Did you know that the theme from The Odd Couple has LYRICS?? I didn't... or I did, but sometime between when I copied the lyrics from a songbook (1999) and today, when I found the copy in a box of effluvia I pulled from a storage space, I forgot it.
Is it just me, or are they best forgotten? To wit:
No matter where they go
They are known as the couple
They're never seen alone
So they're known as the couple
As I've indicated
They are never quite separated
They are peas in a pod
Don't you think that it's odd?
Their habits I confess
None can guess with the couple
If one says no it's yes
More or less, with the couple
But they're laugh-provoking
Yet they really don't know they're joking
Don't you find
When love is blind
It's kind of odd
Don't you think it's odd?
Don't you think it's odd?
Don't you think it's odd?
From the pen of Sammy Cahn, the man who brought us "Teach Me Tonight," which I find one of the most annoying "standards" in the New Real Book. "The Odd Couple," though, makes "Teach Me Tonight" sound like a Shakespeare sonnet.
Back to packing and pitching...
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
AOL Welcome Screen Headline of the Week
(for week ending Thursday August 23, 2007; I'm closing this week's competition a day early.)
This week's winner, a two-tiered headline from Monday, has it all: breathy mention of (let's face it) a b-list celebrity in the first line, followed by a teaser question in the subhead. I'd say, all told, that this beauty is the prototypical AOL Welcome Screen headline:
Accident on Tom Cruise Set Hurts 11
Did Anyone Famous Fall Out Of Truck?
The runner-up was no slouch, either... I daresay that any other week, this one would have run away with the prize:
Celebs Get Fat, Too, You Know
By the way, the AOL Welcome Screen Headline I've been waiting for the past two weeks is:
Try AOL'S new webmail!
Get dialup speed and inconvenience no matter what your connection!
Really... effin'... excruciating... trying to access my web mail the past two weeks... on a broadband connection, no less.
And it's not just me... do a google using the words SLOW AOL WEB MAIL.
Congratulations to all our winners :-)
This week's winner, a two-tiered headline from Monday, has it all: breathy mention of (let's face it) a b-list celebrity in the first line, followed by a teaser question in the subhead. I'd say, all told, that this beauty is the prototypical AOL Welcome Screen headline:
Accident on Tom Cruise Set Hurts 11
Did Anyone Famous Fall Out Of Truck?
The runner-up was no slouch, either... I daresay that any other week, this one would have run away with the prize:
Celebs Get Fat, Too, You Know
By the way, the AOL Welcome Screen Headline I've been waiting for the past two weeks is:
Try AOL'S new webmail!
Get dialup speed and inconvenience no matter what your connection!
Really... effin'... excruciating... trying to access my web mail the past two weeks... on a broadband connection, no less.
And it's not just me... do a google using the words SLOW AOL WEB MAIL.
Congratulations to all our winners :-)
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Full circle
There are certain moments in life that you never forget. One such moment, for me, was a phone call in autumn 1993, at my apartment in west Philly. A year earlier, my first wife, Stephanie, and I had moved up to Carlisle (my hometown) from Washington DC; the previous four years, she'd pursued her undergrad studies at American University while I worked at whatever job I could to pay our bills. It was a rough marriage: we were both immature, with issues that we took out on each other, verbally and physically. It should have ended much sooner than it did, but when it ended was when we made the move to PA: she went to her mother's house and stayed there, and we were done. I felt cheated and robbed and betrayed: I'd helped to put her through school; now it was my turn (part of the plan in the move was that she'd work while I got my teaching licensure) and she was gone.
We were both big babies, acting like big babies. It was a bad time, bad relationship, bad all around.
When we moved back to Carlisle, we didn't take everything we owned along with us. A lot of our furniture and other belongings were in a $50-a-month space in Alexandria, VA, at American Self Storage. I kept up on the payments for a couple months, until Steph said that she and her family would go down and get our stuff some weekend. In the meantime, I sent her checks to pay for the storage, which I got back, endorsed by her and signed over to a guy she had met and would eventually marry.
So the storage was taken care of. I thought.
On that autumn night in 1993, though, about a year after we made our move and I'd last seen her, the phone conversation eventually came around to the storage. "Well," I said, thinking of the backs of the cancelled checks with Steph's PAY TO THE ORDER OF (Strange New Man) and then, underneath, (Strange New Man)'s signature, "you got the checks I sent you for the storage, right?"
"What checks for the storage?"
"The checks I sent you. To pay for the storage."
"I thought you were paying the storage."
In that moment, I realized that I'd lost it. Boxes and boxes of my history: journals... notebooks... letters from family and friends and girls I'd had crushes on... books... records... my moon globe that my parents got me when Apollo 11 landed and that I'd had in my bedroom as a kid... furniture that had been handed down to me... my high school yearbooks... all gone.
There was silence while we both processed what she was saying, and realized what it meant.
I asked her why she thought I'd sent her checks for the EXACT AMOUNT OF THE STORAGE if they weren't for the storage.
"I just thought you were sending me money" was the answer.
And then "You mean all my stuff is gone?"
