiens didn't disappoint. It was a terrific hockey game. Detroit attacked Montreal goalie Gump Worsley constantly but couldn't get a goal. Montreal did the same to Detroit's Roger Crozier but couldn't score themselves.
The game was still scoreless in the third period. The clock changed colors for the final time.
This wasn't possible. How you could you go to a NHL game and not see a goal?
Then it happened. A shot came from the point that Worsley could only knock down. Alex Delvecchio swooped in and batted the loose puck into the net.
The boy jumped so high he nearly fell out of the alcove. He had no idea how much time was left but it was clear it was the final minute of the game. The Wings ran out the clock and took the 1-0 win.
The boy has probably seen 1500 hockey games in his lifetime. But he remembers that one as if it happened last night.
Since then, the boy has received many envelopes as gifts. They have contained cash or gift certificates – very good things, indeed. But he still cherishes the memory of that first envelope. It wasn’t until four decades later he learned the official value of it was four dollars – two dollars per ticket.
To the boy’s way of thinking, however, it was, indeed, priceless.
Friday, December 24, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Starting over (happily)
It was the phone call I had been waiting to hear for the past 26 months.
"You start Monday at 8:30 a.m," the voice said. "Minnesota Department of Education in Roseville. You need directions?"
I told the voice I would happily look up how to get there. Turns out to be about 10 minutes from the house.
Since October 2008, I have been semi-employed. I made phone calls. I sent emails. I sent letters. I sent resumes. I sent updated resumes. Sometimes you got a form email saying they had received your stuff and was reviewing it. Many times, I simply never heard from the company. I would call and sometimes get a real person to tell me they had my information. Much of the time, however, the best I could do was leave a message that would never get returned.
I had come close a few times to getting back to fulltime work -- been a finalist at least twice that I knew of. But something always seem to happen.
I would get a phone call, a letter or an email saying somebody else had the job. Sometimes I got a reason. Most of the time I did not. Didn't matter, though. The result was the same as when nobody called at all.
I understood this wasn't personal. I understood why someone with less experience would get hired for a job. I would listen to the great thinkers and talkers of our time opine that anybody who really wants a job can get one. The people saying this were usually folks with nice, comfy gigs already. They hadn't sent out the letters I (and many others) had sent. They may even believed what they were saying.
I worked at staying positive. (Most days, I was.) I worked at being creative. I worked at part-time gigs. I prayed. I asked friends and family to keep an eye out for me and let me know of any openings they heard of. To the many people who did just that, I say "Thank You" for your kindness and patience with me.
I was told early last week the MDE was getting ready to hire for an open position and that I had a real good shot at it. For two days after, I stared at the phone every time it rang. On Thursday, the call finally came. I felt like someone who just snagged a prom date with their dream queen (or king).
Now comes the hard part. When you have been off for 2+ years, you eventually lose an edge. Your skills get a little rusty. Oh, I have done plenty of writing. I think I know what they need and feel confident I can provide it for them. But it will require getting back on the horse. It will require getting used to the routine of getting up early, cleaning up and getting into the office by 8:30 a.m. five days a week. It will require discipline, getting to know new people and a new job.
That is all easier said than done. Bad habits are easy to make. They are also hard to break.
There is one last thing: I am thrilled (and grateful) beyond words to be back working again. Some people I don't really know that well are putting a lot of trust in me. I am flattered by that and anxious to prove them right. The new job starts in 9 1/4 hours. So now I need to get some restful sleep.
I hope I remember how to do that.
"You start Monday at 8:30 a.m," the voice said. "Minnesota Department of Education in Roseville. You need directions?"
I told the voice I would happily look up how to get there. Turns out to be about 10 minutes from the house.
Since October 2008, I have been semi-employed. I made phone calls. I sent emails. I sent letters. I sent resumes. I sent updated resumes. Sometimes you got a form email saying they had received your stuff and was reviewing it. Many times, I simply never heard from the company. I would call and sometimes get a real person to tell me they had my information. Much of the time, however, the best I could do was leave a message that would never get returned.
I had come close a few times to getting back to fulltime work -- been a finalist at least twice that I knew of. But something always seem to happen.
I would get a phone call, a letter or an email saying somebody else had the job. Sometimes I got a reason. Most of the time I did not. Didn't matter, though. The result was the same as when nobody called at all.
I understood this wasn't personal. I understood why someone with less experience would get hired for a job. I would listen to the great thinkers and talkers of our time opine that anybody who really wants a job can get one. The people saying this were usually folks with nice, comfy gigs already. They hadn't sent out the letters I (and many others) had sent. They may even believed what they were saying.
I worked at staying positive. (Most days, I was.) I worked at being creative. I worked at part-time gigs. I prayed. I asked friends and family to keep an eye out for me and let me know of any openings they heard of. To the many people who did just that, I say "Thank You" for your kindness and patience with me.
I was told early last week the MDE was getting ready to hire for an open position and that I had a real good shot at it. For two days after, I stared at the phone every time it rang. On Thursday, the call finally came. I felt like someone who just snagged a prom date with their dream queen (or king).
Now comes the hard part. When you have been off for 2+ years, you eventually lose an edge. Your skills get a little rusty. Oh, I have done plenty of writing. I think I know what they need and feel confident I can provide it for them. But it will require getting back on the horse. It will require getting used to the routine of getting up early, cleaning up and getting into the office by 8:30 a.m. five days a week. It will require discipline, getting to know new people and a new job.
That is all easier said than done. Bad habits are easy to make. They are also hard to break.
There is one last thing: I am thrilled (and grateful) beyond words to be back working again. Some people I don't really know that well are putting a lot of trust in me. I am flattered by that and anxious to prove them right. The new job starts in 9 1/4 hours. So now I need to get some restful sleep.
I hope I remember how to do that.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Happy Thanksgiving, indeed
The weather folks have been in an uproar lately. Last Saturday, we got socked with an unexpected ice storm that reduced highways and byways to large skating rinks. Took me damn near two hours to negotiate the short distance from the Metrodome in Minneapolis to the Como area estate.
Thanksgiving is on us tomorrow. The Voices of doom and gloom are howling about an expected 1-3 inches of snow around town tonight. 1-3 inches? As a kid growing up in Detroit, we prayed for 1-3 inches of snow on Thanksgiving Day. (Rarely got our wish. It was usually either cold rain or a brisk sunny day.)
So we have a (mini) snowstorm descending upon us. We are approaching our third Thanksgiving without fulltime, gainful employment. My neck is stiff today. The Detroit Lions only have two wins. The Republicans, giddy over winning most fo the election races earlier this month, are promising to roll back everything any Dem ever accomplished because ... they can. Seems like a perfect time to say, "Bah, Humbug" and move into the prenatal position on the couch with remote in hand.
Except that there is a helluva lot to be thankful this year. When people say "Well, you got your health," they ain't kidding. A longtime friend of my wife passed away late last night. He was 59 years old. The cancer was first spotted less than a year ago. A good friend of mine -- a fellow of similar age -- has cancer in his eye. Had a setback recently. Another family friend is spending Thanksgiving Eve at the Mayo Clinic trying to find out just what the hell is wrong anyway.
There are other stories like this, too. And so it goes.
But the fact is there really is a lot to be thankful this year. When one goes through trials and tribulations, one learns that little victories count just as much as big victories. So, when you sell a small, satiric article to MinnPost.com (as I did the other day. it was a casual about the Vikings, who got hammered on Sunday and fired their coach the next day, slipping down to the level of the Lions. Read it. I thought it sang.), you enjoy it. When you get a fair settlement for your car being stolen and you are able to buy a good used car from a person you trust, you smile a bit longer. When you learn a friend was really able to pull a big surprise off and visit her parents in another state, you are happy for them. When the family dog greets you like he really is happy to see you, you can't help but smile and rub his ears. And when you have a kid in a class you are teaching who has been nothing but trouble for you suddenly relax and be civil in a place where you never expected him to, you are filled with goodwill.
It's all in what you make of it. There are plenty of big things in life that need attention. Recovering from heart stents and getting a fulltime job ranks high on that list.
But we tend to focus on the little problems and often make a big deal out of something that is small potatoes. So, when your partner in a football pool changes a pick and that costs you a possible win for the week, you shrug and just be happy that you have such a friend. You have a drink together. You laughingly tell her never to do it again. And then you move on.
You look forward to such events as Thanksgiving dinner at your sister-in-law's place. Not only is she a helluva cook, she is terrific company and a great, giving, caring human being. Yes, it's not the same without her mom being around. But the last thing Colleen would want is for anybody to mope. There's simply too much living and laughing to be done.
I guess what this means is we all can find things to grumble about. Some of them are even legitimate gripes. But tomorrow is the one day of the year where we are supposed to forget about that crap and reflect on the things we are truly grateful for. At least that is my intention.
After all, there are 362 other days (Christmas Eve and Christmas Day get passes, too) to mull over those problems.
Happy Thanksgiving, indeed.
Thanksgiving is on us tomorrow. The Voices of doom and gloom are howling about an expected 1-3 inches of snow around town tonight. 1-3 inches? As a kid growing up in Detroit, we prayed for 1-3 inches of snow on Thanksgiving Day. (Rarely got our wish. It was usually either cold rain or a brisk sunny day.)
So we have a (mini) snowstorm descending upon us. We are approaching our third Thanksgiving without fulltime, gainful employment. My neck is stiff today. The Detroit Lions only have two wins. The Republicans, giddy over winning most fo the election races earlier this month, are promising to roll back everything any Dem ever accomplished because ... they can. Seems like a perfect time to say, "Bah, Humbug" and move into the prenatal position on the couch with remote in hand.
Except that there is a helluva lot to be thankful this year. When people say "Well, you got your health," they ain't kidding. A longtime friend of my wife passed away late last night. He was 59 years old. The cancer was first spotted less than a year ago. A good friend of mine -- a fellow of similar age -- has cancer in his eye. Had a setback recently. Another family friend is spending Thanksgiving Eve at the Mayo Clinic trying to find out just what the hell is wrong anyway.
There are other stories like this, too. And so it goes.
But the fact is there really is a lot to be thankful this year. When one goes through trials and tribulations, one learns that little victories count just as much as big victories. So, when you sell a small, satiric article to MinnPost.com (as I did the other day. it was a casual about the Vikings, who got hammered on Sunday and fired their coach the next day, slipping down to the level of the Lions. Read it. I thought it sang.), you enjoy it. When you get a fair settlement for your car being stolen and you are able to buy a good used car from a person you trust, you smile a bit longer. When you learn a friend was really able to pull a big surprise off and visit her parents in another state, you are happy for them. When the family dog greets you like he really is happy to see you, you can't help but smile and rub his ears. And when you have a kid in a class you are teaching who has been nothing but trouble for you suddenly relax and be civil in a place where you never expected him to, you are filled with goodwill.
It's all in what you make of it. There are plenty of big things in life that need attention. Recovering from heart stents and getting a fulltime job ranks high on that list.
But we tend to focus on the little problems and often make a big deal out of something that is small potatoes. So, when your partner in a football pool changes a pick and that costs you a possible win for the week, you shrug and just be happy that you have such a friend. You have a drink together. You laughingly tell her never to do it again. And then you move on.
You look forward to such events as Thanksgiving dinner at your sister-in-law's place. Not only is she a helluva cook, she is terrific company and a great, giving, caring human being. Yes, it's not the same without her mom being around. But the last thing Colleen would want is for anybody to mope. There's simply too much living and laughing to be done.
I guess what this means is we all can find things to grumble about. Some of them are even legitimate gripes. But tomorrow is the one day of the year where we are supposed to forget about that crap and reflect on the things we are truly grateful for. At least that is my intention.
After all, there are 362 other days (Christmas Eve and Christmas Day get passes, too) to mull over those problems.
Happy Thanksgiving, indeed.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Moving on ... slowly
The car adventure is about to come to an end. Naturally, there were a few last bumps in the road but the end is clearly in sight.
After 3 1/2 weeks, the 2003 Alero was officially declared MIA. Farmer's told me the amount they were willing to give me for it. It was a fair figure and I accepted accordingly. The check was headed in the mail when the fun really began.
The day the check was due, I got a phone call. Seems the car had been found and was now residing the City of St. Paul police impound lot. Ironically, this call came on the same day I was due to have lunch with my wife Lynne and our friend Steph. It was supposed to be a celebration of sorts, an official acknowledgment my short personal nightmare was ending.
But there was the matter of the lost sheep. After lunch, Lynne and I headed to the police impound lot, one of the most depressing places I have ever visited. It is out on the edge of downtown. You take a few back roads that twist to and fro and you suddenly come across the place. There is no parking lot. You find a spot and hike to a back door. Then you have to climb up a set of stairs that reminded me of the movie "Psycho". Once upstairs, there is a guy behind a glass window so think a tank couldn't pierce it.
When we arrived, the poor fellow was catching hell from a fellow whose car had been towed there. The fellow was none too happy about it but whipped out his checkbook. The clerk informed him that this is a cash or charge place - no checks allowed. The guy threw a charge card at him, scribbled his name on a slip, and, after invoking the deity in a rather uncomplimentary fashion, stormed out.
We explained our presence there. We just wanted to look at the car. Hell, I didn't even have the keys anymore. They had been mailed back to Oklahoma City. After the clerk behind the tankproof window figured out I was serious about this mission, he sent me in the car's direction. There it was, lying in a ditch of sorts. There were scrapes on its head and toe. It was clear the miscreants who took it had tried to take the wheel coverings. Fortunately, they were not proficient in their field. Their efforts yielded only a few bruises. For some reason, they had apparently tried to take out the front window. They failed there, too ... unless you count the fact the rubber that holds everything together was no longer solidly in place.
The inside looked unchanged. Whatever they tried to do, they drove it as was and apparently didn't touch a thing.
I noted all this and called Farmers back. Tyler, my claims rep, listened in a state of disbelief. "I think this is the only the second time I have ever run across this," he said. "It's your choice. You can have the car back or keep the check and move on."
I pondered for a second. I loved that car. But god knows what these people did to it and god knows what may happen down the line. The devil you don't know is a scary thing. I took the money and ran.
Well, that settled one half of the problem. No I had to go another car. We checked out a couple of places. Lynne's cousin, a helluva good guy, worked at one of them. He had a couple of used cars that would be OK. I would have liked to make a deal for a new one but working part-time the past two years had not helped my credit history much. I could make a deal but the payment would have been ghastly.
My neighbor, also a good guy, opened a car place a while back. We went out there. I drove a car I instantly liked - a 2011 Malibu. But I was wary of what the financial terms might be. I haven't closed the door on that one yet but it is looking doubtful.
As it turned out, my new vehicle was almost within eyesight the whole time. A former boss of Lynne's lived on the street behind us. This woman has also been a longtime friend. As part of a new job, she also got a nifty company car. It mean her previous vehicle, a 2002 Escape, sat unused. She was willing to sell it to me if I wanted it. I had never driven anything that size on a regular basis. Took it for a spin and liked it but wanted to check out my options a little more.
While I am thinking about it, Lynne's friend said I could borrow it for a week as long as I behaved myself and gassed it up. Fair enough.
I went over late in the day to drive the car the one block trip home. Unfortunately, it took an hour and half to do so. You see, there is a ridge in her driveway that goes up three feet or so. When I backed up the car, I sent the tires dangling over the ridge. The car could neither go to or fro. It was in no danger of going anywhere in fact. 3 second after I had taken possession of the car, I was unable to drive it.
This is not a good start, I thought.
Sighing, I called AAA. The woman was polite but took some convincing this actually happened in the middle of the city and I wasn't hanging on for deal life on a country road somewhere. When the tow truck guy came, he suppressed a smile and went about his business. It took some moving of wood planks back and forth but the car was extricated from the mess I had placed it in.
Lynne's friend arrived home to this scene. She smiled, too. She told me I wasn't the first person to perform this feat. Lynne called, too, to see how things were going. I tried to explain it over the phone to her. She, too, was disbelieving. "I'm coming home right now," she said and hung up the phone.
When she got over to her friend's house, the rescue operation was going great guns. Lynne's friend took her inside and said it really was no big deal - it could happen to anybody.
My wife is a good, strong woman. She understood this could happen to anybody, She just wished I wasn't the anybody involved.
The AAA guy, however, knew his stuff. He expertly guided onto his back. The car was duly lowered into the street. I tipped him generously and roared off the block needed to get the car home.
And this is where we stand at the moment. I am leaning towards the 2002 Escape and will likely decide in a day or so. After our interesting start, however, I wonder what is up next.
After 3 1/2 weeks, the 2003 Alero was officially declared MIA. Farmer's told me the amount they were willing to give me for it. It was a fair figure and I accepted accordingly. The check was headed in the mail when the fun really began.
The day the check was due, I got a phone call. Seems the car had been found and was now residing the City of St. Paul police impound lot. Ironically, this call came on the same day I was due to have lunch with my wife Lynne and our friend Steph. It was supposed to be a celebration of sorts, an official acknowledgment my short personal nightmare was ending.
But there was the matter of the lost sheep. After lunch, Lynne and I headed to the police impound lot, one of the most depressing places I have ever visited. It is out on the edge of downtown. You take a few back roads that twist to and fro and you suddenly come across the place. There is no parking lot. You find a spot and hike to a back door. Then you have to climb up a set of stairs that reminded me of the movie "Psycho". Once upstairs, there is a guy behind a glass window so think a tank couldn't pierce it.
When we arrived, the poor fellow was catching hell from a fellow whose car had been towed there. The fellow was none too happy about it but whipped out his checkbook. The clerk informed him that this is a cash or charge place - no checks allowed. The guy threw a charge card at him, scribbled his name on a slip, and, after invoking the deity in a rather uncomplimentary fashion, stormed out.
