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.
http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif
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.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
Saturday, December 24, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
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?
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?
Wednesday, November 23, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 20, 2011
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.
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.
Sunday, September 11, 2011
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.
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.
Saturday, September 3, 2011
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