So now it was About Her, and not in a Well I guess I really fucked this up for both of us way, either. Screaming and shouting ensued--one last marital argument, for old time's sake--and she hung up on me.
And from there...
The last 15 years have not been easy. I've felt, in many ways, like I've been climbing out of a dark hole. There have been good moments, but that conversation with Steph was like the last straw, the last numbing moment of five years of hell with her. In many ways, I've been reeling, numb, and trying to recover ever since. It's only really been in the past two or three years that I've finally started to shake all of it and come out into the light, so to speak: finished a novel, got my masters, and now, finally, have decided to move to Vermont because it feels right... it feels like where I need to be.
So...
Two weekends ago, at my 25th high school reunion picnic, a bunch of my classmates and I were talking about old yearbooks, and I mentioned offhand "Well, I don't have my yearbooks anymore..." and Sherri, one of my classmates, said, sort of incredulously, "HOW do you lose your yearbooks?"
"Well," I said, "let me TELL you how: you put all of your high school and college things into a shared storage space with your wife... then you break up with her... and you send her money to help pay for the storage, which she doesn't keep up on... and the next thing you know, they're cleaning out the space and your stuff is gone."
Before Sherri could even say "Awwww..." (I could tell she felt bad, but she's not really an AWWWW type!), Sally, another of our classmates, said "You know, they sell copies of our yearbook at Bedford Street Antiques downtown."
"Really?"
"Yeah. They're only, like, twenty-five bucks. They have all different years. My mom was class of '49 and we got hers there. But, yeah, they have both our junior and senior yearbooks there... around twenty-five bucks."
I didn't have time to get over to Bedford Street Antiques before they closed that afternoon, but I told my Mom and Dad about the shop, and asked them if they could go down and see...
... and today when I came home from work, there was a big padded white envelope stuck in my mailbox. I tore the top of the mailer open: a familiar book from 25 years ago...
1982 ORACLE, the green letters on the white cover read. My senior year high school yearbook... no signatures... pristine.
How fitting that I would get a clean copy of my long-lost senior yearbook back at a time when I'm preparing to move to a new state, to start a new life.
I feel like a 15-year-old curse has been lifted... that a cycle of darkness that began around the time of that phone call has come full circle and has finally ended.
Maybe next I'll get my hands on another moon globe.
We were both big babies, acting like big babies. It was a bad time, bad relationship, bad all around.
When we moved back to Carlisle, we didn't take everything we owned along with us. A lot of our furniture and other belongings were in a $50-a-month space in Alexandria, VA, at American Self Storage. I kept up on the payments for a couple months, until Steph said that she and her family would go down and get our stuff some weekend. In the meantime, I sent her checks to pay for the storage, which I got back, endorsed by her and signed over to a guy she had met and would eventually marry.
So the storage was taken care of. I thought.
On that autumn night in 1993, though, about a year after we made our move and I'd last seen her, the phone conversation eventually came around to the storage. "Well," I said, thinking of the backs of the cancelled checks with Steph's PAY TO THE ORDER OF (Strange New Man) and then, underneath, (Strange New Man)'s signature, "you got the checks I sent you for the storage, right?"
"What checks for the storage?"
"The checks I sent you. To pay for the storage."
"I thought you were paying the storage."
In that moment, I realized that I'd lost it. Boxes and boxes of my history: journals... notebooks... letters from family and friends and girls I'd had crushes on... books... records... my moon globe that my parents got me when Apollo 11 landed and that I'd had in my bedroom as a kid... furniture that had been handed down to me... my high school yearbooks... all gone.
There was silence while we both processed what she was saying, and realized what it meant.
I asked her why she thought I'd sent her checks for the EXACT AMOUNT OF THE STORAGE if they weren't for the storage.
"I just thought you were sending me money" was the answer.
And then "You mean all my stuff is gone?"
So now it was About Her, and not in a Well I guess I really fucked this up for both of us way, either. Screaming and shouting ensued--one last marital argument, for old time's sake--and she hung up on me.
And from there...
The last 15 years have not been easy. I've felt, in many ways, like I've been climbing out of a dark hole. There have been good moments, but that conversation with Steph was like the last straw, the last numbing moment of five years of hell with her. In many ways, I've been reeling, numb, and trying to recover ever since. It's only really been in the past two or three years that I've finally started to shake all of it and come out into the light, so to speak: finished a novel, got my masters, and now, finally, have decided to move to Vermont because it feels right... it feels like where I need to be.
So...
Two weekends ago, at my 25th high school reunion picnic, a bunch of my classmates and I were talking about old yearbooks, and I mentioned offhand "Well, I don't have my yearbooks anymore..." and Sherri, one of my classmates, said, sort of incredulously, "HOW do you lose your yearbooks?"
"Well," I said, "let me TELL you how: you put all of your high school and college things into a shared storage space with your wife... then you break up with her... and you send her money to help pay for the storage, which she doesn't keep up on... and the next thing you know, they're cleaning out the space and your stuff is gone."
Before Sherri could even say "Awwww..." (I could tell she felt bad, but she's not really an AWWWW type!), Sally, another of our classmates, said "You know, they sell copies of our yearbook at Bedford Street Antiques downtown."
"Really?"