We explained our presence there. We just wanted to look at the car. Hell, I didn't even have the keys anymore. They had been mailed back to Oklahoma City. After the clerk behind the tankproof window figured out I was serious about this mission, he sent me in the car's direction. There it was, lying in a ditch of sorts. There were scrapes on its head and toe. It was clear the miscreants who took it had tried to take the wheel coverings. Fortunately, they were not proficient in their field. Their efforts yielded only a few bruises. For some reason, they had apparently tried to take out the front window. They failed there, too ... unless you count the fact the rubber that holds everything together was no longer solidly in place.
The inside looked unchanged. Whatever they tried to do, they drove it as was and apparently didn't touch a thing.
I noted all this and called Farmers back. Tyler, my claims rep, listened in a state of disbelief. "I think this is the only the second time I have ever run across this," he said. "It's your choice. You can have the car back or keep the check and move on."
I pondered for a second. I loved that car. But god knows what these people did to it and god knows what may happen down the line. The devil you don't know is a scary thing. I took the money and ran.
Well, that settled one half of the problem. No I had to go another car. We checked out a couple of places. Lynne's cousin, a helluva good guy, worked at one of them. He had a couple of used cars that would be OK. I would have liked to make a deal for a new one but working part-time the past two years had not helped my credit history much. I could make a deal but the payment would have been ghastly.
My neighbor, also a good guy, opened a car place a while back. We went out there. I drove a car I instantly liked - a 2011 Malibu. But I was wary of what the financial terms might be. I haven't closed the door on that one yet but it is looking doubtful.
As it turned out, my new vehicle was almost within eyesight the whole time. A former boss of Lynne's lived on the street behind us. This woman has also been a longtime friend. As part of a new job, she also got a nifty company car. It mean her previous vehicle, a 2002 Escape, sat unused. She was willing to sell it to me if I wanted it. I had never driven anything that size on a regular basis. Took it for a spin and liked it but wanted to check out my options a little more.
While I am thinking about it, Lynne's friend said I could borrow it for a week as long as I behaved myself and gassed it up. Fair enough.
I went over late in the day to drive the car the one block trip home. Unfortunately, it took an hour and half to do so. You see, there is a ridge in her driveway that goes up three feet or so. When I backed up the car, I sent the tires dangling over the ridge. The car could neither go to or fro. It was in no danger of going anywhere in fact. 3 second after I had taken possession of the car, I was unable to drive it.
This is not a good start, I thought.
Sighing, I called AAA. The woman was polite but took some convincing this actually happened in the middle of the city and I wasn't hanging on for deal life on a country road somewhere. When the tow truck guy came, he suppressed a smile and went about his business. It took some moving of wood planks back and forth but the car was extricated from the mess I had placed it in.
Lynne's friend arrived home to this scene. She smiled, too. She told me I wasn't the first person to perform this feat. Lynne called, too, to see how things were going. I tried to explain it over the phone to her. She, too, was disbelieving. "I'm coming home right now," she said and hung up the phone.
When she got over to her friend's house, the rescue operation was going great guns. Lynne's friend took her inside and said it really was no big deal - it could happen to anybody.
My wife is a good, strong woman. She understood this could happen to anybody, She just wished I wasn't the anybody involved.
The AAA guy, however, knew his stuff. He expertly guided onto his back. The car was duly lowered into the street. I tipped him generously and roared off the block needed to get the car home.
And this is where we stand at the moment. I am leaning towards the 2002 Escape and will likely decide in a day or so. After our interesting start, however, I wonder what is up next.
Thursday, October 28, 2010
It's over
Three weeks after the drama started, it's over. Got word from the insurance company today that a check is being cut for the cost of the stolen car. Now comes the hard part, finding a replacement. The top two candidates are a 2002 Escape and a 2000 Intrepid. Am not sure which way to go yet.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
It was only a car ... wasn't it?
This happened a week ago today and I am still a little stunned by it all. I had been invited to speak to a group of retired coaches, educators, officials and writers about my book "162-0" at a luncheon at DeGidios, a nifty restaurant on the edge of downtown St. Paul. I knew this was a friendly crowd. In fact, I had worked games at one time or another with several people in there.
When I had arrived at DeGidios, the parking lot was full. That's unusual but not unprecedented. Douglas St next to the restaurant looked fairly open. So were the side streets. I could park there and have just a short walk in and back from the restaurant.
I parked on Douglas and walked in. No problem so far.
The lunch was terrific. The speech seemed to go well. I sold several books afterwards.
I walked back outside thinking life was pretty good.
Until ...
I walked up on Douglas and couldn't find my car. I thought for a second. Didn't I park here by this big tree? Or did I decide to go back on the side street? I walked back and forth. No gray 2003 Alero could be seen. What the hell happened?
Or, as the youth of today are wont to text, OMG.
I walked slowly up Douglas pondering what to do. Then I saw a sign I had missed before. It was behind a hanging tree branch but it was clear as day "NO PARKING 6 a.m. - 6 p.m."
Nuts. I parked in the wrong area. Damn thing got towed.
I sighed and called the general police number. After a couple of false starts, I finally got to somebody who could help me. She checked their lists and told me, "No, we didn't ticket or tow you." Just in case, though, she gave me the impound number. I called that number. No, they didn't have my car, either.
Now what? I thought of Joe, my insurance guy ,but couldn't remember his number. I didn't have it among my cell phone regular calls. I walked back into DeGidios and asked the bartender for a phone book. She looked at me incredulously, saying"Oh, we throw all those away. Sorry."
I sighed. I called my wife, my sister-in-law and a friend to see if they could look up his number on the internet for me.
No luck. None of them were in their office.
So I gritted my teeth and called Directory Assistance from my cell phone. The first woman sent me in a direction I knew was wrong. I knew Joe's phone number started with a 6. I tried again and this time, got the correct number. Talked to Joe and he gave me a few numbers to call to get the ball rolling. he then told me to call the police back and get a report started.
I did so. The woman at the desk was a bit incredulous but agreed (reluctantly, it seemed to me) to send a car out. I walked back and forth on Douglas, hoping my car would re-appear.
No luck. In due time, the officer came and took down my stuff. She was very nice and comforting. Turned out we had a mutual acquaintance. Turned out further we both had tickets to the Twins' game the next night. We took a quick tour around the area to see if the car had simply been moved to another area and abandoned.
No luck. She gave a ride home, causing quite a stir in the hood. My neighbor told his wife, "Either he has been in an accident or somebody stole his car." Smart man.
I called the insurance people. First things first, They arranged to get me a rental car and told me I could keep it for up the three weeks. I was then asked what of value was in my now-gone car.
I thought for a second. "Not much. Just a few cds," I said. But then I thought some more. I had bought new tires in March. There were a couple of books in the trunk. There was an autographed baseball as well. Fortunately, I had taken my golf clubs out a day or two before. Sometimes I leave my checkbook in there, But this wasn't one of those days. Still, the losses added up a bit.
Then I remembered something else. Before I went to lunch, I had purchased a lottery ticket and placed it in the visor. The bastards not only had my car but they might have riches beyond their (and mine) wildest dreams. If true, how cold I prove otherwise?
Tyler, my national contact, laughed when I told him that. "That's a new one for me," he said. But then he told me not to worry. I could always go back to the store where it was bought to prove where it came from. Now where was that again ...? (Proved not to be so. At least not a big one.)
Tyler sent me a lot of forms, though and I went to work filling them out. He told me I had to wait a week to file things. That's today so the paperwork express is now in full gear.
What happens from here is fairly straightforward. The insurance company declares the car was worth a certain amount of money. They buy it from me and we move on. The car has probably been chopped to pieces already. I may have seen parts of my car go by me the last couple of days and not even know it.
Of course, the car can and will be replaced. But the fact is I liked that car very much. It was the first brand new car I had ever purchased. (Had 40 miles on it when I bought it.) It had been reliable in winter and summer. The MPG was very good. It was comfortable. As the saying goes, they don't make 'me like that anymore. (Absolutely true. Aleros are no longer built.) I will miss that car a lot.
I can buy more CDs. It will be costly and irritating but it can be done. I can get more books. The material things can and will be replaced.
Life will go on.
But there is still this terrible realization. Somebody now knows where I live. They know my taste in music. They will probably discover a receipt or two I had forgotten about. So they know where I like to go to eat and drink. This information is not that hard to find. But I would prefer to be the one who gives that info out.
There is a SOB (or DOB - sadly, such thievery is not restricted by gender) who stole a part of my life last week. Worse, I can't do a damn thing about it. Family and friends have remarked how well I have taken this intrusion. Turns out I may have faking it fairly well. Fact is, I am really ticked off about this. It was an uncivil, unkind and simply unfair thing to do. I think I hate the person who did this and really do wish him (her) ill will.
As crimes, I understand this is small potatoes compared to murders, assaults and robberies. I am not trying to overstate the loss or make a bad comparison.
But I can't help saying something that I thought I would never say this about a material item.
I feel violated.
When I had arrived at DeGidios, the parking lot was full. That's unusual but not unprecedented. Douglas St next to the restaurant looked fairly open. So were the side streets. I could park there and have just a short walk in and back from the restaurant.
I parked on Douglas and walked in. No problem so far.
The lunch was terrific. The speech seemed to go well. I sold several books afterwards.
I walked back outside thinking life was pretty good.
Until ...
I walked up on Douglas and couldn't find my car. I thought for a second. Didn't I park here by this big tree? Or did I decide to go back on the side street? I walked back and forth. No gray 2003 Alero could be seen. What the hell happened?
Or, as the youth of today are wont to text, OMG.
I walked slowly up Douglas pondering what to do. Then I saw a sign I had missed before. It was behind a hanging tree branch but it was clear as day "NO PARKING 6 a.m. - 6 p.m."
Nuts. I parked in the wrong area. Damn thing got towed.
I sighed and called the general police number. After a couple of false starts, I finally got to somebody who could help me. She checked their lists and told me, "No, we didn't ticket or tow you." Just in case, though, she gave me the impound number. I called that number. No, they didn't have my car, either.
Now what? I thought of Joe, my insurance guy ,but couldn't remember his number. I didn't have it among my cell phone regular calls. I walked back into DeGidios and asked the bartender for a phone book. She looked at me incredulously, saying"Oh, we throw all those away. Sorry."
I sighed. I called my wife, my sister-in-law and a friend to see if they could look up his number on the internet for me.
No luck. None of them were in their office.
So I gritted my teeth and called Directory Assistance from my cell phone. The first woman sent me in a direction I knew was wrong. I knew Joe's phone number started with a 6. I tried again and this time, got the correct number. Talked to Joe and he gave me a few numbers to call to get the ball rolling. he then told me to call the police back and get a report started.
I did so. The woman at the desk was a bit incredulous but agreed (reluctantly, it seemed to me) to send a car out. I walked back and forth on Douglas, hoping my car would re-appear.
No luck. In due time, the officer came and took down my stuff. She was very nice and comforting. Turned out we had a mutual acquaintance. Turned out further we both had tickets to the Twins' game the next night. We took a quick tour around the area to see if the car had simply been moved to another area and abandoned.
No luck. She gave a ride home, causing quite a stir in the hood. My neighbor told his wife, "Either he has been in an accident or somebody stole his car." Smart man.
I called the insurance people. First things first, They arranged to get me a rental car and told me I could keep it for up the three weeks. I was then asked what of value was in my now-gone car.
I thought for a second. "Not much. Just a few cds," I said. But then I thought some more. I had bought new tires in March. There were a couple of books in the trunk. There was an autographed baseball as well. Fortunately, I had taken my golf clubs out a day or two before. Sometimes I leave my checkbook in there, But this wasn't one of those days. Still, the losses added up a bit.
Then I remembered something else. Before I went to lunch, I had purchased a lottery ticket and placed it in the visor. The bastards not only had my car but they might have riches beyond their (and mine) wildest dreams. If true, how cold I prove otherwise?
Tyler, my national contact, laughed when I told him that. "That's a new one for me," he said. But then he told me not to worry. I could always go back to the store where it was bought to prove where it came from. Now where was that again ...? (Proved not to be so. At least not a big one.)
Tyler sent me a lot of forms, though and I went to work filling them out. He told me I had to wait a week to file things. That's today so the paperwork express is now in full gear.
What happens from here is fairly straightforward. The insurance company declares the car was worth a certain amount of money. They buy it from me and we move on. The car has probably been chopped to pieces already. I may have seen parts of my car go by me the last couple of days and not even know it.
Of course, the car can and will be replaced. But the fact is I liked that car very much. It was the first brand new car I had ever purchased. (Had 40 miles on it when I bought it.) It had been reliable in winter and summer. The MPG was very good. It was comfortable. As the saying goes, they don't make 'me like that anymore. (Absolutely true. Aleros are no longer built.) I will miss that car a lot.
I can buy more CDs. It will be costly and irritating but it can be done. I can get more books. The material things can and will be replaced.
Life will go on.
But there is still this terrible realization. Somebody now knows where I live. They know my taste in music. They will probably discover a receipt or two I had forgotten about. So they know where I like to go to eat and drink. This information is not that hard to find. But I would prefer to be the one who gives that info out.
There is a SOB (or DOB - sadly, such thievery is not restricted by gender) who stole a part of my life last week. Worse, I can't do a damn thing about it. Family and friends have remarked how well I have taken this intrusion. Turns out I may have faking it fairly well. Fact is, I am really ticked off about this. It was an uncivil, unkind and simply unfair thing to do. I think I hate the person who did this and really do wish him (her) ill will.
As crimes, I understand this is small potatoes compared to murders, assaults and robberies. I am not trying to overstate the loss or make a bad comparison.
But I can't help saying something that I thought I would never say this about a material item.
I feel violated.
Wednesday, September 29, 2010
So just what are they thinking away?
The other day, I heard Sammy Davis' song "Talk to the Animals" on the radio. The song is nonsense, of course. But I found myself wondering if they could talk, what would animals say?
Take this morning, for example. The Happy Dog and I were taking our usual stroll through the neighborhood. The colors are turning quickly this week. That means leaves are falling, too. When that happens, The Happy Dog's nose goes into overdrive. He was sniffing, pooping and peeing up a storm this morning. I found myself wondering just what the hell is going on in that mind of his anyway. At one point, he suddenly veered off the sidewalk into the street to smell what looked like a tiny leaf. The Happy Dog checked it out from all angles before he was satisfied. We resumed walking for about 10 feet when he suddenly stopped and headed back to the leaf. After sniffing it again, he fired and scored a direct hit.
Question: Why did he return?
Answer: He didn't say. But he sure looked happy about it.
As we continued enjoying the sun, I was suddenly aware of a noise in front of me. It was a squirrel chattering excitedly. Nobody else was around. I saw no nests anywhere. The Happy Dog looked up in surprise and growled under his breath. I had the impression they were having some type of conversation about something. But it reminded me of high school Latin class. I had no idea what the hell was going on.
I would have liked to ask The Happy Dog to explain himself a bit when he does such things. There are other curiosities I wish I understood. One of my favorites is the Phantom Pee. In the winter (when there is snow on the ground), he gets busted on this. Now I can only suspect why he stopped, lifted his leg and nothing appears to come out.
There were other oddities today. We have a small woodpecker who makes cameo appearances in the neighborhood. This morning, he was perched on a telephone pole. But he wasn't pecking. He seemed to be staring at something. When I went a little farther, I saw it was a squirrel in a nearby tree. I can't imagine he envisioned this as his breakfast. I wish I knew what was going on there.
As we were finishing our stroll, I was suddenly aware of rustling in a nearby yard. I looked in surprise to see a rabbit (at least I THINK it was a rabbit) in hot pursuit of a cat. I had never seen such a thing before. I wondered whether the cat grabbed something the rabbit had found because (in my brief glance) it seemed like something was sticking out of the edge of his mouth. The cat streaked past us and shot across Grotto St. at warp speed. The rabbit suddenly stopped on the sidewalk as if to watch out for cars. By the time (s) he looked up again, the cat was long gone. At this juncture, The Happy Dog suddenly spotted the rabbit and was interested in joining the chase. I grabbed the leash as hard as I could to stop this idea and received a nasty, angry look in return. The rabbit, not taking any chances, bolted into a nearby yard and was gone in a flash. The Happy Dog was not thrilled with me and promptly sat down on the sidewalk. He needed a solid reminder to get moving again.
Once home, he didn't even stay for his customary treat. Instead, he zipped to the back door and wanted to get back outside. Again, I would have loved to ask him what was the problem.
Like kids, our animals seem to forget their woes easily. The Happy Dog returned to form an hour later when out friend Steph came by to drop some stuff off. The Happy Dog knows Steph loves him but doesn't like dog kisses. Still, he tries to sneak one in when he can. Normally, it doesn't work. Today, however, he slipped one in and then romped happily into the back yard. I suspect he was quite pleased with himself.
Sammy had it right. I wish we could converse with our animals. I suspect we might not like everything we hear. But we would learn some things.
Take this morning, for example. The Happy Dog and I were taking our usual stroll through the neighborhood. The colors are turning quickly this week. That means leaves are falling, too. When that happens, The Happy Dog's nose goes into overdrive. He was sniffing, pooping and peeing up a storm this morning. I found myself wondering just what the hell is going on in that mind of his anyway. At one point, he suddenly veered off the sidewalk into the street to smell what looked like a tiny leaf. The Happy Dog checked it out from all angles before he was satisfied. We resumed walking for about 10 feet when he suddenly stopped and headed back to the leaf. After sniffing it again, he fired and scored a direct hit.
Question: Why did he return?
Answer: He didn't say. But he sure looked happy about it.
As we continued enjoying the sun, I was suddenly aware of a noise in front of me. It was a squirrel chattering excitedly. Nobody else was around. I saw no nests anywhere. The Happy Dog looked up in surprise and growled under his breath. I had the impression they were having some type of conversation about something. But it reminded me of high school Latin class. I had no idea what the hell was going on.
I would have liked to ask The Happy Dog to explain himself a bit when he does such things. There are other curiosities I wish I understood. One of my favorites is the Phantom Pee. In the winter (when there is snow on the ground), he gets busted on this. Now I can only suspect why he stopped, lifted his leg and nothing appears to come out.
