Thoughts as Mother's Day approaches

Okay, so it has been a few years since I last wrote. Life happens. Mother's Day is Sunday. Mom has been gone since 1969. Yet I find myself wondering what she would think of certain things I do or say. When I am cooking, I find myself thinking of how she cooked for myself and my brothers. She was a farm girl -- which meant she knew how to cook simple meals very well and, when the occasion called for it, could muster up a fancier meal. There was one small exception to this. No matter what the occasion was, she often forgot the rolls were in bottom level of the oven. They frequently were burned. Guess what? Burnt rolls done with a mom's care and love still taste good. I could go on and on about Mom. But so could all of us about our respective Moms. I will just say that I hope I make her proud up in heaven. And I am still very sorry I broke the front window of the house throwing a temper tantrum. Thanks for forgiving me.

Hey, I'm back (sort of)

I started this blog several years ago. In time, Twitter and Facebook intervened and my musings have appeared there. But I think the time has come to return to this form from time to time. Here, I can go longer and explain things better than in the restricted space FB and Twitter provides. I am not sure what ... or how often ... I will do this. However, as my wife likes to note, it is great to have options.

A good book deserves more than one reading

People in my age bracket were brought up readers. We didn't have the internet to amuse us. Hell, lot of the time we didn't have TVs either. It was either the radio, a record player, play outside or go to the library and get a book. I did the latter a lot. I read the Hardy Boys and Chip Hilton. I read other stuff,too. But I liked the adventures of those guys so much I often re-read the books. That tendency to re-read old classics had stayed with me today. So it is that I have been re-reading "Travels with Charley", John Steinbeck's opus about a 1960 three-month trip around the country with his dog. It's a wonderful tale -- the type that makes you want to buy a trailer and take off on a similar jaunt. A while back, a reporter in Pittsburgh wrote an article indicating he thought Steinbeck's book is a fraud. The guy insists a lot of things Steinbeck wrote about either didn't happen or were greatly exaggerated. He may be right. But it doesn't matter. It is still great journalism ... and great journalism should always be honored.

Today's lesson: if you keep playing hard, something good will (eventually) happen

To say the least, it has been a long, hard winter for the men's hockey team at Hamline, my school. We knew in advance it would be a young team. We knew the combination of three head coaches in three years and graduating two top scorers plus the top goalie from the year before could make this season a potentially rough one. Our new head coach, Doc DelCastillo, is a good, smart man who knows what he is doing. He picked assistants with a variety of experiences and told them all they would need to be, like he would have to be, patient. But he got a late start on recruiting. By the time he talked to some players, they hd already made up their minds where they were going to school. The season started with a close loss and a tie but there were encouraging signs things might be okay. Then, a couple of injuries flared up. Other issues -- stuff that happens during the course of the season -- happened. Hamline kept playing hard. Most nights, the scores were close. But it seemed something bad would happen late in the second or early in the third period. All of a sudden, the season was 15 games old and the team still didn't have a win -- just two ties to show for a year of solid effort. There is a tendency among the young to fixate only on results -- wins, losses and goals. Coaches, however, know better. They know that losing streaks ... and winning streaks ... are contagious. A team on a losing skein simply doesn't get breaks. Pucks hit posts and stay out. The other team gets the benefit of the doubt on calls. Their shots hit a leg and go in. Coaches understand this is part of sport. And they know it can turn and head the other way, too. The above is a lengthy preamble to something that happened last night that might stun the layman. But coaches and folks who know the sport just nod their head and say, "Uh huh. It was due to happen." Hamline was hosting first place St. Thomas. Tough game for me because the UST coach, Jeff Boeser, is a friend of 40 years standing. His team was tied for first but they had been having trouble lately scoring goals. As part of my usual pre-game work, we chatted for a while. I could tell this game concerned him. A low scoring team playing another lowscoring outfit. One or two goals might do it. And if Hamline got a wind up, Jeff knew it could be a rough night. Had he known what I saw, he might have been even more concerned. The players not suited for the game didn't seem too worried. Several of them were playing cards upstairs. I walked by another one on a cellphone and overheard him say, "This one should be easy. I'll be back early." Such overconfidence is not unusual among players, young or old. But it often can lead to difficulty. So it was the game began and Hamline came out as it had done so many times before. They checked hard. They had a few scoring chances that didn't result in goals. But they kept St. Thomas from doing much offensively. There were only a couple of penalties either way and the game moved on quickly with no goals. The first period took less than a half hour to play. My guess is Jeff had what an old coach once referred to as "a one way chat" with his charges between periods. His team came out flying in the second and it was all Hamline could do to keep them off the board. Matt Hemingway, our goalie, was tested often but kept his head at all times and also kept the puck out of the net. Despite Hamline getting outshot 12-4 and being outplayed by a similiar fashion, the game was still knotted at 0-0. The third period began and the home team picked up the pace. Sensing an opening, they attacked the Tommie net harder but still couldn't score. The game was now 50 minutes old and still no goals. St. Thomas had a couple of good shifts in a row but we held firm. Doc had recently switched up some lines and moved Grant Fahnhorst, a huge defenseman, up front. Turns out he is very good at faceoffs. He won several down the stretch, many in our end. Regulation time ended with still no score. Things were getting serious now. The two benches had a marked contast to them. Doc's bench looked like colts ready to roam the prairie. They couldn't wait for the next faceoff. The St. Thomas bench reminded one of the look Paul Newman had in "Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid" when he stared at his constant pursuers and said, "Who are those guys?" A scoreless tie is a rare hockey event. I have been working hockey games for 40+ years and can only remember one, a high school game at Adie Knox Arena in Windsor. (For the record, it was Assumption 0, Massey 0.) But this game appeared to be headed that way until ... In college, you only play one five minute OT. The first three minutes of the extra session passed uneventfully. Then there was a collision in the corner by the St. Thomas net and I spotted a referee's arm go up. A penalty in OT is unusual. It is really unusual in a game were only seven had been noted all night. As it developed, it was St. Thomas that would be shorthanded for the remaining 1:32 of playing time. At first, the HU power play struggled, losing conrol of the puck twice. The clock ticked into the last minute. Just as I was thinking a scoreless tie against the league leader would be something to proud of, there was a dramatic event. Joe Rubbelke, a talented defenseman, fired a low shot from the point. There was a big screen in front of the Tommie goalie. Zach Johnson, situated perfectly in the slot, tipped the puck slightly. It changed directions just enough that it landed perfectly in the back of the net. BINGO! Winless streak over. The Piper bench erupted and swarmed the power play unit. Hemingway looked like Eric Heiden, the old speedskater, as he sped from his net and eagerly joined the party. Stunned looks on disbelief on the Tommie side. An OT loss is always hard to swallow. But an OT loss like this is doubly hard to take. The nature of my job is I rarely get downstairs after games. So I didn't get the chance to congratulate Doc or console Jeff. But, as luck would have it, I will be at the rematch tonight and will get to do so again. But I was left with several emotions. I was very happy for Doc and his players, who had endured a lot of heartache and finally got a victory. At the same time, I felt bad for an old friend who, although he has been a coach for a long time and understands the game, still anguishes over defeats. And I found myself wondering about the lad who, before the game, had predicted to somebody this would be an easy win. I wondered if he learned his lesson about never taking anything for granted in athletics. The teams play again tonight. St. Thomas might come out mad as a hornet and dust us, 7-1. Or they might still be in a funk and, if the HU goalie is on his game again, be in for another tough fight. Who the hell knows? But what this Friday night game showed is one of the beauties of sport is in the danger of presuming something will happen. It doesn't often happen that an 0-13-2 team beats the first place team in a league game. But it did happen on this night. And that is why they play games.