"Yeah. They're only, like, twenty-five bucks. They have all different years. My mom was class of '49 and we got hers there. But, yeah, they have both our junior and senior yearbooks there... around twenty-five bucks."
I didn't have time to get over to Bedford Street Antiques before they closed that afternoon, but I told my Mom and Dad about the shop, and asked them if they could go down and see...
... and today when I came home from work, there was a big padded white envelope stuck in my mailbox. I tore the top of the mailer open: a familiar book from 25 years ago...
1982 ORACLE, the green letters on the white cover read. My senior year high school yearbook... no signatures... pristine.
How fitting that I would get a clean copy of my long-lost senior yearbook back at a time when I'm preparing to move to a new state, to start a new life.
I feel like a 15-year-old curse has been lifted... that a cycle of darkness that began around the time of that phone call has come full circle and has finally ended.
Maybe next I'll get my hands on another moon globe.
Monday, August 20, 2007
Boxes, boxes, boxes
As I go through the rigor and ritual of packing up my apartment and making a big move, a monologue from Jerry Seinfeld keeps rolling through my mind:
"When you're moving your whole world becomes boxes. That's all you think about is boxes. 'Boxes, where are there boxes?' You just wander down the street going in and out of stores. 'Are there boxes here? Have you seen any boxes?' I mean it's all you think about. You can't even talk to people because you can't concentrate. 'Shut up! I'm looking for boxes!'
"After a while you become like you can smell them. You walk into a store: 'There's boxes here. Don't tell me you don't have boxes! Dammit, I can SMELL them!...'
"You could be at a funeral. Everyone's mourning crying around, and you're looking at the casket: 'Hmmmm... that's a nice box... Does anyone know where that guy got that box? When he's done with it do you think I could get that? It's got some nice handles on it...'
"And that's what death is really. It's the last big move of your life. The hearse is like the van. The pallbearers are your close friends... the only ones you could ask to help you with a big move like that. And the casket is that one perfect box you've been waiting for your whole life!
"The only problem is: once you find it, you're in it."
"When you're moving your whole world becomes boxes. That's all you think about is boxes. 'Boxes, where are there boxes?' You just wander down the street going in and out of stores. 'Are there boxes here? Have you seen any boxes?' I mean it's all you think about. You can't even talk to people because you can't concentrate. 'Shut up! I'm looking for boxes!'
"After a while you become like you can smell them. You walk into a store: 'There's boxes here. Don't tell me you don't have boxes! Dammit, I can SMELL them!...'
"You could be at a funeral. Everyone's mourning crying around, and you're looking at the casket: 'Hmmmm... that's a nice box... Does anyone know where that guy got that box? When he's done with it do you think I could get that? It's got some nice handles on it...'
"And that's what death is really. It's the last big move of your life. The hearse is like the van. The pallbearers are your close friends... the only ones you could ask to help you with a big move like that. And the casket is that one perfect box you've been waiting for your whole life!
"The only problem is: once you find it, you're in it."
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Pitching and Hitting 101: Mick and Spaceman
Two of my favorite stories from Ken Burns' marathon BASEBALL series are the following, from Mickey Mantle and Bill Lee.
Mantle was talking about sitting next to Ted Williams at an all-star game, "and he started talkin' to me about hitting... and he's wantin' to know if I used my bottom hand when I'm hittin' lefthanded... do I pull the bat with this hand or guide it with this one... which is your strong hand... and he's tellin' me all this stuff about hittin'... and after I left the all-star game I went 0-for-30 or something like that, because I was trying to think of things that he told me to do."
And when asked "What is your best pitch?" Lee's response was as follows:
"My best pitch is a strike... a sinking fastball, which you grip like this (grips ball with first two fingers between seams) so you get only two seams into it, and then if you turn your hand a little bit like this (turns his wrist out slightly) the wind pushes here (points to seam on front of ball) and forces it down and away from a righthanded hitter. Thereby he thinks it's a good pitch, but at the last minute it sinks, he hits the top half of the ball and hits a grounder to Burleson, Burleson picks it up, throws it to Yastrzemski, one away.
"You do that 27 times in a ballgame and make perfect sinkers, you'll get 27 outs... unless the hitters are smart, and then what they do... they know it's a sinker, so they get up and they drive the ball to right-centerfield, between Lynn and Evans, and that's called a double... and then the pitcher has to run behind third base and back it up... and hopefully they get the guy out at third, or it's a triple... and then you've got a runner at third and less than two outs... so they bring the infield in, and you don't want them to hit a sinker now... you gotta strike 'em out... so then you go to a cross-seam fastball.
"Which I don't have."
Mantle was talking about sitting next to Ted Williams at an all-star game, "and he started talkin' to me about hitting... and he's wantin' to know if I used my bottom hand when I'm hittin' lefthanded... do I pull the bat with this hand or guide it with this one... which is your strong hand... and he's tellin' me all this stuff about hittin'... and after I left the all-star game I went 0-for-30 or something like that, because I was trying to think of things that he told me to do."