There were other oddities today. We have a small woodpecker who makes cameo appearances in the neighborhood. This morning, he was perched on a telephone pole. But he wasn't pecking. He seemed to be staring at something. When I went a little farther, I saw it was a squirrel in a nearby tree. I can't imagine he envisioned this as his breakfast. I wish I knew what was going on there.
As we were finishing our stroll, I was suddenly aware of rustling in a nearby yard. I looked in surprise to see a rabbit (at least I THINK it was a rabbit) in hot pursuit of a cat. I had never seen such a thing before. I wondered whether the cat grabbed something the rabbit had found because (in my brief glance) it seemed like something was sticking out of the edge of his mouth. The cat streaked past us and shot across Grotto St. at warp speed. The rabbit suddenly stopped on the sidewalk as if to watch out for cars. By the time (s) he looked up again, the cat was long gone. At this juncture, The Happy Dog suddenly spotted the rabbit and was interested in joining the chase. I grabbed the leash as hard as I could to stop this idea and received a nasty, angry look in return. The rabbit, not taking any chances, bolted into a nearby yard and was gone in a flash. The Happy Dog was not thrilled with me and promptly sat down on the sidewalk. He needed a solid reminder to get moving again.
Once home, he didn't even stay for his customary treat. Instead, he zipped to the back door and wanted to get back outside. Again, I would have loved to ask him what was the problem.
Like kids, our animals seem to forget their woes easily. The Happy Dog returned to form an hour later when out friend Steph came by to drop some stuff off. The Happy Dog knows Steph loves him but doesn't like dog kisses. Still, he tries to sneak one in when he can. Normally, it doesn't work. Today, however, he slipped one in and then romped happily into the back yard. I suspect he was quite pleased with himself.
Sammy had it right. I wish we could converse with our animals. I suspect we might not like everything we hear. But we would learn some things.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Farewell to summer
It was so cold Sunday morning that I was forced to turn on the heat for a couple of hours. By mid-day, however, the sun was shining brightly and it was time to open all the windows. Unfortunately, I couldn't do that. I was in the midst of my final battle of the summer with a longtime foe/rival/comrade -- the golf course.
For reasons I can't exactly say, I enjoy playing golf. It is a mysterious game in many ways. I know some guys who look very unathletic but can hit a ball 300 yards and not break a sweat. I also know some folks who are superb athletes who couldn't make a three-foot putt if their life depended on it.
I am basically in the latter category ... minus the superb athlete part.
If I break 100 for 18 holes (or 50 for nine), it is a terrific day in North America. Most days start out like yesterday. I was playing in a tournament organized by my neighbor. The format is unique. He makes four level of players. The A level are the guys with the lowest handicaps, followed by B, C and D players. Us 30 handicapper types take out seats at the back of the bus. Then he does a draw to make sure each four-player team has one guy from each level.
Out we go to do battle. Unlike a lot of tournaments where it is either a scramble (everybody hits shots but you only keep one score) or a best-ball format, we keep the top three scores on each hold here. What inevitably happens is that a hack like me will find water in the desert at some point. After several holes of miserable drives, horrendous chips and laughably bad putts, I suddenly found a rhythm.
Okay, it wasn't exactly the type of stuff you see on network TV. It was only a bogey instead of a double bogey. Later, I strung together a hot run of bogey-par-bogey-par-bogey. My timing was good. One of the pars came on a hole when our A player dumped a ball into a forest. My rare moment of mediocrity saved the score for the hole. (Unable to stand prosperity, I reverted to form and contributed a snowman -- that's an 8 for non-golfers -- down the stretch. Fortunately, my partners were up to the cause on that hole and my score -- complete with a four putt effort from 10 feet away -- was dutifully ignored.)
When all was said and done, we had managed to team up at the right time and ended up winning the tournament. My final score of 102 was perfectly within my usual standards. There were a lot of people who scored better and even a few who scored worse.
In the end, I have to remind myself that scoring isn't the most important thing when on the golf course. Oh, we all have out competitive moments. Yesterday, I stared disgustedly and muttered "Sacre bleu" (or some such thing) after a second consecutive two-foot putt curved away from the hole. My mood improved considerably on the next hole when I rolled in a nifty 15-footer to save a par. It's that kind of game.
No, what golf is to me is simply an extension of summer. I am not a fan of winter play. I don't have a desire to wear a parka when I am putting. I am simply not good enough to put up with trying to hit a drive 200 yards while wearing a hooded sweatshirt. Golf is spending time away from your troubles. It is blanking out cell phones and not worrying about when you are going to cut the lawn. It is walking and chatting with friends and enjoying sunshine. It is a spa without the hot water circling around you.
As we head towards October here in the heartland, the time has come to put the clubs in their winter home. If we lived in Las Vegas, I might be a better golfer because I would probably play more. But I don't necessarily know if I would enjoy it more.
When I got up yesterday morning and saw frost on the windshield, I wasn't at all sure that playing golf was a good idea. My first three or four holes were dreadful and extremely unfun to play. Then I remembered why I was there. I simply relaxed, enjoyed making jokes and telling stories with my partners, and (not uncoincidentally) played a little better. I began to enjoy what may be the last great weather Sunday of the year around these parts. I couldn't imagine a better way to spend it.
But now that it is done, I am okay with putting the weapons away and moving on. The memory of the sunny Sunday is enough to get me through the next six months.
At least I hope so.
For reasons I can't exactly say, I enjoy playing golf. It is a mysterious game in many ways. I know some guys who look very unathletic but can hit a ball 300 yards and not break a sweat. I also know some folks who are superb athletes who couldn't make a three-foot putt if their life depended on it.
I am basically in the latter category ... minus the superb athlete part.
If I break 100 for 18 holes (or 50 for nine), it is a terrific day in North America. Most days start out like yesterday. I was playing in a tournament organized by my neighbor. The format is unique. He makes four level of players. The A level are the guys with the lowest handicaps, followed by B, C and D players. Us 30 handicapper types take out seats at the back of the bus. Then he does a draw to make sure each four-player team has one guy from each level.
Out we go to do battle. Unlike a lot of tournaments where it is either a scramble (everybody hits shots but you only keep one score) or a best-ball format, we keep the top three scores on each hold here. What inevitably happens is that a hack like me will find water in the desert at some point. After several holes of miserable drives, horrendous chips and laughably bad putts, I suddenly found a rhythm.
Okay, it wasn't exactly the type of stuff you see on network TV. It was only a bogey instead of a double bogey. Later, I strung together a hot run of bogey-par-bogey-par-bogey. My timing was good. One of the pars came on a hole when our A player dumped a ball into a forest. My rare moment of mediocrity saved the score for the hole. (Unable to stand prosperity, I reverted to form and contributed a snowman -- that's an 8 for non-golfers -- down the stretch. Fortunately, my partners were up to the cause on that hole and my score -- complete with a four putt effort from 10 feet away -- was dutifully ignored.)
When all was said and done, we had managed to team up at the right time and ended up winning the tournament. My final score of 102 was perfectly within my usual standards. There were a lot of people who scored better and even a few who scored worse.
In the end, I have to remind myself that scoring isn't the most important thing when on the golf course. Oh, we all have out competitive moments. Yesterday, I stared disgustedly and muttered "Sacre bleu" (or some such thing) after a second consecutive two-foot putt curved away from the hole. My mood improved considerably on the next hole when I rolled in a nifty 15-footer to save a par. It's that kind of game.
No, what golf is to me is simply an extension of summer. I am not a fan of winter play. I don't have a desire to wear a parka when I am putting. I am simply not good enough to put up with trying to hit a drive 200 yards while wearing a hooded sweatshirt. Golf is spending time away from your troubles. It is blanking out cell phones and not worrying about when you are going to cut the lawn. It is walking and chatting with friends and enjoying sunshine. It is a spa without the hot water circling around you.
As we head towards October here in the heartland, the time has come to put the clubs in their winter home. If we lived in Las Vegas, I might be a better golfer because I would probably play more. But I don't necessarily know if I would enjoy it more.
When I got up yesterday morning and saw frost on the windshield, I wasn't at all sure that playing golf was a good idea. My first three or four holes were dreadful and extremely unfun to play. Then I remembered why I was there. I simply relaxed, enjoyed making jokes and telling stories with my partners, and (not uncoincidentally) played a little better. I began to enjoy what may be the last great weather Sunday of the year around these parts. I couldn't imagine a better way to spend it.
But now that it is done, I am okay with putting the weapons away and moving on. The memory of the sunny Sunday is enough to get me through the next six months.
At least I hope so.
Tuesday, September 21, 2010
I meet myself
I write what is supposed to be the sports column for the Villager newspaper in St. Paul. Most of the time, I deal with games and the people who play them. Every now and then, however, my editor gives me a little leeway to veer off base a bit. This is one of those times.
This is the column I will be running next week. It was one of the most extraordinary experiences I have ever had.
One of Rod Serling’s best efforts in the old “Twilight Zone” series was a tale about a fellow returning to the city where he grew up. In the show, Gig Young played an unhappy New York City ad executive who said he just needed to get away from the hubbub of the big city and return to the town where he grew up. He finds himself at a gas station about a mile away and decides to walk to his old town. As only Serling could present it, Young finds himself transported back in time to when he was a boy. At one point, he sees himself as a 10-year old carving his name into a post.
It has long been considered one of Serling’s top literary efforts but it clearly was intended as a fantasy. At least I thought so until the other day. Now I am not so sure.
Read on and decide for yourself.
It started on a sunny Saturday in Stillwater. I was there for a booksigning of my tome “162-0”, the historical fantasy of how the Minnesota Twins mange a perfect season. A young fellow sat down on the chair opposite me with a book in hand.
“Would you like to me autograph that for you?” I asked.
He nodded his head shyly.
“What’s your name?” I asked.“Ari,” he replied softly. After a couple of hard seconds of thought, he added, “I am a baseball fan.”
Turned out Ari was slightly more than a baseball fan. He is a pitcher and a first baseman for a team called the Minneapolis Millers. “I’m better at pitching, though,” he said. “I’m not that good of a hitter.”
“Do you want to be a ballplayer when you grow up?” I asked. “Either that or an announcer. That’s where some guys go when they aren’t good enough to play anymore,” he said.
“Do you have a favorite pitcher?” I asked, expecting to hear him say Francisco Liriano, Nick Blackburn or some other members of the Twins’ staff.
“Jon Lester,” came the reply. “I’m lefthanded like he is. But the real reason I like him is because he has beaten back cancer.” The idea that a young boy knew would even use the term “beaten back cancer” threw me a bit. The fact that this fellow knew this was even more surprising. Ari, however, was just warming up. “I’m a Red Sox fan,” he said proudly. “I like the way they play the game.”
And so it went for the next half hour or so. Ari allowed that he also liked the way the Twins play. “They’re ahead 4-2 today,” he informed me. “Valencia hit a home run.” That particular fact had occurred roughly five minutes before I entered the store.
There was only one way Ari could have known this. “So your mom lets you listen to ballgames on the radio in the car,” I said.
Ari nodded. “We have a deal,” he explained. “When my sister and I are in the car with mom, I get to listen to the ball game one way and she gets to hear her music the other way.”
“How is it you got to listen to the game coming out here today?” I asked.
“My sister didn’t realize the game will be over by the time we get back to the car,” Ari replied.
Later in the conversation, Ari showed himself to be a true Red Sox fan. “I don’t like the way the Yankees always buy their players,” he said. “But what about (Derek) Jeter, (Jorge) Posada and (Mariano) Rivera?” I protested. “They came up through their system.”Ari fixed an evil eye in return. “That was a long time ago,” he replied. “They stopped doing that.”
The conversation continued. “What do you think of the Twins’ playoff chances this year?” I asked. Ari pondered this for a minute. “They’ll do fine if they can get a lead into the seventh innings. They have enough closers to take them home from there. I’m not sure about some of those starters, though. They got enough hitting, though.”
Now it was Ari’s turn to ask questions. “Do you think Gonzalez will win the Triple Crown?” he asked. I looked up in surprise. There may not be 500 people in Minnesota who know who the hell Carlos Gonzalez is or the fact he plays for the Colorado Rockies. But this kid not only knew that but he was aware he has an outside chance to become the first National League in 73 years to win the batting, home run and RBI titles.
“I don’t think he can catch (Albert) Pujols for the home run lead,” I said. (At the time, Pujols led him by six.) Ari conceded the point. “Probably not,” he said. “He is striking out more than before.”
I looked it up. Gonzalez already 25 more whiffs than last year. This kid is pretty good.
I decided to try one last gambit. “My wife and her sister are going to Las Vegas next week,” I said. “Who should they bet on?”
The reply came back rapidfire. “The Phillies probably have the best club (in the National League) but Cincinnati is a good bet,” my new-found sage said.
“Who do you like in the American League?” I asked. Ari made a face. “Well, the Yankees have the most talent,” he sighed. Looking directly at my sister-in-law, he added, “But you’ll get better odds on the Twins. And they could win it if their pitching holds up.”
I wondered how in the world this boy, who said he was 10, showed more wisdom than some adults I know. I resolved to find out why. “Ari, when I was a kid, I used to scan the boxscores in the paper for all the games,” I said. “Do you do that?”
“No,” he said. “I go online to mlb.com every day.” (Silently, I thought to myself it was a good thing the internet and cable TV wasn’t around when I was his age. My mother might have lost her mind.)
A tall woman suddenly stood behind Ari’s chair. It was his mother, who signaled it was time to move on. “You have a terrific son,” I said to her. “We’ve been having a lot of fun talking baseball.” Ari’s mom smiled, “He has a lot of passion.”
I told her that my wife once asked me how was it that I could name the starting lineup of the 1961 Detroit Tigers but would forget to take out the trash. My reply wasn’t very helpful: “I don’t have a passion for the trash.”
Ari said his goodbyes. I told him if he ever wrote a book to let me know. I wanted an autographed copy. His mother smiled again. “He’ll remember,” she said. “He remembers everything about baseball.” As Ari walked out the door, I found myself flashing back to the memory of a young boy who once patiently explained to his mother why the Detroit Tigers were nuts to trade away Charley Maxwell for a guy named Bob Farley.
I turned to my sister-in-law, who had watched this conversation with appropriate bemusement. “I think I just met myself at age 10,” I said, somewhat in awe.
My sister-in-law smiled, “I hope you were that polite. Did you notice how he looked you in the eye when he talked?” I sighed in response, “My mother used to tell me to do that. Come to think of it, your sister tells me to do that now. Glad to see I’m getting better at it.”
This is the column I will be running next week. It was one of the most extraordinary experiences I have ever had.
One of Rod Serling’s best efforts in the old “Twilight Zone” series was a tale about a fellow returning to the city where he grew up. In the show, Gig Young played an unhappy New York City ad executive who said he just needed to get away from the hubbub of the big city and return to the town where he grew up. He finds himself at a gas station about a mile away and decides to walk to his old town. As only Serling could present it, Young finds himself transported back in time to when he was a boy. At one point, he sees himself as a 10-year old carving his name into a post.
It has long been considered one of Serling’s top literary efforts but it clearly was intended as a fantasy. At least I thought so until the other day. Now I am not so sure.
Read on and decide for yourself.
It started on a sunny Saturday in Stillwater. I was there for a booksigning of my tome “162-0”, the historical fantasy of how the Minnesota Twins mange a perfect season. A young fellow sat down on the chair opposite me with a book in hand.
“Would you like to me autograph that for you?” I asked.
He nodded his head shyly.
“What’s your name?” I asked.“Ari,” he replied softly. After a couple of hard seconds of thought, he added, “I am a baseball fan.”
Turned out Ari was slightly more than a baseball fan. He is a pitcher and a first baseman for a team called the Minneapolis Millers. “I’m better at pitching, though,” he said. “I’m not that good of a hitter.”
“Do you want to be a ballplayer when you grow up?” I asked. “Either that or an announcer. That’s where some guys go when they aren’t good enough to play anymore,” he said.
“Do you have a favorite pitcher?” I asked, expecting to hear him say Francisco Liriano, Nick Blackburn or some other members of the Twins’ staff.
“Jon Lester,” came the reply. “I’m lefthanded like he is. But the real reason I like him is because he has beaten back cancer.” The idea that a young boy knew would even use the term “beaten back cancer” threw me a bit. The fact that this fellow knew this was even more surprising. Ari, however, was just warming up. “I’m a Red Sox fan,” he said proudly. “I like the way they play the game.”
And so it went for the next half hour or so. Ari allowed that he also liked the way the Twins play. “They’re ahead 4-2 today,” he informed me. “Valencia hit a home run.” That particular fact had occurred roughly five minutes before I entered the store.
There was only one way Ari could have known this. “So your mom lets you listen to ballgames on the radio in the car,” I said.
Ari nodded. “We have a deal,” he explained. “When my sister and I are in the car with mom, I get to listen to the ball game one way and she gets to hear her music the other way.”
“How is it you got to listen to the game coming out here today?” I asked.
“My sister didn’t realize the game will be over by the time we get back to the car,” Ari replied.
Later in the conversation, Ari showed himself to be a true Red Sox fan. “I don’t like the way the Yankees always buy their players,” he said. “But what about (Derek) Jeter, (Jorge) Posada and (Mariano) Rivera?” I protested. “They came up through their system.”Ari fixed an evil eye in return. “That was a long time ago,” he replied. “They stopped doing that.”
The conversation continued. “What do you think of the Twins’ playoff chances this year?” I asked. Ari pondered this for a minute. “They’ll do fine if they can get a lead into the seventh innings. They have enough closers to take them home from there. I’m not sure about some of those starters, though. They got enough hitting, though.”
Now it was Ari’s turn to ask questions. “Do you think Gonzalez will win the Triple Crown?” he asked. I looked up in surprise. There may not be 500 people in Minnesota who know who the hell Carlos Gonzalez is or the fact he plays for the Colorado Rockies. But this kid not only knew that but he was aware he has an outside chance to become the first National League in 73 years to win the batting, home run and RBI titles.