A quiet Christmas can be a wonderful one

This was my 59th Christmas on this soil. As has been said many times (and years)before, it was the best Christmas ever. It certainly was adifferent one -- one that reminded me that the holidays are about memories ... and priorities. When you are a kid, the priorities are simple -- get fun gifts. My memory of kiddom is that, for several years running, we got a game or a toy that my three brothers and myself could use. One year, it was an erector set -- a complicated thing that we spent hours contructing ... and de-constructing. Another year, it was a table hockey game -- a wonderful game at which two or four could play. It had an automatic puck dropper. When you scored a goal, there was a little crowd noise. Another year, it was Foto-Electric Football. This would seem tame by today's vodeo standards. But we were enthralld by it. This got topped the next year by a GTO car set -- complete with tracks that seem to fill up the living room. We melded that one with the erector set for a truly complicated operation. As you get older, the priorities changed and you appreciated getting a check or cash from a favorite relative. As an adult, the priorities changed again. You wanted to be invited to the house of that cute girl in the third row. You had a gift for her ... and hoped to get one back in turn (even if it was just a kiss). (But you didn't necessarily want to give to her in front of her parents.) As an older adult, the holiday priorities have changed again. I just want Christmas Eve and Day to be one with a good meal and friendship with people you want to be around (and, hopefully, vice versa). That was the case this year. Christmas Eve was a quiet night at a local tavern with friends. We played games, listened to holiday music and ate and drank together for a couple of hours. It wasn't formal and it was very relaxed. We laughed a lot. What better night could you have? On Christmas Day, Lynne's sister and a brother-in-law came over. There was a great meal, a lively discussion and the day ended watching Barbra Streisand being interviewed on CNN. It was lowkey all the way. We left the dishes for the next day and didn't worry too much about how the kitchen looked. When I was 10 years old, I would never have imagine a holiday like this one would ever be considered "fun." Looking back at it after the fact, it would b hard to imagine a better way to spend the last two days. Priorities indeed.

Good news today

The Happy Dog has had a rough year, suffering some seizures and going on medication. But just got a report from the vet. Levels are great. His weight is up. So are his spirits. And ours, too.

Let's hope there are folks more like Tom Hansen out there

We hear this all the time when a nice person dies. "There will never be another guy like him (her)." Tom Hansen, a truly nice man, passed away the other day. I'm headed to his wake tonight. I will tell his wife how much I appreciated Tom from his days as the AD at St. Bernard's and the various sectional sporting events I worked for him. I will console his son the same way. What I won't say to them but am happy to do so here is this: Let's hope there are more Tom Hansens in the wings. We need more guys like Tom. He was an excellent administrator. He was fair to his students. He understood his school ... and the kids in it ... very well. He knew that the kids he had at St. Bernard's had their faults. hen they screwed up, he doled out the punishment necessary. But he never did in a vindictive manner. No, it was always meant as a teaching moment. He understood the school's athletic teams would have some very good moments (they won a couple of state softball titles) but they would often be overmatched. And, while he was as competitive as the next AD, he wanted his teams and ... his coaches to win and lose the right way. Play hard. Play tough. Play fair. And let the chips fall where they may. He understood that when the Bulldogs had the horses, they would win their share of games. But he also knew that when they played football against, say, DeLaSalle, they were likelt to be outmanned in size and talent. He could live with that. But he could not accept being outclassed. When one of his teams did that, he stepped in and corrected the problem immediately. We need more guys like Tom Hansen, not less, in athletics -- and in life -- these days. We need more guys who see the value in playing games and, yes, understand that lessons can get learned even when your football team loses 56-0. So I will mourn Tom's loss because, well, he was a helluva good guy. But I am also hoping that there are others like him ready to take over and run athletic programs. That is a legacy worth hoping for.

An evening of Championship Bingo

As a holiday treat, Lynne and I took a one-day siesta and decamped to a casino two hours north of home. We didn't have a lot of money to spend but the price was right ($40 for a one night stay) and the drive was wonderful. After a couple of hours of unsuccessful pokering at machines, we took a break and decided to play Bingo.