And when asked "What is your best pitch?" Lee's response was as follows:
"My best pitch is a strike... a sinking fastball, which you grip like this (grips ball with first two fingers between seams) so you get only two seams into it, and then if you turn your hand a little bit like this (turns his wrist out slightly) the wind pushes here (points to seam on front of ball) and forces it down and away from a righthanded hitter. Thereby he thinks it's a good pitch, but at the last minute it sinks, he hits the top half of the ball and hits a grounder to Burleson, Burleson picks it up, throws it to Yastrzemski, one away.
"You do that 27 times in a ballgame and make perfect sinkers, you'll get 27 outs... unless the hitters are smart, and then what they do... they know it's a sinker, so they get up and they drive the ball to right-centerfield, between Lynn and Evans, and that's called a double... and then the pitcher has to run behind third base and back it up... and hopefully they get the guy out at third, or it's a triple... and then you've got a runner at third and less than two outs... so they bring the infield in, and you don't want them to hit a sinker now... you gotta strike 'em out... so then you go to a cross-seam fastball.
"Which I don't have."
Spamnation
My email provider (AOL), like most, has spam filters, and potentially useless messages get shunted into a separate folder, segregated from my "legitimate" mail, ostensibly, I suppose, so that an infection doesn't spread. I learned early on that, every so often, it's a good idea to check that spam folder to make sure that nothing I really want to read has gotten routed to the wrong folder, which is what I did first thing this morning.
There were six messages in my SPAM FOLDER. Because of column widths, I couldn't read the entire subject lines of these messages (not that I needed to: it's usually a good bet that messages from email addresses like jufuikl69 and Yourci alis! can just get tossed), so only the first few words of each subject line were visible. I didn't expand the width of the subject field, so all I saw was the first few words of each subject line... to wit:
SEXUALLY EXPLICIT
SEXUALLY EXPLICIT
Don't worry, be happy!
Don't worry, be happy!
SEXUALLY EXPLICIT
Don't worry, be happy!
There's something in there, but I'm a novelist, not a poet.
There were six messages in my SPAM FOLDER. Because of column widths, I couldn't read the entire subject lines of these messages (not that I needed to: it's usually a good bet that messages from email addresses like jufuikl69 and Yourci alis! can just get tossed), so only the first few words of each subject line were visible. I didn't expand the width of the subject field, so all I saw was the first few words of each subject line... to wit:
SEXUALLY EXPLICIT
SEXUALLY EXPLICIT
Don't worry, be happy!
Don't worry, be happy!
SEXUALLY EXPLICIT
Don't worry, be happy!
There's something in there, but I'm a novelist, not a poet.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Another sign of autumn in August...
... potted Mums for sale outside the supermarket. And in very fall-ish colors, too... burnt oranges and deep cranberry reds.
The humidity is hanging in the air for the moment, but fall's on its way...
The humidity is hanging in the air for the moment, but fall's on its way...
AOL Welcome Screen Headline Of The Week
for week ending August 17, 2007:
California Squirrels Heat Tails for Defense
California Squirrels Heat Tails for Defense
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Seeds of a friend
It's tempting, when you feel yourself connecting to a friend, to want to sustain and maintain that connection by whatever means possible. For me, a computer-savvy writing geek, this means email... and now that I have taken the plunge and gotten a cell phone, it also means text messaging. (Even with a cell phone, I find that I'm not that much of a phone person.)
I want to be in touch with friends, hear from them, let them know I'm thinking of them. So... what I do to let them know I'm thinking of them (and I want them to think of ME) is: I send emails. (I DON'T, however, FWD: FWD: FWD: jokes, links, pictures, etc. Even I have my limits.)
Unfortunately, I have a tendency to get carried away at times. This hit home this morning when I looked at the SENT ITEMS list in my AOL and saw that, yesterday, I sent SIX EMAILS to one of my friends. (And one text, too... so that's seven messages.) Granted, some of those were in response to emails SHE sent ME, so it wasn't a monologue... but they all sprung from the same place: me saying I MISS YOU, I NEED TO CONNECT, WHERE ARE YOU?
My intentions are good, but I've always had the uncomfortable feeling that maybe I write just a little too much...
I know exactly why I sent those six emails, too. This friend has been particularly supportive and insightful as I try to plot out my next step in my life. I want and need her energy in my life. Moving to Vermont and taking the step away from the familiar is exciting and scary. I know I can do it, but the forces of darkness are familiar and frightening. The last thing I want to have happen is to fall back on old ways that don't work. In a lot of ways, the next few weeks and months will be a test, for me, of my belief that I can make my life the way I want it to be, that I don't have to be resigned to circumstance, fearful, living a life ruled by worry.
And since this particular friend is "on the same level as me" (her words) and has been encouraging me in my move north, naturally I want to hear more, want to make contact, want to reach out.
More than "want," though. Like I said: "want and need." I realize this, and I fear that sometimes my emails and messages to friends sound like Bill Murray in What About Bob? when he throws himself around Richard Dreyfuss's psychiatrist character and screams "GIVE me, GIVE me, GIVE me... I NEED, I NEED, I NEED!!!"