“I don’t think he can catch (Albert) Pujols for the home run lead,” I said. (At the time, Pujols led him by six.) Ari conceded the point. “Probably not,” he said. “He is striking out more than before.”
I looked it up. Gonzalez already 25 more whiffs than last year. This kid is pretty good.
I decided to try one last gambit. “My wife and her sister are going to Las Vegas next week,” I said. “Who should they bet on?”
The reply came back rapidfire. “The Phillies probably have the best club (in the National League) but Cincinnati is a good bet,” my new-found sage said.
“Who do you like in the American League?” I asked. Ari made a face. “Well, the Yankees have the most talent,” he sighed. Looking directly at my sister-in-law, he added, “But you’ll get better odds on the Twins. And they could win it if their pitching holds up.”
I wondered how in the world this boy, who said he was 10, showed more wisdom than some adults I know. I resolved to find out why. “Ari, when I was a kid, I used to scan the boxscores in the paper for all the games,” I said. “Do you do that?”
“No,” he said. “I go online to mlb.com every day.” (Silently, I thought to myself it was a good thing the internet and cable TV wasn’t around when I was his age. My mother might have lost her mind.)
A tall woman suddenly stood behind Ari’s chair. It was his mother, who signaled it was time to move on. “You have a terrific son,” I said to her. “We’ve been having a lot of fun talking baseball.” Ari’s mom smiled, “He has a lot of passion.”
I told her that my wife once asked me how was it that I could name the starting lineup of the 1961 Detroit Tigers but would forget to take out the trash. My reply wasn’t very helpful: “I don’t have a passion for the trash.”
Ari said his goodbyes. I told him if he ever wrote a book to let me know. I wanted an autographed copy. His mother smiled again. “He’ll remember,” she said. “He remembers everything about baseball.” As Ari walked out the door, I found myself flashing back to the memory of a young boy who once patiently explained to his mother why the Detroit Tigers were nuts to trade away Charley Maxwell for a guy named Bob Farley.
I turned to my sister-in-law, who had watched this conversation with appropriate bemusement. “I think I just met myself at age 10,” I said, somewhat in awe.
My sister-in-law smiled, “I hope you were that polite. Did you notice how he looked you in the eye when he talked?” I sighed in response, “My mother used to tell me to do that. Come to think of it, your sister tells me to do that now. Glad to see I’m getting better at it.”
Monday, September 13, 2010
Lion legacy lives on
I was attending an afternoon dinner at Mancini's when I got a text from my friend Steph.
"Your team just got robbed."
I wandered out to the bar where the NFL games were being shown. The poor Detroit Lions -- my longtime, long-suffering home team had been putting up a stiff fight in their season opener at Chicago, a game that was being shown on local television. Something awful must have happened to them at the end to cause somebody to send me a text like that.
But the TV showed the Packers playing at Philadelphia. I approached the bartender. "How did the Lion game end up?", I asked. The bartender made a face. "It was awful - maybe the worst thing I have ever seen."
Back story:
In their history, the Lions have lost games in just about every way possible. There was a game when Errol Mann missed seven field goals in a three-point loss to the Vikings. On another occasion, the Lions seemed poised to record a rare win at Met Stadium against the Vikings. All Mann had to do was hit a short field goal on the last play of the game. Instead, the kick was blocked.
Another loss on the books.
There was that dreary day in New Orleans in 1970 when Tom Dempsey -- he of the half right foot, kicked a NFL record 63-yard field goal on the last play of the game. Curses. Foiled again.
(Somehow, that Lion team made the playoffs. They held a very good Dallas team to one field goal all game. Unfortunately, they never scored themselves and gave up a safety for a weird 5-0 loss.)
The next year, real tragedy struck. Chuck Hughes, a rarely used wide receiver, had caught a pass as part of a late rally against the Bears. Then, he ran a pattern on a play he wasn't involved in. He suddenly fell at the feet of Dick Butkus, the monster linebacker for the Bears.
Dead. Heart attack at age 26. The doctor who did the autopsy said he had the heart of a 70-year old man. Unbelievable.
So what could have possibly happened this time? Nobody could quite describe it at Mancini's. The best I got was Detroit had a TD taken away in the final minute.
An hour later, my wife and I headed to out favorite local saloon to meet friends.
"You better sit down first," Steph said.
"You're not going to believe this one," said Billy Leitner, the genial proprietor of the place.
"You're going to need a Grand Marnier," said Sharon Kelly, the best waitserver in town who works at O'Gara's and Billy's place and is my partner in a weekly pool.
Slowly, the story began to emerge. Turns out Matthew Stafford, the QB who was given a ton of cash and was starting to show stuff, went out with an injury in the first half. Despite that (and being outgained by nearly 300 yards), it appeared Detroit had finally stole a game on the road when Calvin Johnson made a terrific catch in the corner of the end zone with seconds remaining.
Alas, after falling to the ground, Johnson rolled over and the ball came out of his hand. After a lengthy review, it was decided this really was not a catch because, the referee said " He didn't finish the process."
What the hell did that mean? Steph, Billy and Sharon tried mightily to explain it to me. As one of only two Lions fans they know, they did their best to comfort me. After three drinks, however, the explanations made less and less sense. The only logical thing seemed to me to go home and find this play on line somewhere.
We did just that. After viewing it a few dozen times, I have decided the following:
1) The referee's explanation was (at the time, and still is) utter nonsense. Johnson caught the ball. After doing so, he falls on his butt and his knees. It was roughly 3-4 seconds later that the ball did come out of Johnson's hand. Had this play happened at midfield, nobody would have ever said a word.
2) The NFL simply doesn't give a rip about teams that don't help them much. This is a league based on marketing first and foremost. That means the glamor teams get the spotlight and the majority of the calls. This isn't a conspiracy rant. It is a simple fact. The NFL is only interested in the teams that will get them big ratings on TV and, hence, more money down the line from the networks. Clubs like the Lions are simply collateral material to the league.
3) Had this play occurred to, say, the Cowboys or Patriots, the league would have simply gulped hard and moved on. Yes, the NFL knows the Cowboys will lose occasionally as happened last night. (Yes, there was a key penalty at the end of last night's game on Dallas. But the foul was so flagrant that Ray Charles would have called it.)
4) The Lions are definitely the most cursed team in the NFL. This play simply couldn't have occurred to anybody else.
A day later, all a fellow can do is shake his head, sigh and move on. The word today is that Stafford has a shoulder injury and may be out of action for several weeks.
Can't imagine what will happen to them next week.
"Your team just got robbed."
I wandered out to the bar where the NFL games were being shown. The poor Detroit Lions -- my longtime, long-suffering home team had been putting up a stiff fight in their season opener at Chicago, a game that was being shown on local television. Something awful must have happened to them at the end to cause somebody to send me a text like that.
But the TV showed the Packers playing at Philadelphia. I approached the bartender. "How did the Lion game end up?", I asked. The bartender made a face. "It was awful - maybe the worst thing I have ever seen."
Back story:
In their history, the Lions have lost games in just about every way possible. There was a game when Errol Mann missed seven field goals in a three-point loss to the Vikings. On another occasion, the Lions seemed poised to record a rare win at Met Stadium against the Vikings. All Mann had to do was hit a short field goal on the last play of the game. Instead, the kick was blocked.
Another loss on the books.
There was that dreary day in New Orleans in 1970 when Tom Dempsey -- he of the half right foot, kicked a NFL record 63-yard field goal on the last play of the game. Curses. Foiled again.
(Somehow, that Lion team made the playoffs. They held a very good Dallas team to one field goal all game. Unfortunately, they never scored themselves and gave up a safety for a weird 5-0 loss.)
The next year, real tragedy struck. Chuck Hughes, a rarely used wide receiver, had caught a pass as part of a late rally against the Bears. Then, he ran a pattern on a play he wasn't involved in. He suddenly fell at the feet of Dick Butkus, the monster linebacker for the Bears.
Dead. Heart attack at age 26. The doctor who did the autopsy said he had the heart of a 70-year old man. Unbelievable.
So what could have possibly happened this time? Nobody could quite describe it at Mancini's. The best I got was Detroit had a TD taken away in the final minute.
An hour later, my wife and I headed to out favorite local saloon to meet friends.
"You better sit down first," Steph said.
"You're not going to believe this one," said Billy Leitner, the genial proprietor of the place.
"You're going to need a Grand Marnier," said Sharon Kelly, the best waitserver in town who works at O'Gara's and Billy's place and is my partner in a weekly pool.
Slowly, the story began to emerge. Turns out Matthew Stafford, the QB who was given a ton of cash and was starting to show stuff, went out with an injury in the first half. Despite that (and being outgained by nearly 300 yards), it appeared Detroit had finally stole a game on the road when Calvin Johnson made a terrific catch in the corner of the end zone with seconds remaining.
Alas, after falling to the ground, Johnson rolled over and the ball came out of his hand. After a lengthy review, it was decided this really was not a catch because, the referee said " He didn't finish the process."
What the hell did that mean? Steph, Billy and Sharon tried mightily to explain it to me. As one of only two Lions fans they know, they did their best to comfort me. After three drinks, however, the explanations made less and less sense. The only logical thing seemed to me to go home and find this play on line somewhere.
We did just that. After viewing it a few dozen times, I have decided the following:
1) The referee's explanation was (at the time, and still is) utter nonsense. Johnson caught the ball. After doing so, he falls on his butt and his knees. It was roughly 3-4 seconds later that the ball did come out of Johnson's hand. Had this play happened at midfield, nobody would have ever said a word.
2) The NFL simply doesn't give a rip about teams that don't help them much. This is a league based on marketing first and foremost. That means the glamor teams get the spotlight and the majority of the calls. This isn't a conspiracy rant. It is a simple fact. The NFL is only interested in the teams that will get them big ratings on TV and, hence, more money down the line from the networks. Clubs like the Lions are simply collateral material to the league.
3) Had this play occurred to, say, the Cowboys or Patriots, the league would have simply gulped hard and moved on. Yes, the NFL knows the Cowboys will lose occasionally as happened last night. (Yes, there was a key penalty at the end of last night's game on Dallas. But the foul was so flagrant that Ray Charles would have called it.)
4) The Lions are definitely the most cursed team in the NFL. This play simply couldn't have occurred to anybody else.
A day later, all a fellow can do is shake his head, sigh and move on. The word today is that Stafford has a shoulder injury and may be out of action for several weeks.
Can't imagine what will happen to them next week.
Thursday, September 9, 2010
Doing battle with a weedwhacker
It sounded like a simple task. My wife asked to go get a line installed for our weedwhacker. Instead of getting down on my hands and knees and clipping the loose grass strains, I would simply install the line into something we already had (but rarely used) and let nature take its course.
Our friend Steph reported great success using it when she stayed at our house a while back.
What could be simpler?
Getting right kind of wire for the Black and Decker Grass Hog Type 3 (its formal name) was no problem. The thing uses something that is slightly stronger and a little thicker than fishing line. Price was okay ($4.99) and the nice man at the hardware store showed how to unscrew the lid and install the wire.
Alas, I didn't get around to actually doing it until some 21 hours later. By then, I had forgotten a few things.
First, the good news. I did manage to get the lid off.
Then, it was a matter of placing the wire through a tiny slot and then wrapping it around the small wheel. I remembered the guy at the hardware store said not to use too much wire - just enough for 3 or 4 rotations. Only problem was that was a little hard to gauge. I ended up with enough wire for five or six rotations. But since I didn't want to waste any wire, I used it all.
When you have big fingers, threading a wire through a narrow hole isn't easy to do. After about a dozen false tries, however, success was achieved. The next problem was wrapping the wire around the spool. Easier said than done. Seems the wire is pretty stiff and simply wouldn't stay in place.
No problem, I thought. I would simply bend it under the first trip around the dial. Well, that worked wonderfully until ... I discovered I had wrapped the wire so tight that I could not place it through the tiny eyesocket so it actually could whack grass.
One broken fingernail later, I had undone what my first effort. I repeated the procedure but left enough wire to easily get through the eyesocket.
I went to work clipping grass at a glorious, brisk pace ... for about 15 seconds. That is all it took for the line to evaporate into thin air.
You see, the line was simply supposed to basically let itself out when needed -- much like what happens with a fishing reel.. But it can't do that when the guy who put it together wrapped the line tightly under another strand. When I unscrewed the cap to check this problem out, the whole thing - line, wheel and the mechanism holding it all together -- popped out. This surprised me so much I also dropped the whacker. Pete, the Happy Dog, was watching closely.
Damn near too closely.
Whacker missed him by about a foot. (Granted, the thing is made out of plastic. Still, that would have hurt.) Pete wisely bolted for the back of the yard and stayed there for 10 minutes or so.
Fortunately, plastic doesn't break easily. I was able to put everything back together. Cut some more line, gave it enough slack around the wheel and confidently place a new line in the eyesocket. Started things up and went back to work.
We have a series of rocks that line our backyard. Getting between them to extinguish strands of grass the mower missed requires deft, patience and agility. On this day, I was only lacking three of those qualities. The line kept bouncing off the rocks and missing its target. In an attempt to get closer and hit just the right angle, I stepped on the long cord that had been plugged in to get my whacker its needed juice. (it's an electric thing)
Cord went one way. I went another and the whacker headed in a third direction. Fortunately, Pete had retreated to a different corner to watch the proceedings.
We gathered everything up and tried to restart. Only I had stepped on the cord so hard that I bent the plug. Couldn't bend it back with my hands so I tried a pliers. That helped but it still couldn't fit the hole. So I went in the garage and got a hammer. One good whack later, the plug was as straight as ever and we proceeded back to work.
This time, things fared better. The line worked like a charm. I stayed away from stepping on the cord. Shortly thereafter, mission accomplished.
All in all, I spent about 75 minutes on this project. Roughly 10 of those minutes were used to do the actual cutting of the loose grass.
Can't wait until I try to use the snow blower.
Our friend Steph reported great success using it when she stayed at our house a while back.
What could be simpler?
Getting right kind of wire for the Black and Decker Grass Hog Type 3 (its formal name) was no problem. The thing uses something that is slightly stronger and a little thicker than fishing line. Price was okay ($4.99) and the nice man at the hardware store showed how to unscrew the lid and install the wire.
Alas, I didn't get around to actually doing it until some 21 hours later. By then, I had forgotten a few things.
First, the good news. I did manage to get the lid off.
Then, it was a matter of placing the wire through a tiny slot and then wrapping it around the small wheel. I remembered the guy at the hardware store said not to use too much wire - just enough for 3 or 4 rotations. Only problem was that was a little hard to gauge. I ended up with enough wire for five or six rotations. But since I didn't want to waste any wire, I used it all.
When you have big fingers, threading a wire through a narrow hole isn't easy to do. After about a dozen false tries, however, success was achieved. The next problem was wrapping the wire around the spool. Easier said than done. Seems the wire is pretty stiff and simply wouldn't stay in place.
No problem, I thought. I would simply bend it under the first trip around the dial. Well, that worked wonderfully until ... I discovered I had wrapped the wire so tight that I could not place it through the tiny eyesocket so it actually could whack grass.
One broken fingernail later, I had undone what my first effort. I repeated the procedure but left enough wire to easily get through the eyesocket.
I went to work clipping grass at a glorious, brisk pace ... for about 15 seconds. That is all it took for the line to evaporate into thin air.
You see, the line was simply supposed to basically let itself out when needed -- much like what happens with a fishing reel.. But it can't do that when the guy who put it together wrapped the line tightly under another strand. When I unscrewed the cap to check this problem out, the whole thing - line, wheel and the mechanism holding it all together -- popped out. This surprised me so much I also dropped the whacker. Pete, the Happy Dog, was watching closely.
Damn near too closely.
Whacker missed him by about a foot. (Granted, the thing is made out of plastic. Still, that would have hurt.) Pete wisely bolted for the back of the yard and stayed there for 10 minutes or so.
Fortunately, plastic doesn't break easily. I was able to put everything back together. Cut some more line, gave it enough slack around the wheel and confidently place a new line in the eyesocket. Started things up and went back to work.
We have a series of rocks that line our backyard. Getting between them to extinguish strands of grass the mower missed requires deft, patience and agility. On this day, I was only lacking three of those qualities. The line kept bouncing off the rocks and missing its target. In an attempt to get closer and hit just the right angle, I stepped on the long cord that had been plugged in to get my whacker its needed juice. (it's an electric thing)
Cord went one way. I went another and the whacker headed in a third direction. Fortunately, Pete had retreated to a different corner to watch the proceedings.
We gathered everything up and tried to restart. Only I had stepped on the cord so hard that I bent the plug. Couldn't bend it back with my hands so I tried a pliers. That helped but it still couldn't fit the hole. So I went in the garage and got a hammer. One good whack later, the plug was as straight as ever and we proceeded back to work.
This time, things fared better. The line worked like a charm. I stayed away from stepping on the cord. Shortly thereafter, mission accomplished.
All in all, I spent about 75 minutes on this project. Roughly 10 of those minutes were used to do the actual cutting of the loose grass.
Can't wait until I try to use the snow blower.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
The great state fair
My first visit was on my first night at college ... nearly 40 years ago. They bundled a bunch of freshmen into a bus and dropped us off at the Minnesota State Fair. In three hours, they said they would pick us up again.
That's all it took -- three hours to fall in love.
Damn near every state has a fair of some sort. It is an uniquely American tradition. (My friend Steph Harris says the county fair near where she grew up in northern New York is actually bigger and better than the state fair in Syracuse.)
The Minnesota fair isn't far from our house. It is a marvel to see. Think of the oddest food you can name -- something that would never appear in a grocery store (like elephant ears) and you'll find it here. It has the usual elements - a fun Midway, a place called Ye Olde Mill where couples can ride a canoe in (for the most part) the dark for a few minutes, animal exhibits, arcades, fun houses, a rollercoaster, etc.