Little did we know what we were getting into. The Bingo Hall was about the size of a grade school gymnasium. Arriving a half hour before the scheduled start, we discovered nearly chair had been taken up because many folks were engaged in a pre-game game. Those who weren't playing the pre-game game were busy prepping for the Big Show.

We had stepped into the world of Championship Bingo.

It is a world where you no longer buy a card or two for a couple of bucks. Instead, there were packages at a variety of rates from $10 to $75 for an evening's entertainment. Some of these deals included "extra" games, battles that takes place between the regular affairs. You need to use dobbers for the cards. At a buck each, this proved to be the best deal of the night.

Being novices, Lynne and I decided to go somewhere in-between and bought a $10 and a $20 package to share. We scoured around for a few minutes before we discovered two unoccupied seats near the front.

The adventure was just beginning. It turns out we had started the evening by breaking an unwritten rule. Bingo cards are packaged into several sheets. On those sheets, there are often more than one game that will be played. Each player is supposed to be responsible for the sheets you buy. So, when we tore apart part of the $20 package (which had more sheets than the $10 package), we had broken a rule. You're not supposed to buy than you can personally handle. A woman bustling around the place informed us of that but took pity on us and said it was an allowable rookie mistake.

She then asked us what we wanted to buy. As noted above, there are "extra" games that take place as breaks from the regular games. Those games cost a buck or two each to play. We ponied up for most of those games, too. Thus, our $30 bingo adventure had morphed into a figure past the $40 mark before the first ball had been called.

Championship Bingo is no longer just played on cards. No, there are these contraptions available where one puts in a code. The code comes a package you buy. When a number is called, it goes on a big screen and is automatically entered into the system. (It also flashes up on a very glitzy board that looks something like the board at the New York Stock Exchange.) This way, you can buy as many cards as you want and you don't have to keep track.

Championship Bingo had hit the tekkie age.

A woman to our right had one of those toys. She was very nice, telling us which games were coming up in which order, smiling at our naivete as we laid out sheets in front of us. Turned out she is a bingo pro. A while back, she had her daughter had won $50,000 in a bingo coverall. "But we had to share it with two other people," she said with a sigh. "So, we really only won $16,666. After taxes, it was about $14,000. That was a nice win but you have to remember we paid $350 to play."

(A quick math computation revealed 16,666 times 3 is 49,998. The bingo hall keeps the other two bucks. Hey, it a business.)

The pre-game games ended and it was time for the show to begin. The woman calling out the numbers did so in a bored, soft tone. She sounded like a recorded telephone operator. In Championship Bingo, the number that will be called pops up in a camera first. This gives you a head start before it is called.

As we shall shortly discover, this turns out to be an important thing to note.

We were busy dobbing up a storm while our new friend on our right just watched her machine tabulate matters. After a while, I heard a sound from the machine.

"What's that?" I asked.

"The machine is telling me I am one number away," she replied.

Lynne and I were so busy dobbing up the 15 cards in front of us that it took a couple of games before we figured out a system that would allow us time to see if we were close to winning.

As noted earlier, if you watched the monitors, you had a short head start on numbers. This is key because, when you get your winning combination, you must quickly get your hand in the air so the caller knows something is up. As it turns out, the rest of the crowd knows, too because an audible (often disgusted) groan always emanated when a winner emerged.

In my church youth, when a Bingo winner presented him (or her) self, they read off the numbers and verified the success.

Not here. Instead, they read off the computer number on your sheet. The caller pressed a few buttons and -- voila -- the winner's card is shown for everybody to see.
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The caller pauses long enough to catch her breath and ask if there are any other winners. If not, the game is closed and seconds later, we are into the next game.

As it develops, there are all sorts of versions in Championship Bingo. We played the standard game but also added a four corners version. There is the postage stamp (four in one of the corners of the card), a Z version (five across the top and bottom as well as a second G and second B.), an L version (you can go backwards here) and a nine pack version. Near the end of the night, there is the usual coverall battle with a bonus tossed in if you win it in less than 50 numbers called. (One friend who is a regular Bingoer draws a line on her card indicating where the winning diagram needs to go. Championship Bingo requires planning.)

(It didn't happen on this night but we did see this occur at another casino a while back. The winner was a man who appeared to be in his late 50s. He won $25,000. When he raised his hand, he was sitting by himself. Before he put his hand down, he seemed to have acquired several new female admirers. Who needs match.com anyway?)

We didn't win anything (although I came close twice. One game, I was one number away from riches beyond my wildest dreams. Okay, I think I would have won $300. Didn't know for sure because I didn't know what level I was playing at. There are levels in Championship Bingo. But that's another story for another day.) but we had a good time for a 2 1/2 hours. In the end, we probably spent less money than if we had been playing video poker.

A woman named Cindy sitting to our left won two games. Afterwards, she was approached by a person who congratulated her on her haul and then asked "Are you ahead for the week?"

Cindy grunted, "Slightly", and then lit another cigarette. (Championship Bingo players seem to be big smokers.)

Our new friend to our right went home winless but seemed more cheerful about things. "I am picking my daughter up from the airport in the Twin Cities tomorrow," she said. "We're going to Mystic Lake before we come home."

Championship Bingo requires road trips, too.

A Christmas Story

(Editor's Note: I know. I wrote this tale in 2008. But it deserves repeating this year.)

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. Olympia Stadium, their home rink, was usually sold out. Even if you 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 by himself.

The only time the lad could ever see his favorite team play came when Detroit played a nationally televised Sunday game from Chicago, New York or Boston. That might occur 2-3 times a year.

Christmas 1965 came with the usual trimmings. As per family 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, 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? More importantly, 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, 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. Later, he saw 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 the boy 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. (Chicago Stadium and Boston Garden had the same type of clocks well into the 1970s. The clock changed colors to signify the final minute of the period. No digital stuff here.)