Of course, my friend wants to be there for me. It's hard for me to remember that when I'm longing to make or keep contact, but she has a life: her family and house and broken dishwasher and meetings and stresses and concerns and OTHER friends. More than that, she has HER needs that need to be taken care of, HER friends who SHE connects with... people that she wants and needs to hear back from, because their faith in her resonates where she needs it most... the way that hers in me resonates where I need it.
It's that resonation that I'm thinking about lately. I'm coming to realize that sometimes, with this friend and my other close friends, no matter how much I want to cling and chat and write and connect and make contact, maybe the best thing to do is to let it be: to take the seeds of my friends' faith in me and love for me into my heart and let that seed grow. The constant reaching out and TRYING to make contact in hopes of getting something back is really the equivalent of pulling out those seeds.
And if I keep pulling them out, checking on them, toying with them, then how can they grow?
Just a thought that I probably should have written in my journal, but as I've learned, if I'm thinking it and need to remind myself of it, then probably someone else is, too. And so we all move forward...
I want to be in touch with friends, hear from them, let them know I'm thinking of them. So... what I do to let them know I'm thinking of them (and I want them to think of ME) is: I send emails. (I DON'T, however, FWD: FWD: FWD: jokes, links, pictures, etc. Even I have my limits.)
Unfortunately, I have a tendency to get carried away at times. This hit home this morning when I looked at the SENT ITEMS list in my AOL and saw that, yesterday, I sent SIX EMAILS to one of my friends. (And one text, too... so that's seven messages.) Granted, some of those were in response to emails SHE sent ME, so it wasn't a monologue... but they all sprung from the same place: me saying I MISS YOU, I NEED TO CONNECT, WHERE ARE YOU?
My intentions are good, but I've always had the uncomfortable feeling that maybe I write just a little too much...
I know exactly why I sent those six emails, too. This friend has been particularly supportive and insightful as I try to plot out my next step in my life. I want and need her energy in my life. Moving to Vermont and taking the step away from the familiar is exciting and scary. I know I can do it, but the forces of darkness are familiar and frightening. The last thing I want to have happen is to fall back on old ways that don't work. In a lot of ways, the next few weeks and months will be a test, for me, of my belief that I can make my life the way I want it to be, that I don't have to be resigned to circumstance, fearful, living a life ruled by worry.
And since this particular friend is "on the same level as me" (her words) and has been encouraging me in my move north, naturally I want to hear more, want to make contact, want to reach out.
More than "want," though. Like I said: "want and need." I realize this, and I fear that sometimes my emails and messages to friends sound like Bill Murray in What About Bob? when he throws himself around Richard Dreyfuss's psychiatrist character and screams "GIVE me, GIVE me, GIVE me... I NEED, I NEED, I NEED!!!"
Of course, my friend wants to be there for me. It's hard for me to remember that when I'm longing to make or keep contact, but she has a life: her family and house and broken dishwasher and meetings and stresses and concerns and OTHER friends. More than that, she has HER needs that need to be taken care of, HER friends who SHE connects with... people that she wants and needs to hear back from, because their faith in her resonates where she needs it most... the way that hers in me resonates where I need it.
It's that resonation that I'm thinking about lately. I'm coming to realize that sometimes, with this friend and my other close friends, no matter how much I want to cling and chat and write and connect and make contact, maybe the best thing to do is to let it be: to take the seeds of my friends' faith in me and love for me into my heart and let that seed grow. The constant reaching out and TRYING to make contact in hopes of getting something back is really the equivalent of pulling out those seeds.
And if I keep pulling them out, checking on them, toying with them, then how can they grow?
Just a thought that I probably should have written in my journal, but as I've learned, if I'm thinking it and need to remind myself of it, then probably someone else is, too. And so we all move forward...
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
Reunited
If anyone had told me, back in high school, that I would take not only such an interest, but such a large role in ORGANIZING, my class reunion, I would have referred them to the lyrics of a song by my punk band, the Morones. A high school friend of mine (Greg) and I started the group as a joke, but, looking back now, the lyrics of some of our songs were spot on emotionally, even if some of the words were just cranked out to complete a couplet:
The time you waste is really a shame
I dig that girl but what's her name?
High school, high school
Gym class first period's a bore
Research paper teacher's a whore
High school, high school
Sittin' in study hall, nothin' to do
Duck behind the Coke machine, sniff some glue
High school, high school
Girls are really down on their luck
Win or lose, either way you're stuck
High school, high school
Try to get into a party for teens
They won't let me in! I'm wearin' jeans!
High school, high school
If I ever get outta this place
Gonna spit right in the principal's face
High school, high school
Exercise in futility!
High school, high school
It's a track worthy of one of those NUGGETS garage band compilations, if only because the feeling is so REAL. I wasn't a "punk" by any means (if anything, I was a Writer Geek), but "High School" reflected the way I felt about being stuck there. Could... not... wait... for... graduation. I spent the time feeling mostly like Charles in M*A*S*H, when they asked him what he'd remember most about his time in Korea:
"No memories. I blot it out... as it happens!"
It was four years of watching girls I wanted dating guys I hated, sitting in classes staring at my notebook or at the clock, feeling dispassionate about required work and required schedules... all of it typified by waiting for the bell... waiting for the bell... waiting for the bell.