But where this fair makes its mark is the many unusual exhibits - such as a Butterfly House and Machinery Hill - where people get to check out tractors, motorcycles and fireplaces.
On a day like today (high 70s and sunny), the place will be packed to the brim.
They used to run horse and car races here. They stopped that a while back but they have great outdoor concerts at a big venue (Tim McGraw tonite) and smaller ones with groups like the great Nitty Gritty Dirt Band at others.
But the biggest thing is the people watching. It is the one place where people seem to go to forget their troubles. Oh, politicians have their booths here. But none of them seem to do a booming business. People go to the fair to forget about that sort of stuff. They want to eat mini-doughnuts and cheese curds at their own pace. They want to simply walk outside and enjoy the last days of summer before school starts.
The most amazing thing to me about the fair is that, even though 100,000 plus people walk through the gates every day and the place is huge, you still manage to run into an astounding amount of people you know. Old classmates, old workmates, old girlfriends. You tend to forget your past issues and complaints. You simply smile, walk at your own pace and enjoy the sights and sounds of the place.
In this fast-moving complicated world with cellphones, dvd players, computers, etc., it is a nice break.
Frankly, we need more of these diversions. But this one will do nicely for now.
That's all it took -- three hours to fall in love.
Damn near every state has a fair of some sort. It is an uniquely American tradition. (My friend Steph Harris says the county fair near where she grew up in northern New York is actually bigger and better than the state fair in Syracuse.)
The Minnesota fair isn't far from our house. It is a marvel to see. Think of the oddest food you can name -- something that would never appear in a grocery store (like elephant ears) and you'll find it here. It has the usual elements - a fun Midway, a place called Ye Olde Mill where couples can ride a canoe in (for the most part) the dark for a few minutes, animal exhibits, arcades, fun houses, a rollercoaster, etc.
But where this fair makes its mark is the many unusual exhibits - such as a Butterfly House and Machinery Hill - where people get to check out tractors, motorcycles and fireplaces.
On a day like today (high 70s and sunny), the place will be packed to the brim.
They used to run horse and car races here. They stopped that a while back but they have great outdoor concerts at a big venue (Tim McGraw tonite) and smaller ones with groups like the great Nitty Gritty Dirt Band at others.
But the biggest thing is the people watching. It is the one place where people seem to go to forget their troubles. Oh, politicians have their booths here. But none of them seem to do a booming business. People go to the fair to forget about that sort of stuff. They want to eat mini-doughnuts and cheese curds at their own pace. They want to simply walk outside and enjoy the last days of summer before school starts.
The most amazing thing to me about the fair is that, even though 100,000 plus people walk through the gates every day and the place is huge, you still manage to run into an astounding amount of people you know. Old classmates, old workmates, old girlfriends. You tend to forget your past issues and complaints. You simply smile, walk at your own pace and enjoy the sights and sounds of the place.
In this fast-moving complicated world with cellphones, dvd players, computers, etc., it is a nice break.
Frankly, we need more of these diversions. But this one will do nicely for now.
Wednesday, August 18, 2010
A heckuva night at the ballpark
As noted earlier, I recently celebrated my 50-year anniversary of attending major league baseball games. With the White Sox in town and the pennant race afoot, it seemed like a good time to start on year 51. Accordingly, I was at Target Field last night with a dear friend and former co-worker whose only known drawback is being an Avowed Yankee Fan. (Being a New York native, she gets a pass, though, on this one.)
Neither one of us are Twins' types but we know and appreciate good baseball when we see it. A little over three hours after we arrived, we left somewhat exhausted after a rollicking affair that ended with a bombastic home run in the 10th inning.
Although most of the media buzz around town was the news that a certain elderly, gray-haired quarterback was spotted entering the Vikings' digs in Eden Prairie, there were 40,000 of us who were on hand for one of the most rousing ballgames I have seen in years.
As the AYF noted, more people than usual were in their seats at the start of the game. Good thing, too. The locals started fast with a pair of home runs in the first inning en route to a 4-0 lead. The White Sox, three games behind in the standings and skidding fast, snapped back with three quick runs to tighten the game. And we were off and running the rest of the night.
Baseball doesn't often go like this. When it does, the game can become a whirling dervish and players sometimes amaze themselves. Take Minnesota OF Jason Kubel, for example.. On many occasions, Kubel looks at fly balls like a man fighting bees. In the 3rd inning on this night, however, he took off immediately in hot pursuit of a shot up the alley. Not only did he make a great catch, he quickly flipped the ball to CF Denard Span and nearly nailed Chicago's speedy Juan Pierre scampering back to first.
In the bottom of that inning, Jim Thome, a lumbering sort was standing on first base with two out when Danny Valencia launched a ball high off the wall in right field. Thomas runs like an out of control moose and headed home at what qualifies for him as full blast. But the Sox executed a perfect relay and nailed him for the final out of the inning. Have you ever heard 40,000 people go quiet at once? It's weird.
Chicago tied it up in the fourth but Minnesota's Delmon Young, in the midst of a terrific season, untied matters with a line shot into the left field seats.
It was still 5-4 in the 8th. Young was on third with one out when J.J. Hardy rapped a ground ball to second, Young broke for the plate but seemed out by 10 feet. No matter. He stiffarmed Sox catcher A.J. Pierzynski, causing another roar from the stands. For some reason, Pierzynski, who started his career with the Twins, gets booed unmercifully every time he is here. The crowd may have been puzzled as to Young's motives but they liked the idea anyway. (They may think otherwise later. Players have long memories. There will be a moment down the line when a game is out of hand and Mr. Young will get a chance to see the logo of a baseball quite closely. Let's note ahead of time that he will deserve this visit.)
It was still 5-4 when we began a memorable 9th inning. Matt Capps, the closer acquired from Washington a month ago, entered to save the night for the locals. Alexei Ramirez silenced the majority of the crowd instantly when he hit a laser shot into the left field seats. It might be the hardest line drive home run I have ever seen. At first, I thought it hit somebody in the head and bounced back into play. But, no, it was a fan who picked up the ball and nearly threw it from the left field bleachers to shortstop in disgust.
It looked like the Sox might win it right there when they loaded the bases with one out and their best hitter, Paul Konerko, at the plate. But Capps induced the big man to hit into a double play to end the threat.
At this point, the AYF observed something both of us had missed. It was roughly 10:00 p.m., normally the time when many Twins fans get up and leave no matter what the score. Not this time, though. They seemed to sense we were about to witness something memorable.
They were right.
The 10th inning was really something. With one out and nobody on, we suddenly saw a young boy, age 12 or so, sprint from his seat near the left field line out towards Young. The kid stopped short, got on his knees, waved his arms back and forth and bowed down a couple of times. He then ran back to his seat, which was only a section and a few rows from us. The security guards weren't fooled. They ran over to him and informed the lad he had witnessed his last pitch in person. The really weird part is it looked like he was there with his mother and a couple of siblings. They seem puzzled this intrusion wasn't appreciated by the guards ... although the crowd around us roared with pleasure.
I asked the AYF what would have happened if, as a youth attending games at Yankee Stadium, she would have done such an action. I can't remember the particulars of the answer but the general impression was there might be some horsewhipping involved.
This interruption may have inspired the Sox, who promptly pieced together three straight singles for a 6-5 lead. For all the world, it looked like the visitors were about to make a huge statement that the AL Central race was really up for grabs after all. Considering the hullabaloo caused by the visit of the grey-haired gentleman at Vikings' HQ, the AYF and I agreed that, if the school held, this game might end up on page 5 of the sports section today.
I still had this thought when Young led off the bottom of the 10th with a single. Thome strode to the plate. On the first pitch, the lumberjack took a mighty swing ... and missed the ball by a foot. Undaunted, he repeated this gesture and nearly knocked the ball into 4th St. for a game-winning home run.
The grey- haired fellow who garnered most of the headlines in the papers today (and, likely, for weeks to come) should only hope he ever gets cheered this loudly this year. Five minutes after the game, people were still yelling. The AYF and I agreed that it was one of the most astounding things we have ever seen on a diamond... even though our personal teams were not involved at all.
It may be tough to top that one. But the beauty of baseball is there is always another day.
Neither one of us are Twins' types but we know and appreciate good baseball when we see it. A little over three hours after we arrived, we left somewhat exhausted after a rollicking affair that ended with a bombastic home run in the 10th inning.
Although most of the media buzz around town was the news that a certain elderly, gray-haired quarterback was spotted entering the Vikings' digs in Eden Prairie, there were 40,000 of us who were on hand for one of the most rousing ballgames I have seen in years.
As the AYF noted, more people than usual were in their seats at the start of the game. Good thing, too. The locals started fast with a pair of home runs in the first inning en route to a 4-0 lead. The White Sox, three games behind in the standings and skidding fast, snapped back with three quick runs to tighten the game. And we were off and running the rest of the night.
Baseball doesn't often go like this. When it does, the game can become a whirling dervish and players sometimes amaze themselves. Take Minnesota OF Jason Kubel, for example.. On many occasions, Kubel looks at fly balls like a man fighting bees. In the 3rd inning on this night, however, he took off immediately in hot pursuit of a shot up the alley. Not only did he make a great catch, he quickly flipped the ball to CF Denard Span and nearly nailed Chicago's speedy Juan Pierre scampering back to first.
In the bottom of that inning, Jim Thome, a lumbering sort was standing on first base with two out when Danny Valencia launched a ball high off the wall in right field. Thomas runs like an out of control moose and headed home at what qualifies for him as full blast. But the Sox executed a perfect relay and nailed him for the final out of the inning. Have you ever heard 40,000 people go quiet at once? It's weird.
Chicago tied it up in the fourth but Minnesota's Delmon Young, in the midst of a terrific season, untied matters with a line shot into the left field seats.
It was still 5-4 in the 8th. Young was on third with one out when J.J. Hardy rapped a ground ball to second, Young broke for the plate but seemed out by 10 feet. No matter. He stiffarmed Sox catcher A.J. Pierzynski, causing another roar from the stands. For some reason, Pierzynski, who started his career with the Twins, gets booed unmercifully every time he is here. The crowd may have been puzzled as to Young's motives but they liked the idea anyway. (They may think otherwise later. Players have long memories. There will be a moment down the line when a game is out of hand and Mr. Young will get a chance to see the logo of a baseball quite closely. Let's note ahead of time that he will deserve this visit.)
It was still 5-4 when we began a memorable 9th inning. Matt Capps, the closer acquired from Washington a month ago, entered to save the night for the locals. Alexei Ramirez silenced the majority of the crowd instantly when he hit a laser shot into the left field seats. It might be the hardest line drive home run I have ever seen. At first, I thought it hit somebody in the head and bounced back into play. But, no, it was a fan who picked up the ball and nearly threw it from the left field bleachers to shortstop in disgust.
It looked like the Sox might win it right there when they loaded the bases with one out and their best hitter, Paul Konerko, at the plate. But Capps induced the big man to hit into a double play to end the threat.
At this point, the AYF observed something both of us had missed. It was roughly 10:00 p.m., normally the time when many Twins fans get up and leave no matter what the score. Not this time, though. They seemed to sense we were about to witness something memorable.
They were right.
The 10th inning was really something. With one out and nobody on, we suddenly saw a young boy, age 12 or so, sprint from his seat near the left field line out towards Young. The kid stopped short, got on his knees, waved his arms back and forth and bowed down a couple of times. He then ran back to his seat, which was only a section and a few rows from us. The security guards weren't fooled. They ran over to him and informed the lad he had witnessed his last pitch in person. The really weird part is it looked like he was there with his mother and a couple of siblings. They seem puzzled this intrusion wasn't appreciated by the guards ... although the crowd around us roared with pleasure.
I asked the AYF what would have happened if, as a youth attending games at Yankee Stadium, she would have done such an action. I can't remember the particulars of the answer but the general impression was there might be some horsewhipping involved.
This interruption may have inspired the Sox, who promptly pieced together three straight singles for a 6-5 lead. For all the world, it looked like the visitors were about to make a huge statement that the AL Central race was really up for grabs after all. Considering the hullabaloo caused by the visit of the grey-haired gentleman at Vikings' HQ, the AYF and I agreed that, if the school held, this game might end up on page 5 of the sports section today.
I still had this thought when Young led off the bottom of the 10th with a single. Thome strode to the plate. On the first pitch, the lumberjack took a mighty swing ... and missed the ball by a foot. Undaunted, he repeated this gesture and nearly knocked the ball into 4th St. for a game-winning home run.
The grey- haired fellow who garnered most of the headlines in the papers today (and, likely, for weeks to come) should only hope he ever gets cheered this loudly this year. Five minutes after the game, people were still yelling. The AYF and I agreed that it was one of the most astounding things we have ever seen on a diamond... even though our personal teams were not involved at all.
It may be tough to top that one. But the beauty of baseball is there is always another day.
Friday, August 13, 2010
A truly golden anniversary
This Sunday, I celebrate a golden anniversary. It will be 50 years ago that I attended my first major league baseball game. it was a twi-night doubleheader between the Milwaukee Braves and the Cincinnati Reds at wonderful old Crosley Field.
Even a hardcore like me can't remember too many of the details. Thanks to a wonderful site called retrosheet.org, I can report I witnessed the first of hard throwing Jim Maloney's 134 major league wins in a 5-3 decision in the opener. I did remember that my distant cousin Wally Post hit a home run and knocked in four runs. (Guess who the Reds' second baseman was? None other than the volatile Billy Martin.)
I remembered Cincinnati won both games. But I confess I didn't call Bob Purkey, who was a pretty good pitcher for a dozen years or so, tossing a rarity -- a 11-hit shutout in a 4-0 second game win.
(I was only seven years old and would like to think I stayed until the end. My suspicion, however, is Aunt Ida convinced Uncle Cletus that we needed to go home before it was all over. But I digress.)
50 years later, however, I do remember some things as if it were yesterday. I remember the excitement when I saw the lights of the ballpark from I-75 (Oldtimers might remember it as the Millcreek Expressway). I remember the sign for the exit for Crosley Field and damn near peeing my pants as we got close to the park.
Uncle Cletus worked for the Dayton Daily News for years. He had wrangled some great seats -- a couple of rows behind third base. As luck would have it, I had a great view for what happened in the seventh inning. Frank Robinson - perhaps the best player I ever personally play - hit a booming shot that bounced off the big scoreboard in center field. Robinson could really run and, seeing the ball bounce away from Hank Aaron in center field (yes, he was a center fielder that night), decided to take a shot at an inside the park home run. As he got around third base, his feet got tangled up with Braves 3B Eddie Matthews and he fell to the ground. The throw came in and Robinson was tagged out.
That was not the end of the action. Robinson must have thought Matthews tripped him because he came up swinging. I remember it being a pretty good fight. I seem to recall Matthews got the better of it. No matter. Both of them got kicked out of the game. For a seven-year old to see something like that in his first big league game was really something.
Until I went to Retrosheet, I didn't remember Purkey pitching the nightcap but I can see Robinson's home run to left field (off Carlton Willey) like it just happened. It was a high, majestic drive that easily cleared the big screen in left field and may have landed in the front window of the old laundry that was just across the freeway. It's still one of the longest home runs I have ever seen. My only other memory is Robinson absolutely glared at Matthews as he rounded third base. This time, however, there were no punches thrown.
It was the start of a love affair at the ballpark that hasn't gone away to this day. Even if I am going to a day game, I still get excited when I see the lights of my destination. That means I am close to going back into another shrine. It doesn't matter if it a truly historic place like Yankee Stadium (I got to see one game there) or a bland place like the late, unlamented Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia. They are all places where a person can put their troubles aside for a few hours and just enjoy baseball.
I recently passed another anniversary. On August 11, 1968, I entered Tiger Stadium at 11:30 a.m. to watch batting practice prior to a key twinbill between the Tigers and the Red Sox. I left nine hours and 35 minutes later, exhausted after seeing Detroit rally for a 14-inning win in the opener and a four-run ninth inning gamewinning rally in the second game. I am not sure I could last that long today but it sure was fun that day.
My wife summarized my feelings about baseball neatly a while back. She says this conversation happened early in our marriage. I don't remember it but I believe it to be true.
She: "How come you can remember baseball games you went to when you were a kid but you can't remember to take out the garbage?"
Me: "Because I don't have a passion for the garbage."
In case she (or anybody else is wondering), here is the answer for how long this has been going. Come Sunday, it will be exactly 50 years. Not every game was a classic. Not every game had a great fight to it or a memorable finish. But I enjoyed seeing all of them ... and am looking forward to what is ahead in the next 50 years.
Even a hardcore like me can't remember too many of the details. Thanks to a wonderful site called retrosheet.org, I can report I witnessed the first of hard throwing Jim Maloney's 134 major league wins in a 5-3 decision in the opener. I did remember that my distant cousin Wally Post hit a home run and knocked in four runs. (Guess who the Reds' second baseman was? None other than the volatile Billy Martin.)
I remembered Cincinnati won both games. But I confess I didn't call Bob Purkey, who was a pretty good pitcher for a dozen years or so, tossing a rarity -- a 11-hit shutout in a 4-0 second game win.
(I was only seven years old and would like to think I stayed until the end. My suspicion, however, is Aunt Ida convinced Uncle Cletus that we needed to go home before it was all over. But I digress.)
50 years later, however, I do remember some things as if it were yesterday. I remember the excitement when I saw the lights of the ballpark from I-75 (Oldtimers might remember it as the Millcreek Expressway). I remember the sign for the exit for Crosley Field and damn near peeing my pants as we got close to the park.
Uncle Cletus worked for the Dayton Daily News for years. He had wrangled some great seats -- a couple of rows behind third base. As luck would have it, I had a great view for what happened in the seventh inning. Frank Robinson - perhaps the best player I ever personally play - hit a booming shot that bounced off the big scoreboard in center field. Robinson could really run and, seeing the ball bounce away from Hank Aaron in center field (yes, he was a center fielder that night), decided to take a shot at an inside the park home run. As he got around third base, his feet got tangled up with Braves 3B Eddie Matthews and he fell to the ground. The throw came in and Robinson was tagged out.