"Where are we sitting?" he 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 really 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 when the clock changed colors for the final time. There was no overtime rules, either.

This wasn't possible. How you could you go to your first NHL game and not see a goal?

Then it happened. A shot came from the point that Worsley could only knock down. Alex Delvecchio, a husky center, 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 claimed the 1-0 win.

Since that time, the boy has probably seen 1500 hockey games. 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 remembers 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.

A final note: 20 years after that game, the boy, now covering the North Stars for UPI, found himself sitting next to Worsley in the press box at Met Center. He said to Worsley, "I know you have probably heard this from a lot of people but you played goal in the first NHL game I ever saw."

Worsley politely nodded. "Really? Where was it?," he replied.

"Night after Christmas at the Olympia. Detroit against Montreal."

Worsley sighed. "Was that the night that (bleep) Delvecchio scored in the final minute? I can still see that one."

The boy guessed it was not such a good memory for the old goalie.

A new gig is exciting, challenging ... and worrisome, too

In essence, today starts a new adventure for me. Since August 1, I have been filling for my friend Steph Harris as the Sports Information Director at Hamline. It was kind of like when Johnny Carson used to go on vacation and he would have guest hosts. You kept things going until the incumbent returned.

Steph took a three-month family leave to be with her father in Florida, who was battling cancer. Sadly, her dad passed away in late October. Steph has now decided to stay in Florida and help her mm sort through everything that needs to be done. She'll look for work there. In the meantime, the athletic season is in full blast at Hamline and somebody needed to step into the SID role. The Athletic Director, Bob Beeman, a very good man, offered me the job on a full time, interim basis through the end of June (when contracts for nearly everybody expire). I accepted and here I am.

As a fill-in for Steph, I tried to be very careful and not change much of what she had done. After all, if she had decided to return, that would not have been fair to her or the right thing to do.. Besides, she did a terrific job and, truth be told, there was very little reason to change much.

Now that I have the gig (at least until the end of June), I may tweak a few things here and there to suit my comfort zone (just as Steph did when she first got the job). That's the exciting part. The challenging part is figuring out is a proposed change can actually occur. The worrisome part is making sure any change made really is for the betterment of the school and the job.

I have been a SID before but the job has changed considerably since my last shot at it (at Concordia from 1999-2002). There is a lot of internet work to do. Much of the recruiting done by coaches is now via the web. I am not a tekkie but have learned a lot about cyberspace over the years. I need to learn a lot more in a hurry to make our website look snazzy. That's exciting, challenging AND worrisome.

I know the league well so working with the players in it isn't going to be the issue.

No, the problem will be Steph was a lot better at cyberpsace than I can ever hope to be. Being younger (and, sigh, a lot more hipper than me), she has spent more time on computers and, thus, can pick up concepts quicker. If I want to know a trend in that area, I have to ask someone.

But I like dealing with reporters, coaches and officials. I enjoy the stat work. I like our game day personnel. They're not working for the money. They want to and enjoy being at games. I love the MIAC. It stands for what can be very good in college athletics. There may be a Jerry Sandusky somewhere in our Division III midsts. But I doubt it. A fellow like that would stand out and (forgive the term) be exposed a lot earlier than happened at Penn State.

I signed my contract the other day. The gig is now mine and that means the responsibility for everything is now officially on my head. I am no longer the fill-in just keeping a chair warm. Let's hope I know what the hell I am doing. There is one advantage that many others in a similar spot wont have. Steph and I can contact each other easily. She has been wonderfully patient with my many (at times, repetitive) questions. Thanks, girl.

Starting a new adventure at age 58 is not something I expected to do. But such is life.

We have a home mens bb game against UW-Whitewater. A bb game Wednesday. Hockey games Friday and Saturday. Games next week as well. There is a lot to do and it is now incumbent on me to handle it all with no excuses and nobody to saddle with blame if something goes wrong.

Exciting, challenging and worrisome.

But isn't that what life is supposed to be?

Thankful for many things

It's been a helluva run of death lately. My dear friend Steph Harris' dad passed away after a noble fight with cancer. My friend and former colleague Gordy Lee died suddenly. My sister-in-law recently lost her father this week. A longtime family friend lost hers last week. Another good friend's beloved dog died the other day.

I understand death is a part of life. I feel for all my friends and their families. I try to find the words to comfort them. But the reality is you really can't comfort them much. They hurt like hell for their loss. All you can really do is hug them, tell how much you care and let them recover at their pace.

But you also feel very badly for them. You feel as if you aren't really helping their burden. In turn, that depresses you a bit, too.

When that happens, you need something to pep you up. This week, I found it in an unusual way.

I know this young couple slightly. She is the niece of a good friend. He is a pr guy and a strategist for the Dems. They are fun, neat people who are a joy to be around.

This week, they had an addition to their fold-- a baby boy named Emmett. A baby. A new life. Somebody who starts fresh with no baggage and can explore the world in their own way. A fresh face to consider after seeing all the tired old ones around us (I mean the politicians and entertainers, not my friends.)

On top of it all, he has a great old name. I had an Uncle Emmett. He was a feisty character who was tough as a whip. He sired six boys with my dad's only sister. What I remember the most about him was his bushy eyebrows and his gruff demeanor. Like most guys with that kind of demeanor, he had a very soft side, too. He always held doors for women and, while he was tough with his kids, he was always gracious and kind with Aunt Helen, his wife and the other women he ran across. Uncle Emmett may have been a hard-nosed fellow but he was a gentleman in every way. Just thinking of him makes me smile.

So, this Thanksgiving, I am being thankful for a new baby to a couple who I am sure will be great parents. I am grateful for the return of a great old name and hope the youngster lives up to the fine character of previous Emmetts. I am thankful that, although I have several friends and families who have recently suffered personal losses, all of them are surrounded by family and friends who love them and will be there for them whenever they need it.