It wasn't ALL bad: I had my writing; I was on the school paper; I played drums in band... but I always felt on the outside looking in. My friends and I seldom if ever got the girl (one friend's mother, in a horrifying overheard phone call, told another mother that her son's friends were "Boys who don't like girls." To which my friend Greg said "WE like them fine. That's not the problem!").
Worst of all, although it seemed like a good idea at the time, I divvied up my senior year between two schools (Carlisle High School in the morning, and the Harrisburg Arts Magnet School in the afternoon), which made me feel like a boy without a country.
Typical memory: I spent my senior prom night at the college snack bar scarfing down ice cream with my best friend Doug while the girl I would have asked if all was right with the universe went with... someone else. A football player and wrestler. I just didn't measure up.
Sigh.
Anyway, again, it's amazing to me that the 17-year-old kid who shouted out his adolescent frustration on "High School" grew up to take any interest at ALL in his recent 25th high school reunion weekend.
But I did; further, as I wrote above, I actually got involved ORGANIZING it.
For those of you who want to run screaming for safety when you hear the phrase High school reunion, I just have to say this: your fears are well-founded. And yet... and yet...
First of all, going to a reunion and seeing old friends, old enemies, old flames, old crushes... it's remarkably LIBERATING. Six years ago, I went out on a limb and, out of curiosity, decided to contact Cris, the girl for whom I would have mortgaged several stars at age 17-18. I sent a letter to her college alumni office, and a few weeks later, heard from her: she was married, living near DC, with two kids, one a recent arrival. We emailed back and forth and then met each other at our 20th reunion in 2001.
Unlike 12th grade, when the thought of Her With A Capital H being with Someone Else, Especially That Football Player made my blood boil with jealousy, meeting Cris and her husband at our 20th reunion felt (again, I can't avoid the word) LIBERATING. I'd carried not only curiosity about her, but the remnants of that high school crush, for 18 years or so... but now I knew: she was alive, healthy and happy.
Further, we had a shared past, and, freed of my teenaged longing, I found a FRIENDSHIP with someone I could relate to, laugh with, and commiserate with. And in her husband, I found yet another happy surprise: someone I liked and connected with almost instantly, because he was the love of my friend's life. He made her feel happy and whole. How couldn't I like him?
So... Cris and I reconnected at our 20th reunion, stayed in touch, and then, as our 25th rolled around, started planning for that one: first by forming a Yahoo group for our classmates; then by (haha) letting someone else do the heavy lifting for the reunion dinner and dance while we teamed up to plan the reunion picnic, a much more low-key get-together.
Last weekend was the reunion. Cris came up on her own on Friday evening, sans husband and kids (they made the trip north on Saturday). Friday night's event was a meet and greet at a pub in Carlisle. When we met, she said exactly what I was thinking:
"Do you want to go to this?"
I did and I didn't. I was worried that it'd be lame; that we'd just feel awkward and trapped and old and fat and stammery and uncool... and by the time we pulled up in the parking lot of the pub, it was almost 8:30... two hours past the start time. "I bet there's not even anyone there," I said as she shut off the engine of her minivan.
"You think we should go in?" Cris asked.
The minivan was quiet.
"We'll go in," I said at last, "and if it's lame, we'll just go over to Walmart and buy things for the picnic."
"Yeah," Cris said. "Picnic stuff."
And with that, she opened her door, and I opened mine, and we got out of the van and walked to the door of the pub... and our reunion weekend started as soon as Cris saw someone she knew from 25 years earlier and, shrieking happily, fell into her arms with a hug.
The rest of the weekend was more of the same. I probably summed it up best in a post on the class Yahoo group board:
Was it just me, or did anyone else...
...sort of dread the whole thing, starting with the "meet and greet" on Friday night? (Did anyone else say to themselves beforehand O.K., I'll go check it out, but if it's lame, I'll just exit quietly and then find, three hours later, that you didn't want to leave?)
...find that when you looked at classmates from a distance, you were thinking "Who IS that?" But then, up close, when you zeroed in on someone's face (their eyes) and started talking, they suddenly looked "the same as ever"?
...connect with at least one person (and probably more) whom you didn't know at ALL in high school, and not just connect with, but connect with like they were one of your oldest, best friends?
...have at least one person (and probably more) come up to you and greet you BY NAME, like the old friend they were, but WITHOUT WEARING A NAME TAG, and the whole time you're thinking Omigod...who IS this???? But you just couldn't say Uhhhhh... excuse me... I know you know ME, but... WHO ARE YOU???
...want to take the DJ aside and say "WE DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE GOING TO GO SEE FOREIGNER AT HERSHEYPARK THIS WEEKEND. COULD YOU PLEASE TURN IT DOWN SO WE CAN TALK???"
...find that one of the best parts of the weekend was seeing everyone with their FAMILIES and meeting their wives-husbands (and, at the picnic, their kids)?
...take a look at at least one picture of themselves on the screen of someone's digital camera and say "O.K... delete that one."
...feel like you were THE ONLY ONE who would feel awkward, old, out-of-place, etc etc etc.
Really, it was great seeing everyone. I only wish that I'd had more time... wish I'd asked more questions, conversed more... There never seems to be enough time...