That was not the end of the action. Robinson must have thought Matthews tripped him because he came up swinging. I remember it being a pretty good fight. I seem to recall Matthews got the better of it. No matter. Both of them got kicked out of the game. For a seven-year old to see something like that in his first big league game was really something.
Until I went to Retrosheet, I didn't remember Purkey pitching the nightcap but I can see Robinson's home run to left field (off Carlton Willey) like it just happened. It was a high, majestic drive that easily cleared the big screen in left field and may have landed in the front window of the old laundry that was just across the freeway. It's still one of the longest home runs I have ever seen. My only other memory is Robinson absolutely glared at Matthews as he rounded third base. This time, however, there were no punches thrown.
It was the start of a love affair at the ballpark that hasn't gone away to this day. Even if I am going to a day game, I still get excited when I see the lights of my destination. That means I am close to going back into another shrine. It doesn't matter if it a truly historic place like Yankee Stadium (I got to see one game there) or a bland place like the late, unlamented Veterans Stadium in Philadelphia. They are all places where a person can put their troubles aside for a few hours and just enjoy baseball.
I recently passed another anniversary. On August 11, 1968, I entered Tiger Stadium at 11:30 a.m. to watch batting practice prior to a key twinbill between the Tigers and the Red Sox. I left nine hours and 35 minutes later, exhausted after seeing Detroit rally for a 14-inning win in the opener and a four-run ninth inning gamewinning rally in the second game. I am not sure I could last that long today but it sure was fun that day.
My wife summarized my feelings about baseball neatly a while back. She says this conversation happened early in our marriage. I don't remember it but I believe it to be true.
She: "How come you can remember baseball games you went to when you were a kid but you can't remember to take out the garbage?"
Me: "Because I don't have a passion for the garbage."
In case she (or anybody else is wondering), here is the answer for how long this has been going. Come Sunday, it will be exactly 50 years. Not every game was a classic. Not every game had a great fight to it or a memorable finish. But I enjoyed seeing all of them ... and am looking forward to what is ahead in the next 50 years.
Sunday, July 18, 2010
Farewell to a mentor
One of the detriments of getting older is the sad realization that people who were (or still are) important to you in your life eventually pass away. On the day I headed north for a week at a lodge in northern Minnesota, the man who perhaps did more to save me from heading down life's wrong paths, passed away in his sleep.
Fr. Cullen was 94 and lost his sight a couple of years ago. He would probably be the first to say he was ready to go. he certainly had earned the right to rest forever.
Still, I couldn't help but feed a little sad at his passing.
Fr. Cullen ran the Residence Hall at Assumption when I was in high school. The boarders came from all over the place. There were guys like myself, a Detroiter who had been sent there to get disciplined in my studies. There were guys like Marc Boisvert, a wonderful hockey player who hailed from the tiny fishing village of Chapleau, Ontario. And there were a ton of guys in-between.
Running that group alone would be more than enough work. But Fr. Cullen also was the head of the English Department at Assumption. He was also the head coach for hockey and baseball while I was there. No man ever ran his team with a tougher but fairer stick.
The stories are, of course, endless and could fill up a rainy week.
Today, though, I prefer to remember what the man did for me. He pushed me hard in the areas he knew I had skill in. He gingerly guided me away from things I liked but either didn't know how to do or simply wasn't very good at.
I wanted to play hockey in the worst way. Unfortunately, that is exactly how I played the game. My wife met Fr. Cullen once and asked him what kind of player I was. He smiled and said, "He meant well."
But he saw that there was a way I could contribute to the team. So, he made me the team manager. When we started playing games in the old Windsor Arena, he told me that I could run the clock and do the public address work. He gave me no direct instructions as how to do this, though. (His only advice: "Listen to that guy who does the games at Maple Leaf Gardens. Be that precise." It's advice I have never forgotten and try to emulate to this day.)
That was Fr. Cullen's genius. He wanted you to figure stuff out for yourself.
As a coach, he ran his team hard. As early as 1970, we taped games. I remember one day going in to watch the tape of a 6-0 win over rival Brennan High School. Fr. Cullen kept stopping the tape and pointing out plays that could have gone wrong. The fact that they didn't wasn't important. He wanted his team to get a little better every game.
After a tough loss, he never berated anybody. He understood this wasn't the time or place. I remember a playoff game at Galt. Tom Morse, our goalie, misplayed a puck and turned what should have been an icing into a goal. We eventually lost, 4-3. There was no need to rip Tom a new one. Later on (after we could smile about it) he simply said to Tom, "I bet you will never make that mistake again." I'm betting Tom never did.
He was a man of sharp opinions and could tear your head off is you screwed up. At the same time, he could be gentle. One fine Friday in May, he pulled me out of a classroom. He told me I needed to go home right now. Bob Spillard, a neighbor and a family friend (who, ironically, had attended Assumption himself), was there. He would tell me what was going on. As I was getting into the car, I heard Father say to Bob, "Don't bring him back until you think he is ready."
My mom was dying in a hospital. I went there for one last visit. She passed away early the next morning. When I returned to school a week later, Father simply pulled me aside and said, "If you feel the need to break down, go to your room to do so." At the time, I thought it was callous. Later, I realized he said this because (at least this was true in 1969) high school boys simply don't like to see other boys cry.
The man was often ahead of his time.
I stayed at Assumption the rest of my high school career. When it was time to pick a college, Father knew of a small school in Minnesota I had never heard of. He had a friend who was Dean of Admissions there. It had an up and coming Journalism department. To deal the deal, he sent me to Reno Bertoia, a History teacher at our school who had played baseball in Minnesota in 1961. (Want to win a bar bet? Ask somebody to name the Twins' original third baseman. Throw in the hint he homered off Whitey Ford in the first game in team history. The answer, of course, is Reno Bertoia.)
Mr. Bertoia told me some of the nicest people he had ever met were in Minnesota.
End of deal. I have basically lived in Minnesota ever since.
There is more I can and probably should say about how much Fr, Cullen did for me. I wasn't alone. Thousands of kids at Assumption were guided one way or the other by him.
We'll save more remembrances for another day.
I am grateful I was able to get back a few times to thank him in person. I am grateful he was able to know I acknowledged him in my book on the Twins ... and that he was told about it.
Which leads me to one last thought. The last time I saw Fr. Cullen I thanked him for all he did for me. He gave me a genuine smile in return, a firm handshake and said, "You're welcome." I will remember that sequence forever.
Do the same thing for someone who helped you along the way. They will appreciate it and you will cherish their look back at you.
Fr. Cullen was 94 and lost his sight a couple of years ago. He would probably be the first to say he was ready to go. he certainly had earned the right to rest forever.
Still, I couldn't help but feed a little sad at his passing.
Fr. Cullen ran the Residence Hall at Assumption when I was in high school. The boarders came from all over the place. There were guys like myself, a Detroiter who had been sent there to get disciplined in my studies. There were guys like Marc Boisvert, a wonderful hockey player who hailed from the tiny fishing village of Chapleau, Ontario. And there were a ton of guys in-between.
Running that group alone would be more than enough work. But Fr. Cullen also was the head of the English Department at Assumption. He was also the head coach for hockey and baseball while I was there. No man ever ran his team with a tougher but fairer stick.
The stories are, of course, endless and could fill up a rainy week.
Today, though, I prefer to remember what the man did for me. He pushed me hard in the areas he knew I had skill in. He gingerly guided me away from things I liked but either didn't know how to do or simply wasn't very good at.
I wanted to play hockey in the worst way. Unfortunately, that is exactly how I played the game. My wife met Fr. Cullen once and asked him what kind of player I was. He smiled and said, "He meant well."
But he saw that there was a way I could contribute to the team. So, he made me the team manager. When we started playing games in the old Windsor Arena, he told me that I could run the clock and do the public address work. He gave me no direct instructions as how to do this, though. (His only advice: "Listen to that guy who does the games at Maple Leaf Gardens. Be that precise." It's advice I have never forgotten and try to emulate to this day.)
That was Fr. Cullen's genius. He wanted you to figure stuff out for yourself.
As a coach, he ran his team hard. As early as 1970, we taped games. I remember one day going in to watch the tape of a 6-0 win over rival Brennan High School. Fr. Cullen kept stopping the tape and pointing out plays that could have gone wrong. The fact that they didn't wasn't important. He wanted his team to get a little better every game.
After a tough loss, he never berated anybody. He understood this wasn't the time or place. I remember a playoff game at Galt. Tom Morse, our goalie, misplayed a puck and turned what should have been an icing into a goal. We eventually lost, 4-3. There was no need to rip Tom a new one. Later on (after we could smile about it) he simply said to Tom, "I bet you will never make that mistake again." I'm betting Tom never did.
He was a man of sharp opinions and could tear your head off is you screwed up. At the same time, he could be gentle. One fine Friday in May, he pulled me out of a classroom. He told me I needed to go home right now. Bob Spillard, a neighbor and a family friend (who, ironically, had attended Assumption himself), was there. He would tell me what was going on. As I was getting into the car, I heard Father say to Bob, "Don't bring him back until you think he is ready."
My mom was dying in a hospital. I went there for one last visit. She passed away early the next morning. When I returned to school a week later, Father simply pulled me aside and said, "If you feel the need to break down, go to your room to do so." At the time, I thought it was callous. Later, I realized he said this because (at least this was true in 1969) high school boys simply don't like to see other boys cry.
The man was often ahead of his time.
I stayed at Assumption the rest of my high school career. When it was time to pick a college, Father knew of a small school in Minnesota I had never heard of. He had a friend who was Dean of Admissions there. It had an up and coming Journalism department. To deal the deal, he sent me to Reno Bertoia, a History teacher at our school who had played baseball in Minnesota in 1961. (Want to win a bar bet? Ask somebody to name the Twins' original third baseman. Throw in the hint he homered off Whitey Ford in the first game in team history. The answer, of course, is Reno Bertoia.)
Mr. Bertoia told me some of the nicest people he had ever met were in Minnesota.
End of deal. I have basically lived in Minnesota ever since.
There is more I can and probably should say about how much Fr, Cullen did for me. I wasn't alone. Thousands of kids at Assumption were guided one way or the other by him.
We'll save more remembrances for another day.
I am grateful I was able to get back a few times to thank him in person. I am grateful he was able to know I acknowledged him in my book on the Twins ... and that he was told about it.
Which leads me to one last thought. The last time I saw Fr. Cullen I thanked him for all he did for me. He gave me a genuine smile in return, a firm handshake and said, "You're welcome." I will remember that sequence forever.
Do the same thing for someone who helped you along the way. They will appreciate it and you will cherish their look back at you.
Monday, July 12, 2010
At the Lake
When I was a wee (and, later, not so wee) lad, Mom used to take us for a week's vacation to Grand Bend, Ontario. It was a wonderful hamlet that had a population of 500 in the winter but 5,000 in the summer. For a week, we would stay in a cabin that looked out on Lake Huron. As I recall, we didn't actually DO much. We usually went over to Stratford for a Shakespearean play. We did a little fishing and golfing. We swam in Lake Huron. Our meals consisted of such things as a healthy breakfast of peanut butter crackers.
If we were feeling particularly ambitious, we would go into town.
Downtown Grand Bend only stretched three blocks or so. But it included an area that various games such as SkeeBall and the old bumper cars. I remember my brother Frank (I think brother John may have helped him) won 37 tickets at SkeeBall so he could get a hotplate that Mom used in the cabin.
I can't tell you how big the cabin was but I remember it had a big picture window. One night, I saw am amazing sight. The moon was shining but a storm was rolling across the lake. I can still see the vision of the rain coming in from the right while the moon shone brightly on the left. It was a visual that, even if we had captured it on video (or film in those days) would not have done it justice. It was a sight meant for eyes only.
I mention all this because my wife and I are at a cabin on Lake Winnibigosh in the metropolis of Bena, MN this week. Bena's population is listed as 110. I think that includes the folks who work here, at the general store down the road and perhaps a few dogs I have seen around.
Although it is only a four-hour ride from St. Paul, you feel as is you are million miles away. As a result, the pace of life is ... well ... different. You get up when you want to and go to bed at whatever time seems right. Boy, do you really sleep well, though - even the other night when a rainstorm swept through here. You shave if you feel like it. (Some things have changed at the lake. For example, they now have satellite TV so you can keep up with the world.As this missive shows, Wi-Fi exists ... even in the woods of Bena.)
You grill anything you can. You sit on picnic tables and watch the lake. You play card games. You go out in a boat and fish. You read books. You simply stare at the lake in wonderment. This morning, I am going golfing with the son of an old family friend and two people I met for the first time the other day.
It is such a peaceful feeling here. The pace is so much slower. The folks I am golfing with today are friends of our family friends. The two families have been going to lakes for (depending you talk to) anywhere from 22-24 years. The actual number doesn't matter. The feeling of calm for all of them, however, does.
It is, like the picture of that rainstorm years ago, something meant for the eyes, ears, nose and personal memory bank only.
I understand this type of lifestyle is, for most people, a temporary respite from the real world. To those who don't get to experience it, however, I say "Too Bad." Sometimes, simply moving slowly (or not at all) beats the hell out of racing to the next appointment to make the Deal Of The Century.
If we were feeling particularly ambitious, we would go into town.
Downtown Grand Bend only stretched three blocks or so. But it included an area that various games such as SkeeBall and the old bumper cars. I remember my brother Frank (I think brother John may have helped him) won 37 tickets at SkeeBall so he could get a hotplate that Mom used in the cabin.
I can't tell you how big the cabin was but I remember it had a big picture window. One night, I saw am amazing sight. The moon was shining but a storm was rolling across the lake. I can still see the vision of the rain coming in from the right while the moon shone brightly on the left. It was a visual that, even if we had captured it on video (or film in those days) would not have done it justice. It was a sight meant for eyes only.
I mention all this because my wife and I are at a cabin on Lake Winnibigosh in the metropolis of Bena, MN this week. Bena's population is listed as 110. I think that includes the folks who work here, at the general store down the road and perhaps a few dogs I have seen around.
Although it is only a four-hour ride from St. Paul, you feel as is you are million miles away. As a result, the pace of life is ... well ... different. You get up when you want to and go to bed at whatever time seems right. Boy, do you really sleep well, though - even the other night when a rainstorm swept through here. You shave if you feel like it. (Some things have changed at the lake. For example, they now have satellite TV so you can keep up with the world.As this missive shows, Wi-Fi exists ... even in the woods of Bena.)
You grill anything you can. You sit on picnic tables and watch the lake. You play card games. You go out in a boat and fish. You read books. You simply stare at the lake in wonderment. This morning, I am going golfing with the son of an old family friend and two people I met for the first time the other day.
It is such a peaceful feeling here. The pace is so much slower. The folks I am golfing with today are friends of our family friends. The two families have been going to lakes for (depending you talk to) anywhere from 22-24 years. The actual number doesn't matter. The feeling of calm for all of them, however, does.
It is, like the picture of that rainstorm years ago, something meant for the eyes, ears, nose and personal memory bank only.
I understand this type of lifestyle is, for most people, a temporary respite from the real world. To those who don't get to experience it, however, I say "Too Bad." Sometimes, simply moving slowly (or not at all) beats the hell out of racing to the next appointment to make the Deal Of The Century.
Thursday, July 1, 2010
A day to remember
Today is a national holiday. Oh, not here in the good ol' Aux Etats-Unis. I mean in my former stomping grounds.
It's Canada Day - their version of Independence Day. To my old Canadian comrades, have a good day, eh?
I always remember this day with fondness for another reason. In another life, I worked at a wonderful place called Columbus Boys' Camp. It was located in Orillia, a small hamlet about 100 miles north of Toronto better known as the birthplace of Gordon Lightfoot. I worked as a counselor there for three years before moving to the Senior Staff as Evening Entertainment Director.
I have said this to other people but I need to do it again: Although the most money I ever made there was $500, it was the best job I have ever had.
July 1 was always the start of the first session. You would get to camp a week or two in advance to get the place ready. We would put the dock in Lake Simcoe (amazing how cold the lake could be at that time of year.) Then you painted the cabins (if they needed them) and cleaned up everything. There would be a day or two of prep and getting to know your new co-workers. There was usually a night in town where you would discovered there were two places a fellow could get a drink. One was the local Chinese restaurant (you had to order some food to do it) and the other was a small bar down the street. They often had music there.
(For some reason, the only band I can remember is Jeremiah Peabody and His Funky Little Three-Piece Band. They had a blond chanteuse who was ... well ... hot. But I digress.)
Back to today, though. There was always an extra air of excitement and nervousness as the first group of campers came. (It was often said that the first group dictated how the summer would go. I have no idea if that proved out to be true. Sounded good, though.) You would stand there with new guys you barely knew, getting ready to greet kids who were, for the most part, cutting loose for the only vacation they would have all summer. The first group would arrive and it was like opening the doors to a Justin Bieber concert. Kids poured out from buses everywhere. Getting them to go sit under the big tree where the camp director (Leo Campbell and Don McLeod) would start to give them the drill for their 10 days there was difficult. The pent-up energy of the kids was exciting but nervewracking to watch.
Somehow, the kids would get shephered into their cabins and we were off and running. For whatever reason, I was assigned a lot of Papoose cabins. Most of the kids were seven or eight. They were squirrelly because they wanted to take off and investigate the whole camp in, say, 10 minutes. Getting them to put their stuff away, find a bunck bed to their liking and then listen to us counselors go through our routine was exhausting.
Dinner couldn't come fast enough. Later that first night, there would be another entire camp meeting for a Campfire. There was the usual sorts of entertainment and storytelling. July 1 in Orillia is often a bit brisk. There was something special about a fire set against the backdrop of Lake Simcoe on a chilly night. By the time we headed back, the lads were ready for sleep.