I am thankful for a loving wife and family and a dog that has a few issues but still brings joy into our lives. I am thankful to be working.

Most of all, I am thankful that I can still find things to make me smile. I hope you, good reader, can do the same.

Remembering a spirited lady fondly

It's funny how a person you meet only once can sometimes grab your attention and never let go. Eleanor Mondale, who died the other day way too young, was one of those folks.

I met her at, of all places, Midway Stadium. She came to a Saints' game with Neal Karlen, who wrote a book about the Saints. They were friends. I suspect Ms. Mondale knew as much about baseball as I do about pottery. But she came with Neal, who was publicizing his book. Being a good sport, she agreed to pose for a picture wearing a Saints' warmup jacket and with a big. goody grin on her face.

This was a woman whose picture was everywhere at the time. She hung with rock stars. She worked for CBS. Yet she was unnoticed as she walked around Midway Stadium -- a fact that seemed to amuse her to no end. She sat with Neal in the stands, drank some beer and seemed to genuinely enjoy herself ... even she probably had no clue at all what the hell was going on. When Neal introduced her to me, she asked, "How do you remember all that stuff about ballplayers? I can't remember what I had for breakfast." And then she laughed at herself.

She had what the French would like to call "spirit de joivre." Loosely translated, it means she was full of life.

Years later, I would hear her on the radio and instantly see that blond head with the devilish smile. And I would wonder how it was such a person could be the offspring of Walter Mondale, a great man but a fellow with a personality that would make Ben Stern seem like George Gobel.

The gene poll took an unusual turn there.

Many people thought she was a natural for TV. But she was much better on the radio where her personality and her insatiable curiosity could flourish. Try at it might to pretend otherwise, TV news is generally about as imaginative as Latin. There is simply too much money involved. The picture must be perfect at all times.

I suspect perfect was not a word Ms. Mondale used very often. Good choice, too. Even Mary Poppins referred to herself as "practically perfect."

When the word got out she had cancer, I imagined her battling it with considerable strength. People of spirit are, after all, great fighters. I imagined that, while she knew what eventually would happen (cancer has an impressive winning streak), she was damned and determined to go down swinging.

I only had the one brief encounter with her. But it is to Ms. Mondale's credit that she had such personality that I can hear her voice and see her face right now ... even though this meeting happened roughly 15 years ago.

One hopes she has moved on to a place where she can have lively conversation with interesting people. She certainly deserved that for an afterlife because that is what she gave us when she was here.

The 9/11 legacy I would like to see

There are millions of words being written about this day, the 10th anniversary of one of the darkest days in our country's history. Many of them are heartfelt and sincere. Allow to add these to the list.

The lessons of that day are too complex for any one person to solve. The simple fact is we were attacked by bad guys. But there have always been bad guys -- people bent on destruction and mayhem. They try all the time to wreak havoc. They have been trying this ever since the Declaration Of Independence was signed.

This time, unfortunately, they succeeded.

The sad fact is that, someday, they might again.

But it is important to understand that the current administration is hellbent on making sure this did not happen ... just as all previous administrations were. It wasn't George Bush's fault that 9/11 happened. But it occurred on his watch. So he did what presidents before him have done -- he counseled us the best he could. He went to his advisors and said, in essence, "You get paid a lot of money to handle problems like this. Now get to it and get back to me ASAP with some ideas for the next move."

In the talkie/blogger world, there is constant wish and yearning for rapid response and to assign blame. In the real world, however, it doesn't work that way. It's complicated.

President Bush seemed to understand this concept very well. He understood we needed some kind of symbol that we could get back to our lives while the government worked to find out who was responsible. When he walked to the mound at Yankee Stadium to throw out a ceremonial first pitch, he was walking for all of us in the country.

Only a leftwing zealot could think otherwise.

And that's is what worries me more than anything else. God forbid, but if there is a similar attack of any type this year, I fear the right wing talkies/bloggers will seize on it as a sign this administration is weak and needs to be tossed out. But it wasn't true 10 years ago and it wouldn't be true now. Even worse, such an attitude would be exactly what the enemies of our country want.

You win a war by exploiting weakness.

The legacy I want to see from what happened 10 years ago today is that we remember what those who went before us did. They were fearless yet fearful. They plowed forward with their lives but kept an eye out for potential trouble.

That's not easy to do in a world where it seems everything, ranging from fiscal policy to the BCS selections in college football, is turned into a political statement.

From what I have read about those who died on that day, most of them were able to departmentalize their political views and leave them in a proper place. It didn't affect their work and it didn't affect their play. Shame on all those who try to say otherwise.

We can get to the political machinations later.

The legacy I want to see from that awful day 10 years ago is for us to do what those who died on that day were doing -- going about their lives as best they could.

Baseball in September is fun ... even more so when your team is in the race

I have always been a big fan of September baseball. In many years, it was our chance to go to the ballpark and sit damn near anywhere we wanted. Both in Detroit (when I was young) and especially here in Minnesota, there were always plenty of seats available at the ballpark for games.

You could usually find a deal to get tickets from someone for less than full price and sit where you normally would not be allowed to -- in the box seats.

In addition, it was a chance to look at and evaluate some new faces as well as reflect on the end of the career of some old favorites. The games tend to move along quicker. It was also a reminder that summer was drawing down and we needed to enjoy the last nice nights we had.

As much fun as that is, September baseball is even better when your team is in a pennant race. The games suddenly take on more importance. The decisions are suddenly sharper. The fans and players are tenser. The relaxed mentality noted above is not around. Instead, there is an anxiousness in the air that is hard to describe but exceedingly real.

Either way, September baseball has always been fun for me.

This year, my hometown Tigers are having a good run. They have a solid lead in the AL Central, and unless they totally fall apart in the next couple of weeks, should make the playoffs for the first time in five years.