Reconnecting with these people from my past makes me feel like NOW is all right. Like letting go of my decades-old crush, I dropped the illusions, the ideals, the fears, and found a group of people who were right there with me, right now, coming from where I was, feeling what I was feeling.
Maybe some people like to hold onto old crushes, but I like new friendships better.
Best moments of the weekend for me:
* Having breakfast with Cris at the Hamilton, the best restaurant in Carlisle, and talking about our lives and my move to Vermont and my brother and her sisters and our parents and her husband and my work and her kids and everything... then sharing the book English As A Second F*cking Language with her, watching as she laughed, and walking out of the restaurant, down the street to her van, cracking each other up with stupid jokes.
* Seeing John at the Meet And Greet. John was a wiry, small kid in high school with long blonde hair... at age 17. John was a big, strapping, barrel-chested MAN with short-trimmed blonde hair at age 43. I didn't recognize him at first; when someone pointed him out to me, I said "No, that's not John..." But as soon as I walked up and introduced myself, and started talking to him... like I said above, when I looked at his face, focussed in on his eyes, there he was: the old John.
* Having Sylvia, another classmate, approach me at the picnic and tell me that she didn't recognize ME at first, "but when I looked at your picture in the yearbook and saw that same smile, I knew it was you."
* Cris calling me on Saturday night, nervous that we hadn't quite finished shopping for the picnic yet, and there her family was, on the way.
"We'd better get it done today, because tomorrow," she added affectionately, "the Time Suckers will be here."
And then, later that evening, meeting her family. I already knew Cris's husband, of course, but I'd never met her 12-year-old daughter or 5-year-old son. Seeing them all together made the picture whole. It was fun reconnecting with him (we sat at the dinner-dance while the DJ played his awful Club Mix TOO LOUD, shouting at each other about music: him, Squeeze and Zappa; me, Brian Wilson and Merle Haggard) but even better was watching him and Cris together, seeing them fill in each other and pick up each other and FIT TOGETHER.
As I told her in an email, I'm happy for her and proud of her (and a little protective, too). Like a sister, really.
* One more Cris moment: While we were wandering up and down the aisles at the Carlisle Walmart, hunting down balloons and paper product for the picnic, I found myself needing a nap... needing to get away. This is driving me a little nuts, I thought, and then, surprisingly, God love Cris, but SHE'S driving me a little nuts.
And just as I thought that, Cris said "Probably about now you're thinking 'O.K.... I can't wait to hand her off to her husband."
I laughed. "You know how they say about grandparents that the best part of having grandkids is that they're not yours, and you can hand them off to their parents when you get sick of them? Well..."
* Our class's tour of the high school, where one of our classmates (Sherri, who is herself a teacher) almost gave the CHS assistant principal-tourguide a heart attack when she wrote on a Smart Board with a dry erase marker.
Again, from my post to the Yahoo group...
Something about the tour that I keep thinking about:
There we all were... 42, 43, 44 years old, all of us CHS 82ers... some of the spouses maybe younger, maybe older... but we're all ADULTS.
Meanwhile, there this assistant principal was, who was probably in middle school when we were seniors. I'm pretty sure we were all older than he was. At the very least, we were his PEERS... all adults.
So: WHY DID I FEEL LIKE HE WAS GOING TO YELL AT ME OR SCOLD ME????
I wanted to make sure I didn't put my feet up on anything, didn't go through the wrong door, didn't go to the water fountain without permission. Yeesh.
Before the tour started, Shelly asked me "Do you want a stick of gum?" and I took the pack from her, and then caught the assistant principal out of the corner of my eye, and actually thought Do you think he'll LET ME CHEW GUM???
On the other hand, if Sherri didn't become the first GRADUATE to get assigned detention on a school tour, I'm sure we were all safe.
Still... it was funny, the way I felt going back into the school with this "authority figure" who was probably at least five years younger than me.
A principal, I suppose, is always a principal.
* A classmate, Abby, approaching me on Friday night and telling me that she had one of my Grandma's paintings in her house. My grandma painted on wallboard scraps that my Grandpa cut for her at the lumber yard: country scenes, usually... barns and mountains and shaded country roads and landscapes. Apparently, Abby's father (a teacher) got this painting from Grandma in the '60s and handed it off to his daughter when he had his house renovated. "I can bring it and show it to you tomorrow if you want," she told me, and I kind of forgot about it...
...until Saturday, when she came up to me at the dance. "I have that painting in the car, if you want to take a look at it."
It was overwhelming, holding one of my Grandma's works that I'd never seen before. It was really like holding a lost part of my grandparents: her paint and scenery; his wallboard scrap. Another piece of my past, surprisingly reconciled. Wow.
My only regret is that I was so overwhelmed (the painting on top of the reunion!) that I didn't really feel like I paid sufficient attention to the woman who'd brought the painting. I left that evening feeling bad that I didn't converse with her more, ask her more questions.
I'm sorry, Abby.
Anyway, after all that...