But there was one more task left for counselors and staff. Often, we had a late first night meeting (sometimes at what was left of the fire) to give first impressions of our new cabins. We would trade names of past campers we had been with for the benefit of others. Truth be told, we were probably more tired than the campers. But there was such an adrenalin rush that sleep was still impossible.
The next day, we were hit the ground running for the 10-day adventure.
I think of CBC often. Although it has been nearly 40 years since I was there, I remember the wonderful nights there. I remember sitting with other Americans listening to George McGovern's acceptance speech at the 1972 Dem convention on a transistor radio ... at 3 in the morning. We sat by the flag pole in the middle of the camp to get the best reception.
I remember a few kids' names here and there ... and some of the adventures we had with them. I remember fellow counselors and the great priests and novices that taught me so much about life.
But what I always will remember the most about CBC was an intangible - a feeling that the world could really be a peaceful, simple place at times. We were far enough away from civilization that all the nastiness that was out there really did seem to be in another world. I understand this type of Xanadu can't last. We only get one childhood per customer. On every July 1, however, it is nice to sit back and remember a time when about the biggest care in the world you really had was making sure the kids in your cabin know where City Hall was (you went there to pay your taxes).
It's Canada Day - their version of Independence Day. To my old Canadian comrades, have a good day, eh?
I always remember this day with fondness for another reason. In another life, I worked at a wonderful place called Columbus Boys' Camp. It was located in Orillia, a small hamlet about 100 miles north of Toronto better known as the birthplace of Gordon Lightfoot. I worked as a counselor there for three years before moving to the Senior Staff as Evening Entertainment Director.
I have said this to other people but I need to do it again: Although the most money I ever made there was $500, it was the best job I have ever had.
July 1 was always the start of the first session. You would get to camp a week or two in advance to get the place ready. We would put the dock in Lake Simcoe (amazing how cold the lake could be at that time of year.) Then you painted the cabins (if they needed them) and cleaned up everything. There would be a day or two of prep and getting to know your new co-workers. There was usually a night in town where you would discovered there were two places a fellow could get a drink. One was the local Chinese restaurant (you had to order some food to do it) and the other was a small bar down the street. They often had music there.
(For some reason, the only band I can remember is Jeremiah Peabody and His Funky Little Three-Piece Band. They had a blond chanteuse who was ... well ... hot. But I digress.)
Back to today, though. There was always an extra air of excitement and nervousness as the first group of campers came. (It was often said that the first group dictated how the summer would go. I have no idea if that proved out to be true. Sounded good, though.) You would stand there with new guys you barely knew, getting ready to greet kids who were, for the most part, cutting loose for the only vacation they would have all summer. The first group would arrive and it was like opening the doors to a Justin Bieber concert. Kids poured out from buses everywhere. Getting them to go sit under the big tree where the camp director (Leo Campbell and Don McLeod) would start to give them the drill for their 10 days there was difficult. The pent-up energy of the kids was exciting but nervewracking to watch.
Somehow, the kids would get shephered into their cabins and we were off and running. For whatever reason, I was assigned a lot of Papoose cabins. Most of the kids were seven or eight. They were squirrelly because they wanted to take off and investigate the whole camp in, say, 10 minutes. Getting them to put their stuff away, find a bunck bed to their liking and then listen to us counselors go through our routine was exhausting.
Dinner couldn't come fast enough. Later that first night, there would be another entire camp meeting for a Campfire. There was the usual sorts of entertainment and storytelling. July 1 in Orillia is often a bit brisk. There was something special about a fire set against the backdrop of Lake Simcoe on a chilly night. By the time we headed back, the lads were ready for sleep.
But there was one more task left for counselors and staff. Often, we had a late first night meeting (sometimes at what was left of the fire) to give first impressions of our new cabins. We would trade names of past campers we had been with for the benefit of others. Truth be told, we were probably more tired than the campers. But there was such an adrenalin rush that sleep was still impossible.
The next day, we were hit the ground running for the 10-day adventure.
I think of CBC often. Although it has been nearly 40 years since I was there, I remember the wonderful nights there. I remember sitting with other Americans listening to George McGovern's acceptance speech at the 1972 Dem convention on a transistor radio ... at 3 in the morning. We sat by the flag pole in the middle of the camp to get the best reception.
I remember a few kids' names here and there ... and some of the adventures we had with them. I remember fellow counselors and the great priests and novices that taught me so much about life.
But what I always will remember the most about CBC was an intangible - a feeling that the world could really be a peaceful, simple place at times. We were far enough away from civilization that all the nastiness that was out there really did seem to be in another world. I understand this type of Xanadu can't last. We only get one childhood per customer. On every July 1, however, it is nice to sit back and remember a time when about the biggest care in the world you really had was making sure the kids in your cabin know where City Hall was (you went there to pay your taxes).
Friday, June 18, 2010
Trying to understood the world of dogs
So the Happy Dog and I were taking a stroll this morning, After several days of rain, we had a gorgeous sunny morn. The Happy Dog went along at his usual pace - sometimes plodding, sometimes brisk. One of the fascinating things to watch when dogs are out for a walk is how they pick out places to do their business.
The Happy Dog has a few favorite trees and lawns he likes to visit. When we take a route we haven't traveled for a while, he seems to study areas before deciding which is worthy of a deposit.
The theory is that dogs like to pick spot where they discover a familiar smell. I am not positive of this but I saw The Happy Dog hesitate a couple of times this morning before firing. On one occasion, he seems ready to ... er ... unload when he suddenly changed his mind, and started walking a lot faster towards an inviting tree. I have no idea why he changed his mind and deemed this spot unattractive.
Later, we were walking along when The Happy Dog veered towards a bush, stuck his head into the middle of it and fired. He then had to shake his head free of branches when he came out.
Suffice it to say that when us humans so nature's call, it is not nearly such an adventure.
For years, us pet owners have tried to figure the odd world of cats. You would see them staring at an empty wall and wonder just what the hell they are looking at. I have now decided dogs are equally wacky in their own way.
On the other hand, maybe it is I who am a little nuts for considering these weighty issues.
The Happy Dog has a few favorite trees and lawns he likes to visit. When we take a route we haven't traveled for a while, he seems to study areas before deciding which is worthy of a deposit.
The theory is that dogs like to pick spot where they discover a familiar smell. I am not positive of this but I saw The Happy Dog hesitate a couple of times this morning before firing. On one occasion, he seems ready to ... er ... unload when he suddenly changed his mind, and started walking a lot faster towards an inviting tree. I have no idea why he changed his mind and deemed this spot unattractive.
Later, we were walking along when The Happy Dog veered towards a bush, stuck his head into the middle of it and fired. He then had to shake his head free of branches when he came out.
Suffice it to say that when us humans so nature's call, it is not nearly such an adventure.
For years, us pet owners have tried to figure the odd world of cats. You would see them staring at an empty wall and wonder just what the hell they are looking at. I have now decided dogs are equally wacky in their own way.
On the other hand, maybe it is I who am a little nuts for considering these weighty issues.
Friday, June 4, 2010
It's never too late to learn a lesson
It’s the most famous imperfect game in major league history. Three days ago, only baseball fans in Detroit (and probably not that many of them) could tell you who the hell Armando Galarraga was.
Thanks to the wonders of TV (and the internet), he … and an unfortunate umpire named Jim Joyce … have become household words.
For the non-baseball fan in the house, here is a précis of what happened Wedneday night in Detroit. After 26 outs, Galarraga, who had just returned from a sojourn in the minor leagues, had a perfect game going against the Cleveland Indians. His team led 3-0 and he was on top of the world.
Then came Jason Donald’s grounder. 1B Miguel Cabrera fielded it and tossed to Galarraga, who touched first base well ahead of Donald for what appeared to be the first perfect game in the 109-year history of the Detroit franchise.
Unfortunately, Joyce didn’t see it that way. He called Donald safe. Galarraga had a bemused look of disbelief on his face. Tiger manager Jim Leyland took off like a bottle rocket to object.
The call stood. Galarraga sighed and induced one more groundout. The game was over and the arguments resumed.After a while, Joyce got to the clubhouse and saw what the world already knew that he missed the call … badly.
The lessons we learn in hindsight are often the most important ones. Faced with incontrovertible evidence, Joyce did something rarely seen in sports … or real life these days. He fell on his sword. All he could say was “I’m sorry. I kicked the (expletive) out of the play. I cost the kid a perfect game.”
The “kid” chose to be gracious, telling reporters, “I thought he made a mistake but nobody’s perfect.” When he heard how upset Joyce was, Leyland, a veteran baseball man, went from breathing fire over a missed perfect game to concern for a veteran who had made a simple mistake. He went down to the umpires room, telling Joyce it was time to have a beer and forget about it.
After all, there would be a game the next afternoon.
As expected, reaction around the country has been mixed. An old Minneapolis writer named Sid Hartman went on a verbal rampage, calling Joyce a “stupid imbecile.” Others, like MSNBC’s Keith Olbermann, pleaded with commissioner Bud Selig to change the ruling and award Galarraga the perfect game. (Interestingly, neither Leyland or Galarraga made the same plea.)
Bud Selig didn’t get his job by stepping out on a limb. He prefers to stay the course whenever possible and duck controversy.
Unsurprisingly, he said the call stands. End of discussion.
This time, however, he got it right.
If we head down the path of making exceptions to every rule, we will soon be out of rules. The line of missed MLB calls at key moments starts at the left.
A couple of hours after Joyce’s muffed call, another umpire – Dale Scott – missed an out at second base that would have sent the Twins into the 11th inning against Seattle. Instead, Seattle had a 2-1 win. Minnesota manager Ron Gardenhire ranted afterwards about this miscarriage of justice. As he did so, I am sure he had forgotten that his team was the beneficiary of a similar mistake in a game in April that sent Kansas City muttering to the locker room.
It’s sports. Stuff happens.
Thanks to the Joyce call, arguments for instant replay in baseball will start anew. There will be committee meetings galore. The pundits will be able to weigh in with deep, insightful observations about how the game should … or should not change.
We’ll save that for another day.
The most important lesson here came 15 ½ hours after Wednesday’s game. Galarraga, who looks younger than his actual age of 28, ambled out to home plate to deliver the lineup card for that day’s game to Joyce, who looked a lot older than his actual age of 54. (Ironically, he was scheduled to work the plate.) Galarraga shook hands with Joyce and patted him on the shoulder as if to say, “Hey, that was yesterday’s battle. Today is a new day.” Joyce returned the gesture, grabbed his facemask and went to work.
Both men seemed to understand a very simple concept: as long as imperfect people are hired to officiate games played by imperfect people, mistakes will happen. You hope they don’t but you know they will.
It’s really that simple.
Thanks to the wonders of TV (and the internet), he … and an unfortunate umpire named Jim Joyce … have become household words.
For the non-baseball fan in the house, here is a précis of what happened Wedneday night in Detroit. After 26 outs, Galarraga, who had just returned from a sojourn in the minor leagues, had a perfect game going against the Cleveland Indians. His team led 3-0 and he was on top of the world.
Then came Jason Donald’s grounder. 1B Miguel Cabrera fielded it and tossed to Galarraga, who touched first base well ahead of Donald for what appeared to be the first perfect game in the 109-year history of the Detroit franchise.
Unfortunately, Joyce didn’t see it that way. He called Donald safe. Galarraga had a bemused look of disbelief on his face. Tiger manager Jim Leyland took off like a bottle rocket to object.
The call stood. Galarraga sighed and induced one more groundout. The game was over and the arguments resumed.After a while, Joyce got to the clubhouse and saw what the world already knew that he missed the call … badly.
The lessons we learn in hindsight are often the most important ones. Faced with incontrovertible evidence, Joyce did something rarely seen in sports … or real life these days. He fell on his sword. All he could say was “I’m sorry. I kicked the (expletive) out of the play. I cost the kid a perfect game.”
The “kid” chose to be gracious, telling reporters, “I thought he made a mistake but nobody’s perfect.” When he heard how upset Joyce was, Leyland, a veteran baseball man, went from breathing fire over a missed perfect game to concern for a veteran who had made a simple mistake. He went down to the umpires room, telling Joyce it was time to have a beer and forget about it.
After all, there would be a game the next afternoon.
As expected, reaction around the country has been mixed. An old Minneapolis writer named Sid Hartman went on a verbal rampage, calling Joyce a “stupid imbecile.” Others, like MSNBC’s Keith Olbermann, pleaded with commissioner Bud Selig to change the ruling and award Galarraga the perfect game. (Interestingly, neither Leyland or Galarraga made the same plea.)
Bud Selig didn’t get his job by stepping out on a limb. He prefers to stay the course whenever possible and duck controversy.
Unsurprisingly, he said the call stands. End of discussion.
This time, however, he got it right.
If we head down the path of making exceptions to every rule, we will soon be out of rules. The line of missed MLB calls at key moments starts at the left.
A couple of hours after Joyce’s muffed call, another umpire – Dale Scott – missed an out at second base that would have sent the Twins into the 11th inning against Seattle. Instead, Seattle had a 2-1 win. Minnesota manager Ron Gardenhire ranted afterwards about this miscarriage of justice. As he did so, I am sure he had forgotten that his team was the beneficiary of a similar mistake in a game in April that sent Kansas City muttering to the locker room.
It’s sports. Stuff happens.
Thanks to the Joyce call, arguments for instant replay in baseball will start anew. There will be committee meetings galore. The pundits will be able to weigh in with deep, insightful observations about how the game should … or should not change.
We’ll save that for another day.
The most important lesson here came 15 ½ hours after Wednesday’s game. Galarraga, who looks younger than his actual age of 28, ambled out to home plate to deliver the lineup card for that day’s game to Joyce, who looked a lot older than his actual age of 54. (Ironically, he was scheduled to work the plate.) Galarraga shook hands with Joyce and patted him on the shoulder as if to say, “Hey, that was yesterday’s battle. Today is a new day.” Joyce returned the gesture, grabbed his facemask and went to work.
Both men seemed to understand a very simple concept: as long as imperfect people are hired to officiate games played by imperfect people, mistakes will happen. You hope they don’t but you know they will.
It’s really that simple.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
How is this possible?
Granted, you expect to see almost anything when you come to Las Vegas. But I saw something yesterday is one of the most disturbing (and certainly one of the most unsanitary) things I have ever witnessed in now 57 years on this planet.
I went into a men's room at the Palace Station Casino. The three stalls were being used. So I waited. Presently, a young guy (he looked early 20s) exited a stall with an apple in one hand and a banana in the other. He walked past the wash basins and back in the casino.
Fortunately, I had already eaten breakfast. Otherwise, I might have put off my feed for a very long time.
I found myself wondering what made this fellow to think such behavior is acceptable. Skip the bit about not washing hands for a second. Yes, it's appalling but we do see that all the time. But who in their right mind brings fruit into a public men's room?
I hope this was an "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas" moment.
A day later, I am still grossed out thinking about it.
I went into a men's room at the Palace Station Casino. The three stalls were being used. So I waited. Presently, a young guy (he looked early 20s) exited a stall with an apple in one hand and a banana in the other. He walked past the wash basins and back in the casino.
Fortunately, I had already eaten breakfast. Otherwise, I might have put off my feed for a very long time.
I found myself wondering what made this fellow to think such behavior is acceptable. Skip the bit about not washing hands for a second. Yes, it's appalling but we do see that all the time. But who in their right mind brings fruit into a public men's room?
I hope this was an "What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas" moment.
A day later, I am still grossed out thinking about it.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
LA kind of game
I hadn't been to Dodger Stadium for 35 years. But it seems to me the place never changes. And that is a compliment.
The Dodgers beat the Tigers, 6-4. But that seems also insignificant compared to everything else that goes on at this palace.
Granted, it is not the easiest place in the world to get to. The best I can figure it, there are only two ways into the place ... and one way out. It is advisable to have a GPS system that can guide you around the inevitable LA road construction projects to get you there.
Once you figure out how to get in, though, it is worth the effort. The ballpark is 48 years old and looks as fresh as it did in 1962. The seats are comfortable, the sightlines are great and the music does not offense anybody's sensibilities. It is as easy ballpark to walk around as I have ever been in and the p.a. announcer doesn't sound like he is auditioning to be the next announcer for "The Price Is Right."
It's not perfect. There is a bit too much Dodger Blue for my taste and some of the prices are ... well ... high.
But if you want to go to a ballpark where the game seems to be the most important thing going, this is your place.
The Dodgers beat the Tigers, 6-4. But that seems also insignificant compared to everything else that goes on at this palace.
Granted, it is not the easiest place in the world to get to. The best I can figure it, there are only two ways into the place ... and one way out. It is advisable to have a GPS system that can guide you around the inevitable LA road construction projects to get you there.
Once you figure out how to get in, though, it is worth the effort. The ballpark is 48 years old and looks as fresh as it did in 1962. The seats are comfortable, the sightlines are great and the music does not offense anybody's sensibilities. It is as easy ballpark to walk around as I have ever been in and the p.a. announcer doesn't sound like he is auditioning to be the next announcer for "The Price Is Right."
It's not perfect. There is a bit too much Dodger Blue for my taste and some of the prices are ... well ... high.
But if you want to go to a ballpark where the game seems to be the most important thing going, this is your place.
Thursday, May 6, 2010
The voice of summer is silenced
Perhaps the most remarkable part of all that has been written about Ernie Harwell in the last 36 hours is where the plaudits have come from.
It is understandable that those of you who grew up listening to Ernie describe the Tigers in the 60s and 70s felt sad when we heard of his death Tuesday night. But the amount of lofty prose written by publications all over the country is truly staggering.
The national writers got to meet Ernie when the Tigers came to their town ... or they visited Detroit. In some way, I suspect they envied us who had him for 162 games a year. It didn't seem to matter if it was the World Series champs of 1968 and 1984, the teams that nearly got there in 1967, 1972 and 1987 or the rough years in the mid 1970s when the team regularly lost 90-100 games a season. Ernie stayed the same, telling the tales of the ball club in his warm, southern, gentle style.