Once you are in the playoffs, anything goes. They'll enter with perhaps baseball's best pitcher (Justin Verlander), a goofy but (so far at least) reliable closer in Jose Valverde and a remainder of a pitching staff that is fairly decent. They have some pretty good sticks in the middle of the lineup, a very good catcher, a center fielder who can go get 'em all over the park and, overall, a fairly good fielding team.

In short, they have a nice club -- one that could be a lot of trouble for whoever sees them in the playoffs.

On paper, they would appear to be the weakest of the likely AL playoff teams and, as one national writer sees it, the weakest overall team in the postseason.

No matter. As we have seen in recent years, when your team gets in the postseason, everything really does start over. The old memories don't matter. Reputations are just that ... they have little bearing on what happens between the lines. The team that would appear to have the most talent doesn't always win. (In recent years, that seems even more true.) It's the team that plays the best that triumphs. And when it is your team involved for the first time in a while, you feel an extra bounce in your step as the games unfold.

I don't get to be a fan every often. It's the nature of my jobs that, although I like the teams I work for and want them to do well, I still need to be professional at all times. So, you check your emotions at the door and you do your job.

But this October apparently will be different. For the first time in a while, it appears I will have a team that I can cheer for. It is a team with a fair amount of skill. Although they will likely be underdogs to whoever they face, they will not be in over their heads against any team. It will be fun to watch.

Twins' fans around here are muttering over their team's poor season. Fair enough. In recent years, they always seemed to find a way to get into the playoffs. So, they seemed to assume it was a birthright of sorts and never seemed to enjoy the divisional titles very much.

Probably, this is because, in recent years, Minnesota's playoff time has been brief -- a lot of sweeps and a lot of losses to the Yankees.

However, if they pay attention this year, Twins' fans may find out just how good they have really had it. Watch the unfettered enthusiasm that will come out of the cities that haven't been to the playoffs very often -- Detroit, Milwaukee, Arizona and even Texas.

Those fans have been appreciating September baseball for a different reason for a long time.

Next Year is now for them. It's their turn to enjoy.

I'm back (sort of)

So I thought I would check in to see if anybody had made any comment sto my most recent posting -- a small item about the pleasures of walking the dog.

Much to my surprise, I discovered that ... and the other 189 tomes that had been offered since coming into existence, had disappeared into cyberspace. I put it down to a computer malfunction and decided to check back later.

Before I could do so, my good friend Steph Harris (god bless a reader) sent me a note asking where the hell my blog had disappeared to?

Time to move to action.

After some detective work that would have made Sherlock Holmes proud.that Google, the parent organization that, in a way, oversees, these enterprises, had detected some nefarious activity and had temporarily put me out of business. To restore myself, I needed to upgrade my computer with various anti-hacking devices and get a new password.

For the technologically challenged, this takes a little while ... and a lot of patience.

However, I have had years of practice at being patient. After all, I am a loyal watcher of Detroit Lions football games. So, I did what I was asked to do and -- voila!! -- we're back in business.

If I was really gutsy, I would ask if anybody (besides, of course, Steph) missed me.

But, as one also learns when watching Lions' games, being patient is one thing. Being gutsy is something else altogether.

So, I will settle for happily being back in business.

Until we meet again ...

Walking the dog can be an adventure for all concerned

Normally, Lynne walks The Happy Dog in the morning and I take the night shift. On weekends, however, I usually take at least one morning and Lynne takes the other. So it was that we did our usual jaunt on a fine summer morn. I have always been fascinated in watching Pete on these adventures.

He seems to carefully pick the places he does business. He will walk up to a plant, sniff it and decide it unworthy of his ... er ... attention. He seems to have personal favorite stooping places. There is no rhyme or reason for this I can tell.

We will be going along at a nice clip when he suddenly stop and sniff up a storm at a plant or a tree. I am told they recognize smells of other critters. Whatever the reason, this behavior is often without warning. In the winter, it has sent me flying a few times.

It just makes you wonder what is going on in that head. Dogs are fascinating creatures to me. They seem to be more predictable than cats but, every now and then, they take off without warning. Rex Harrison was lucky he could talk to them.

43 years later, the memory is still strong

My long-suffering wife said to me one day, "Why is it you can remember old batting averages but forget to take out the garbage?" My response (allegedly) was, "Because I don't have a passion for the trash."

Anniversaries like today are why.

43 years old today, I spent an amazing 9 1/2 hours inside Tiger Stadium. I arrived at 11:30 a.m. and left at about 9:05 p.m. During that time frame, I saw the Tigers sweep the Red Sox in a frantic, frenetic doubleheader before a full house. The first game went 14 innings. Both games ended with Gates Brown, a cult hero of sorts in Detroit, driving in the winning run. In the first game, it was a home run in the 14th inning. In the second game, it was part of a four-run ninth inning rally.

It was a helluva day of baseball.

I remember it all. We got there for batting practice. It was a beautiful, sunny day. Earl Wilson, the Detroit starter, didn't get out of the first inning of Game 1. Boston scored four runs. But the Tigers kept pecking away. Wayne Comer homered at one point (I think it was his only homer of the year). Don Wert tripled to right center to tie the game in the 8th inning. Mickey Lolich pitched five innings of terrific relief. Brown pinch-hit for him and lined a ball that barely got over the right field fence. I remember Ken Harrelson looking in disbelief as the ball barely went in the lower deck in right.

The second game offered more tension. As I recall, Reggie Smith (or maybe George Scott) hit a two-run homer off John Hiller. Norm Cash bombed a two-run shot to tie the game. Boston went ahead with three in the ninth (I think Smith ... or Scott ... homered again). But I can still see the Detroit rally. Five hits in a row ... each one inching a little farther than the previous one. Suddenly, the game was tied and Brown grounded one that somehow snuck through the middle of the infield to win the game.

Bedlam.

In 9 1/2 hours, I think I only left to go to the bathroom or to get a coke between games. I remember taking the Grand River bus home. My mother thought I had been out screwing around and ready to ream me out until my brother Frank came to my rescue by telling her he had listened to the end of the second game and, indeed, it had gone past 9:00 p.m.

I think back to that day now and marvel. 9 1/2 hours at a ballpark? I would have a hard time doing it. But when you are 15 and your club is in the middle of a pennant race, it seemed easy to do. Besides, the Tigers won both games. Is there a better way a 15-year old baseball fan could spend a day?

This all happened 43 years ago today. Yet I can remember it like it was last week. As for taking out the garbage ... you will have to ask my wife if that happened on time.

The joys of West Coast baseball

When I was a kid growing up in Detroit, the Tigers showed roughly 40 games a year on TV. The Saturday afternoon home games were shown as was a select group of 25-30 away games. There would be midweek night games from eastern and midwest time zones. Occasionally, you might get a whole series from, say, Yankee Stadium.

When the team went to the west coast, however, the only games ever aired were the occasional Sunday afternoon game. Night games were never considered.

That meant we listened to Ernie Harwell describe the action from Oakland, Anaheim and Seattle. Often times, I listened to those games through a tiny transistor radio. It was great fun.

What made it fun was the feeling you were being let in on a secret. By the time the games started, you knew how everybody else had done. You knew if the Tigers needed a win to keep pace or gain ground on their foes. You rarely saw Anaheim or (later) Seattle on TV. That meant the ballpark existed in your mind's eye more than anything else. And when you let your imagination run wild at a ballpark ... well ... that is a very good thing.

Times have changed. Nearly every game is televised locally. National TV doesn't go there very often because of the late starts. (For a while, ESPN used to do some games. They gave up on that a few years back. Pity.)

But there is something about West Coast games that I still like. You feel like you will know a result that may no appear in the morning paper. The players somehow look different. Even if we struggle to stay awake, they look fresh to me. It is almost as if the players are performing in a dream. It's hard to explain, I know.

Staying up until midnight or later to watch baseball is still a thrill. You to get see things the rest of the country know little (or nothing) about.

If you pick up the morning paper in New York or Washington, you might see this line: Minnesota at Los Angeles, late. But I already know that Ervin Santana pitched a wonderful complete game and Mark Trumbo hit a mammoth homer for the Angels in a 5-1 victory.

It may have cost me a little sleep but it was worth it.

Goodbye (sort of) to a very good friend

A friend of mine is leaving town next week. My friend's reasons for leaving are personal and needn't be divulged here. (I was sworn to secrecy. When a friend swears you to secrecy, it is like taking an oath in court, I wouldn't dream of violating it.)

But suffice it to say they are very good reasons and I am totally respect my friend for doing so.

Still, I know this is going to be a difficult thing to deal with.

It's not that we won't stay in contact. In this electronic day and age, staying in contact with another person -- no matter where they are -- isn't as difficult as it used to be. (Besides, the situation is temporary.) But staying in contact either by email, text or another electronic means isn't the same as sitting down in person and talking.

See, the problem is, as we get older, we just don't make real good friends. We have a lot of people we are friendly with -- people we can sit and have a drink or tell a joke with at any time. But true friends -- the type where you can bare your soul to them and know you won't be judged for doing so -- are hard to find as you get older. My friend and I have gone through a lot in our lives in recent years. We have shared in each other's triumphs and consoled each other when needed. (I know my friend -- as do I -- has other people who can say the same thing. Still, each friendship is a little different.)

In short, my friend trusted me with key information about things going on and I did the same. As we get older, we don't do that as easily. We simply don't trust as many people. We do that because we have been burned ourselves and seen other gets burned. And it hurts like hell every time it happens.

What I think I am going to miss the most about my friend leaving town is getting together for a drink on short notice. Planning
to go to an event. Watching my friend interact with family members. See my friend play with The Happy Dog. In other words, the simple pleasures of life. I am going to miss chatting with my friend on a million different subjects. I am going to miss seeing example of my friend's big heart when it comes to helping people (myself included). These are the things we cherish in life as we get older.

But a real test of friendship is what is about happen here. I know my friend is leaving the state to do something that is vitally important. It is being done at a bit of sacrifice and it is being done for the best of possible reasons -- coming to the aid and comfort of another person my friend justifiably holds near and dear to the heart. As much as I personally hate to see my friend go, I know this is the best thing to do. Why do I know that? Because my friend's heart has said so. And you rarely go wrong when you follow your heart.

One of the fascinating things about getting older is discovering who really are your friends and who are acquaintances. This particular person has done me many favors -- some of which cannot be priced out under any circumstances. I hope I have reciprocated to my friend accordingly.

But, unlike politics, friendships are not built on a quid pro quo system. Trust doesn't work that way.

So I must put my own feelings aside, say goodbye (for now) to my friend and offer good wishes and good thoughts on the journey ahead. Before departing, I will state my only real goal for my friend is to be happy and safe.

I hope the wishes my friend has for this trip are fulfilled. I look forward to hearing how things go. And thanks from the bottom of my heart for the friend you have been to me oh these many years ... and for the friend I am sure you will continue to be.

Life at the lake is a necessary change of pace

When I was a lad about this time of year, my mother used to pack us up and head off to Grand Bend, Ontario. Grand Bend was a city that had a population of 500 in the winter and 5000 in the summer. My memories of it are almost all wonderful. I once saw a great rainstorm cut across Lake Huron cast against a full moon. I was about seven or eight at the time and can see the pictures of the rain slapping the waves in my head now.