Funny what you remember. In 1970, Detroit had a SS named Ken Szotkiewicz. He had a brief, undistinguished career, finishing with a not-very-lofty .107 career batting average. But I have a vivid memory of one night when he hit drilled one into the seats against the A's at Tiger Stadium. "Socko lived up to his name on that one," Harwell said, describing a ball that went into the lower deck in right field.
I remember another night in the fabled year of 1968. The Tigers trailed Baltimore in the bottom of the ninth by a run with a runner on base and two outs when Tom Matchick, another weak-hitting shortstop, lofted a fly ball to deep right. Harwell pauses as the ball is in flight (probably wondering himself if the ball was really going to reach the stands) and then breaks into as excited a tone as you would ever hear out of him as he says, "And it is a home run for Matchick and the Tigers win the game." It is the greatest home run call I have ever heard.
Another night, Gates Brown capped a wild four-run, ninth inning rally for a doubleheader sweep of Boston. Ernie simply said, "What a mad mob it is here tonight."
He was a man of few words. But he made them all count. Perhaps that is why so many non-Detroiters loved him so much. Ernie knew that less is sometimes more. You didn't need to go into detail why it was a bad play to go to third base on a ground ball to shortstop. You just needed to tell us what happened. He did so without damning the miscreant. That's a real gift.
As I wrote in a piece on MinnPost.com, the beauty of growing up on Tiger games was the feeling Ernie was personally broadcasting the game to you. He didn't try to sugarcoat bad baseball. He also didn't overdo it when the team was going great. No, he felt he was lucky to be at the ballpark telling us what was going on. And it showed.
So, I don't necessarily mourn his passing. Ernie had told us he was ready to go and take on his next challenge. But I am not worried he will handle it. After all, anybody can handle calling the games of the 1996 Tigers (who went a miserable 53-109) can take on anything.
It is understandable that those of you who grew up listening to Ernie describe the Tigers in the 60s and 70s felt sad when we heard of his death Tuesday night. But the amount of lofty prose written by publications all over the country is truly staggering.
The national writers got to meet Ernie when the Tigers came to their town ... or they visited Detroit. In some way, I suspect they envied us who had him for 162 games a year. It didn't seem to matter if it was the World Series champs of 1968 and 1984, the teams that nearly got there in 1967, 1972 and 1987 or the rough years in the mid 1970s when the team regularly lost 90-100 games a season. Ernie stayed the same, telling the tales of the ball club in his warm, southern, gentle style.
Funny what you remember. In 1970, Detroit had a SS named Ken Szotkiewicz. He had a brief, undistinguished career, finishing with a not-very-lofty .107 career batting average. But I have a vivid memory of one night when he hit drilled one into the seats against the A's at Tiger Stadium. "Socko lived up to his name on that one," Harwell said, describing a ball that went into the lower deck in right field.
I remember another night in the fabled year of 1968. The Tigers trailed Baltimore in the bottom of the ninth by a run with a runner on base and two outs when Tom Matchick, another weak-hitting shortstop, lofted a fly ball to deep right. Harwell pauses as the ball is in flight (probably wondering himself if the ball was really going to reach the stands) and then breaks into as excited a tone as you would ever hear out of him as he says, "And it is a home run for Matchick and the Tigers win the game." It is the greatest home run call I have ever heard.
Another night, Gates Brown capped a wild four-run, ninth inning rally for a doubleheader sweep of Boston. Ernie simply said, "What a mad mob it is here tonight."
He was a man of few words. But he made them all count. Perhaps that is why so many non-Detroiters loved him so much. Ernie knew that less is sometimes more. You didn't need to go into detail why it was a bad play to go to third base on a ground ball to shortstop. You just needed to tell us what happened. He did so without damning the miscreant. That's a real gift.
As I wrote in a piece on MinnPost.com, the beauty of growing up on Tiger games was the feeling Ernie was personally broadcasting the game to you. He didn't try to sugarcoat bad baseball. He also didn't overdo it when the team was going great. No, he felt he was lucky to be at the ballpark telling us what was going on. And it showed.
So, I don't necessarily mourn his passing. Ernie had told us he was ready to go and take on his next challenge. But I am not worried he will handle it. After all, anybody can handle calling the games of the 1996 Tigers (who went a miserable 53-109) can take on anything.
Tuesday, April 27, 2010
A smell to remember triggers a few thoughts
When I was a wee lad, we all had tasks we had to do at home on Saturday. One of mine was to walk half a dozen to Ray Guetschoff's butcher shop. A half a century later, I still enjoy going to these places to get meat and other goodies. Like the great smell of fresh bread, there is something about the aroma of the meat market that is reassuring and pleasurable to me. In our little part of the world, there are two places I go to regularly for such stuff. One has a meat area in the back of a small grocery store. There, Jim knows exactly what kind of cut of pork chop I want and offers suggestions for other delectable items, His suggestion for a turkey that was grilled last Thanksgiving was on the nose ... and went down the gullet easily. I also like the fact they have dog bones I can take home for Pete. His nose goes beserk at the smell of one of these. If there is such as a clean bone club (the animal equivalent of the clean plate club), Pete would graduate magna cum laude.
I was at the other place this morning - a true butcher shop about 10 miles from our house. What I like about this place is the variety of meats as well as some nifty homemade spices that add taste to the various meats. Based on a recipe I had read, I had an idea for a sandwich this morning that I took to these guys. After some consultation, we changed it up a bit. But I think I have a potential winner now. We'll see when I spring it on my wife and whoever else happens to wander through the house in the near future.
As I get older, I find I am more attracted to simple, uncomplicated foods. I admire good cooking and wish I was better at it. My wife and her sisters are superb cooks. (Interestingly, they differ in technique but the result is always the same: great, tasty but not particularly exotic eats. Kathy found a recipe for shrimp on the barbecue the other night that was c'est magnifique.)
I can't match that. So I settle for finding different ways to get most of whatever meat we buy - whether it be on the grill, the oven or even the toaster oven. And if the latest idea doesn't work as well as hoped for ... well, one just heads back to the butcher shop for another try. There are worse things in life.
I was at the other place this morning - a true butcher shop about 10 miles from our house. What I like about this place is the variety of meats as well as some nifty homemade spices that add taste to the various meats. Based on a recipe I had read, I had an idea for a sandwich this morning that I took to these guys. After some consultation, we changed it up a bit. But I think I have a potential winner now. We'll see when I spring it on my wife and whoever else happens to wander through the house in the near future.
As I get older, I find I am more attracted to simple, uncomplicated foods. I admire good cooking and wish I was better at it. My wife and her sisters are superb cooks. (Interestingly, they differ in technique but the result is always the same: great, tasty but not particularly exotic eats. Kathy found a recipe for shrimp on the barbecue the other night that was c'est magnifique.)
I can't match that. So I settle for finding different ways to get most of whatever meat we buy - whether it be on the grill, the oven or even the toaster oven. And if the latest idea doesn't work as well as hoped for ... well, one just heads back to the butcher shop for another try. There are worse things in life.
Monday, April 19, 2010
Another simple pleasure: working with the ballgame on in the background
So I am working at home today and wanted some background noise for company. Instead of opting for music, I have been given a great bonus a rare morning baseball game I can have on the television.
In this case, it is Tampa Bay and Boston in the annual Patriot's Day game at Fenway Park.
To say it is a treat is an understatement.
All games at Fenway are fun -- even games like this one with Tampa Bay leading 8-0 in the 6th inning.
What is even more fun is the Red Sox announcers - Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy - are very good at their job. Anybody can make a 3-2 thriller decided by a two-run homer in the bottom of the ninth fun. But it takes a real pro to keep a lopsided affair interesting. This pair offers good insights, info on the players involved in the game and excellent back and forth discussion in a calm, reason manner.
Early, Remy noted that home plate umpire Angel Campos was all over the pace with his strike zone and had managed to get both sides upset with him. When TB's Ben Zobrist kicked about strike two, Remy observed the next pitch would likely be a strike, too. The pitch looked a foot outside but Campos sent Zobrist packing anyway. Remy then noted Campos eyed Zobrist carefully all the way to the dugout, perhaps hoping to get an ejection.
Later, Orsillo noted that, although the Red Sox are generally successful at Fenway, they dropped their first two series there this season. He added that playing the Yankees and the Rays - two excellent teams - might have had something to do with this depressing (to Boston fans) stat.
Baseball as background stuff is wonderful. Sure, the game moves slowly at times. But in the hands of good announcers, it doesn't seem that way. The Red Sox are off to a rough start (4-8 at this writing) and this pair made no attempt to hide that fact. But they didn't dwell on it much ... nor did they make excuses for the locals. It sounded like two old friends chatting away while the game unfolded. I didn't need to look up often to know what was going on.
In an era where TV is full of screamers, it is simply wonderful to have a game on in a relaxed but fun background.
In this case, it is Tampa Bay and Boston in the annual Patriot's Day game at Fenway Park.
To say it is a treat is an understatement.
All games at Fenway are fun -- even games like this one with Tampa Bay leading 8-0 in the 6th inning.
What is even more fun is the Red Sox announcers - Don Orsillo and Jerry Remy - are very good at their job. Anybody can make a 3-2 thriller decided by a two-run homer in the bottom of the ninth fun. But it takes a real pro to keep a lopsided affair interesting. This pair offers good insights, info on the players involved in the game and excellent back and forth discussion in a calm, reason manner.
Early, Remy noted that home plate umpire Angel Campos was all over the pace with his strike zone and had managed to get both sides upset with him. When TB's Ben Zobrist kicked about strike two, Remy observed the next pitch would likely be a strike, too. The pitch looked a foot outside but Campos sent Zobrist packing anyway. Remy then noted Campos eyed Zobrist carefully all the way to the dugout, perhaps hoping to get an ejection.
Later, Orsillo noted that, although the Red Sox are generally successful at Fenway, they dropped their first two series there this season. He added that playing the Yankees and the Rays - two excellent teams - might have had something to do with this depressing (to Boston fans) stat.
Baseball as background stuff is wonderful. Sure, the game moves slowly at times. But in the hands of good announcers, it doesn't seem that way. The Red Sox are off to a rough start (4-8 at this writing) and this pair made no attempt to hide that fact. But they didn't dwell on it much ... nor did they make excuses for the locals. It sounded like two old friends chatting away while the game unfolded. I didn't need to look up often to know what was going on.
In an era where TV is full of screamers, it is simply wonderful to have a game on in a relaxed but fun background.
Friday, April 16, 2010
Another simple pleasure renewed: browsing through bookstores
One of the things I have learned quickly in this book business is you must keep hustling. So it was that I found myself out and about the other day talking to various book store owners, extolling the wisdom of getting copies of my book so the currently rabid Twins' fans could learn more about the team's past.
Two of my stops the other day had an ulterior benefit: it allowed me the pleasure of rummaging through old fashioned, independent bookstores.
Micawber's, tucked into a residential neighborhood, is near my house. From the outside, it has a musty look. Inside, it is as clean as can be and simply stacked with books of all shapes, sizes and titles.
When I wander through bookstores, I rarely have a specific title in mind. It is my version of a scavenger hunt - you never know what treasure you will find. In this case, it was a copy of hundreds of letters written by the great E.B. White, longtime editor-writer at the New Yorker in its heyday. Even if you don't know some of the people he is writing to (or about), you can appreciate precise English and nifty turns of phrases. John Updike, no literary slouch himself, edited the book and added commentary when needed. I'm looking forward to a long, casual read.
Later, I found myself at Common Good Books, which is located in a busy area near downtown St. Paul. This is a place in the downstairs of a bustling coffee shop. Garrison Keillor opened it a few years ago and it has treasures galore in it. ( I had a lot of choices but settled for an oldie but a goodie: Roger Angell's first baseball book: Five Seasons. I have read it before but lost my copy of it. The stories are about baseball from 1962-71, an era when I was young and impressionable. I attended (or watched) several of these games. After reading Angell's observations, I discover I missed a lot.
Memo to self: pay attention to everything this summer when watching games.
Seeing my little treatise among these gems is flattering but the real bonus is getting to spend time choosing which book to take on next. You can never have too much peanut butter.
Two of my stops the other day had an ulterior benefit: it allowed me the pleasure of rummaging through old fashioned, independent bookstores.
Micawber's, tucked into a residential neighborhood, is near my house. From the outside, it has a musty look. Inside, it is as clean as can be and simply stacked with books of all shapes, sizes and titles.
When I wander through bookstores, I rarely have a specific title in mind. It is my version of a scavenger hunt - you never know what treasure you will find. In this case, it was a copy of hundreds of letters written by the great E.B. White, longtime editor-writer at the New Yorker in its heyday. Even if you don't know some of the people he is writing to (or about), you can appreciate precise English and nifty turns of phrases. John Updike, no literary slouch himself, edited the book and added commentary when needed. I'm looking forward to a long, casual read.
Later, I found myself at Common Good Books, which is located in a busy area near downtown St. Paul. This is a place in the downstairs of a bustling coffee shop. Garrison Keillor opened it a few years ago and it has treasures galore in it. ( I had a lot of choices but settled for an oldie but a goodie: Roger Angell's first baseball book: Five Seasons. I have read it before but lost my copy of it. The stories are about baseball from 1962-71, an era when I was young and impressionable. I attended (or watched) several of these games. After reading Angell's observations, I discover I missed a lot.
Memo to self: pay attention to everything this summer when watching games.
Seeing my little treatise among these gems is flattering but the real bonus is getting to spend time choosing which book to take on next. You can never have too much peanut butter.
Thursday, April 8, 2010
Simple pleasures are still the best
Don't tell anybody at the St. Paul Police Department this but I broke a law this morning.
I think anybody saw me do it. But I gladly confess my sin here because it was worth it to see the result.
Basically, Pete, The Happy Dog (scroll to the end to see a picture) has a good life here. He gets fed twice a day and goes on (at least) two good walks as well. He has the run of the house and, when the weather turns better, has the run of the backyard as well. Although we don't feed him from the table, he gets plenty of treats, including runs to the local ice cream place six blocks away. All in all, it's a pretty good dog's life.
Every now and then, however, one just gets the urge to extend the pleasure a bit. It is a law in St. Paul (and, I presume, most other places) that your dog has to be on a leash when he is being walked. There is a playground a couple of blocks from our house. It has a baseball field and a couple of softball fields that turn into soccer pitches in the fall. We go by it often during our daily treks through the neighborhood. Occasionally, we'll walk through it. As you enter it, however, there is a sign warning dog owners to get their pets leashed.
For reasons I can't explain, I decided to go rogue this morning. Nobody was around when we entered the playground. After whispering in his ear to come back when called, I let Pete loose in left field. Mon cur didn't need any encouragement. He shot quickly along the fence, sniffing delightedly. He zigzagged across center field like Willie Mays catching Vic Wertz's ball at the Polo Grounds. I wandered over by second base, called his name and he came tearing to me at top speed.
Then we romped around the bases of the baseball field. Although I encouraged him to slide in safely at home, there is a limit to dog understanding. He prefers to go in standing but with a smile on his face.
He trotted over to a softball field and, in classic doggie fashion, paid his respects.
All in all, we were probably on the field for 5-7 minutes. In that time, however, I saw a seven-year old dog revert to puppyhood again. He ran joyously but came back upon request. As we left the playground, he graciously accepted going back on the collar and we headed home.
Once back at the house, he got his standard treat for a job well done and headed to his regular backyard post to sleep it off -- hopefully, dreaming happily about running free for a while.
I'm not sure who enjoyed the scene more - Pete or myself. There is something so basic but pleasurable about seeing a happy dog running full blast untethered. I guess we all have the urge to run free on occasion because, most of the time, we rarely get to do so. When we see another (in this case, a dog) rock and roll alone, we watch and enjoy from afar.
Indeed, as the old soup song goes, simple pleasures are sometimes the best.
I think anybody saw me do it. But I gladly confess my sin here because it was worth it to see the result.
Basically, Pete, The Happy Dog (scroll to the end to see a picture) has a good life here. He gets fed twice a day and goes on (at least) two good walks as well. He has the run of the house and, when the weather turns better, has the run of the backyard as well. Although we don't feed him from the table, he gets plenty of treats, including runs to the local ice cream place six blocks away. All in all, it's a pretty good dog's life.
Every now and then, however, one just gets the urge to extend the pleasure a bit. It is a law in St. Paul (and, I presume, most other places) that your dog has to be on a leash when he is being walked. There is a playground a couple of blocks from our house. It has a baseball field and a couple of softball fields that turn into soccer pitches in the fall. We go by it often during our daily treks through the neighborhood. Occasionally, we'll walk through it. As you enter it, however, there is a sign warning dog owners to get their pets leashed.
For reasons I can't explain, I decided to go rogue this morning. Nobody was around when we entered the playground. After whispering in his ear to come back when called, I let Pete loose in left field. Mon cur didn't need any encouragement. He shot quickly along the fence, sniffing delightedly. He zigzagged across center field like Willie Mays catching Vic Wertz's ball at the Polo Grounds. I wandered over by second base, called his name and he came tearing to me at top speed.
Then we romped around the bases of the baseball field. Although I encouraged him to slide in safely at home, there is a limit to dog understanding. He prefers to go in standing but with a smile on his face.
He trotted over to a softball field and, in classic doggie fashion, paid his respects.
All in all, we were probably on the field for 5-7 minutes. In that time, however, I saw a seven-year old dog revert to puppyhood again. He ran joyously but came back upon request. As we left the playground, he graciously accepted going back on the collar and we headed home.
Once back at the house, he got his standard treat for a job well done and headed to his regular backyard post to sleep it off -- hopefully, dreaming happily about running free for a while.
I'm not sure who enjoyed the scene more - Pete or myself. There is something so basic but pleasurable about seeing a happy dog running full blast untethered. I guess we all have the urge to run free on occasion because, most of the time, we rarely get to do so. When we see another (in this case, a dog) rock and roll alone, we watch and enjoy from afar.
Indeed, as the old soup song goes, simple pleasures are sometimes the best.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