We ate peanut butter crackers on the beach for breakfast. Once or twice, we would go into the downtown area. It was really a 2-3 block strip that ended at Lake Huron. A block before the end, however, was a wonderful penny arcade that also had Dodge-Em cars. I remember my brothers pouring in coins (probably nickels) into a bowling game to win 37 coupons, the amount needed to win a hot plate for use in our cabin. (Youngsters, ask your parents what a hot plate is. It could be used for an amazing amount of things.)

Nearly 50 years later, I still recall that my brothers and myself ran ragged all day long. What I don't recall is what Mom and her good friend Oleta "Pete" Smith, who came on these trips, usually did. I have no head picture of them all from that era.

But I know now what they did while the Wright boys frollicked.

Not much at all. And enjoyed it immensely.

This is being written on a cloudy Tuesday morning inside Cabin 8 at the Nodak Lodge in Bena, MN. It is the second year in a row we have been here. Some longtime friends of Lynne's have been summer vacationing with another family here for quite a while now. As a town, Bena makes Grand Bend look like Grand Rapids. The official population listed is 110. To the best I can tell, though, the town is simply a gas station/general store, a post office and a bar/restaurant. No arcade here.

Nodak Lodge is a simple place run by simple people. It has cabins, a small receptions area that includes one pool table, a video machine and a small area to congregate in, a swimming pool, a few campground spots and pits for fires, a basketball court and Lake Winnibigosh. Thee is an area to dock a boat if you are so inclined. Or you can rent one or a pontoon to go out on the lake.

That's it.

To a New Yorker, a Chicagoan, or a Los Angelino, that probably sounds pretty damn boring without enough to keep people interested for two days, much less a week.

To us Minnesotans, however, it offers something that is hard to find anywhere else. It is something I suspect Mom and Pete did every day in Grand Bend while the Wright boys ran around and through Lake Huron on our inner tubes and chased Shep, the dog up and down the beach for hours.

It offers serenity.

Life in Minnesota is not considered hectic at all. We're known for our laidback approach to just about every issue. The movie "Fargo" wasn't that far off the mark at all when it came to stereotyping folks around here.

But the simple fact is all that life is hectic and complicated in every city that is not the size of Bena or Grand Bend. You can't avoid it. For example, right now in Minnesota, we in the second week of a statewide shutdown caused by a lack of a state budget. The shutdown is affecting services all over the state. It occurred because the state legislature is much more interested in scoring political principles than in helping constituents.

(The shutdown even affects life at the small general store on Highway 2, roughly 7/10th of a mile from Cabin 8. One of that store's biggest sources of income is lottery sales. The lottery is one of the many state-run industries that closed during this shutdown. "People still have their habits," the clerk told me the other day. "They come in daily and ask things have changed and they can buy tickets.")

At Nodak Lodge, however, nothing has changed much. Roger and Melissa, who run the place, are about as pleasant and accommodating people as one will find in the world. I have no idea of their political or social persuasions. What's more, I don't need to know it. No, I'm here to watch Lake Winnibigosh take turns being peaceful and being majestic. (Last night, it was the latter as whitecaps, seen above, bounced to and fro. Wonderful sight.)

Life here is uncomplicated and peaceful ... and that is why we come. The coffee seems to taste better here. The food on the grill smells better. You get up when you want and you go to bed when you want. During the day, we simply have conversations with our friends, read a book while sunning at the pool, play board or card games, or (on cloudy days like today), hack away at writing. There is a TV available in the cabin if you want it (Lynne gets to catch up on shows she doesn't get to see at home because she is working). A fellow might even go out on the dock with a big cup of coffee or a stiff drink, light up a cigar and simply watch the day or night unfold.

In other words, we get to come and go and eat as we please for a week. That is about as good as it gets.

It is also necessary. You see, we are running ourselves ragged as a country. We are at constant loggerheads politically and socially. St. Paul is no New York or Detroit but, even there, people are snapping at each other over the smallest things. This kind of continual unrest cannot be good for the body or the soul. We need a break -- whether it is something as simple as putting a fishing pole in the water, golfing on a course that nobody has ever heard of or simply sitting by the bay window reading a book or working a crossword puzzle.

When you go on a vacation like this, you do the things that interest you -- not the stuff you feel you have to do. You work at pleasing yourself for a change. At Grand Bend, for example, Mom's one personal pleasure was an annual trip to Stratford to see a Shakespearean play. It was the only thing she seemed to insist on (besides making us wait an hour after eating to return to Lake Huron). And I can see the relaxed smile she had on her face as we sat in the round watching those weird costumes and trying to understand 16th century English.

Time here doesn't stop altogether -- we really don't want it to do that -- but it does go slower. There are occasional outbursts of energetic disagreement "Why did you play that card?" is a common refrain. But about the worst thing you will see is an incident like the one that happened by the pool the other day. A mother yelled at her son for committing the crime of splashing his sister. The lad, about age 9, was sent muttering to a chair for a timeout. This lasted about two minutes until the mother turned to another nearby adult and sighed, "Well, we are on vacation, aren't we?" and released the fellow from custody with the plea "Don't do it so often, please." The fellow jumped happily back in the water and was later actually seen guiding his sister around the pool. Such is the healing power of Nodak Lodge.

There is more than can be said but you get the point. It's time for another cup of barefoot coffee. The new day is dawning and today's placid, tame adventure is about to commence. Which will it be today? Do I return to my book? Do I go for an exploratory walk (Bigfoot is supposed to be around here somewhere.) ? Do we hop in the car and go to the adult version of the old penny arcade -- the casino up the road? Do we wander into Grand Rapids just to see what the hell goes on there in the summer? Or so we just sit and talk a bit about life in general or politics in particular? Or is today's task as simple as watching Mikade, the soon-to-be-three year old son of Lynne's godson Donny, as he takes on his world one pillow and toy car at a time?

At the lake, there are many options. But just about all of them are peaceful and quiet ones. It is not a life that most of us would want for 52 weeks of the year. For one week, however, it is about as heavenly as it gets.