The capping moment of the weekend was the picnic on Sunday. It went off perfectly: Cris and I provided a hot grill, cold drinks and a venue, and the attendees and their families took care of the rest. We had a water balloon toss and all enjoyed each others' company for a few last hours before we posed for final group pictures and hit the road. Cris packed a few things in her van and told me she'd be back in a few minutes to help me finish cleaning up. I tossed out trash, gathered a few things into my car, and, just as I sat down to relax and listen to the end of the Orioles game...
... a motorcycle pulled up in the lot, with a man and a woman on it. He took off his helmet and sauntered over to the table with the woman (his daughter). "Max Shenk!" he called out, recognizing me after 25 years, even without a name tag.
Who are you? Good God, please introduce yourself, I thought.
"Hey, there," I said, and I apologized. The picnic had broken up, but he and his daughter could have a Coke. They sat down across the picnic table from me and sipped their Cokes. "We had a family reunion in Williamsport today," he said, "or else we would have made it sooner."
Williamsport. A two-and-a-half hour ride up rt 11-15 from Carlisle. On a motorcycle. Riding with his daughter. In 90 degree heat.
Now I really felt bad.
And worst of all, I couldn't remember his name... his first name... Lebo... Lebo... he was a Lebo... but which one? Lebos in Carlisle are like Stoltzfusses in Amish Country... Denny? Tom? Dan?
Please just say your name.
As I sat there reaching for any words, any, except the ones I wanted to say ("I'm sorry... I know you remember me, and I remember your face and your voice... but what's your name??!!"), I saw Cris's maroon minivan pull into the lot.
Saved, I thought as she strolled through the grass...
"Hi," she said to our last two picnickers, and the small talk continued.
The whole time he and his daughter talked, I could feel Cris looking at me, expectantly, and I knew just what she was thinking, because I was thinking it too. Finally, they finished their Cokes; we shook hands and said goodbye; I apologized one more time for them missing the picnic, and said I hoped they made it to the next one, and they walked over, mounted their bike, and rode off.
And Cris and I finally said what we were thinking:
"I kept waiting for you to introduce me so I'd know his name," she said.
"I kept waiting for YOU to introduce YOURSELF so he'd tell YOU his name and then we'd BOTH know who he was," I replied.
And we walked to her van and hugged goodbye while her daughter sat waiting impatiently for her Mom in the shotgun seat, a notebook in her lap.
(Cris said "Oh, she carries a notebook everywhere." I've got news for you, Cris: at that age, I did, too.)
(She's already a writer. Watch out.)
"Well," Cris giggled as she got into her van, "see you in five years!"
And I walked back to my car, and she drove off, back to Virginia and her life.
By the way, "Gary" was the motorcycle guy's name. I remember him from high school. Gary Lebo. One of those people I felt an inexplicable connection to back then. I didn't get it or question it; he was in a couple of classes of mine and I met him and just liked him.
Same as with Cris and so many others from two-and-a-half decades ago. Who knows why?
Maybe I knew back then that someday our paths would cross again... our pasts merging with our futures... our old illusions dissolving into new friendships... all of us looking for something in each other.
Mainly, though, just hoping to see each other again.
NOTE: If you want to hear the track "High School," email me --maxshenkwrites@aol.com-- and I'll send you the MP3 file!
The time you waste is really a shame
I dig that girl but what's her name?
High school, high school
Gym class first period's a bore
Research paper teacher's a whore
High school, high school
Sittin' in study hall, nothin' to do
Duck behind the Coke machine, sniff some glue
High school, high school
Girls are really down on their luck
Win or lose, either way you're stuck
High school, high school
Try to get into a party for teens
They won't let me in! I'm wearin' jeans!
High school, high school
If I ever get outta this place
Gonna spit right in the principal's face
High school, high school
Exercise in futility!
High school, high school
It's a track worthy of one of those NUGGETS garage band compilations, if only because the feeling is so REAL. I wasn't a "punk" by any means (if anything, I was a Writer Geek), but "High School" reflected the way I felt about being stuck there. Could... not... wait... for... graduation. I spent the time feeling mostly like Charles in M*A*S*H, when they asked him what he'd remember most about his time in Korea:
"No memories. I blot it out... as it happens!"
It was four years of watching girls I wanted dating guys I hated, sitting in classes staring at my notebook or at the clock, feeling dispassionate about required work and required schedules... all of it typified by waiting for the bell... waiting for the bell... waiting for the bell.
It wasn't ALL bad: I had my writing; I was on the school paper; I played drums in band... but I always felt on the outside looking in. My friends and I seldom if ever got the girl (one friend's mother, in a horrifying overheard phone call, told another mother that her son's friends were "Boys who don't like girls." To which my friend Greg said "WE like them fine. That's not the problem!").
Worst of all, although it seemed like a good idea at the time, I divvied up my senior year between two schools (Carlisle High School in the morning, and the Harrisburg Arts Magnet School in the afternoon), which made me feel like a boy without a country.
Typical memory: I spent my senior prom night at the college snack bar scarfing down ice cream with my best friend Doug while the girl I would have asked if all was right with the universe went with... someone else. A football player and wrestler. I just didn't measure up.
Sigh.
Anyway, again, it's amazing to me that the 17-year-old kid who shouted out his adolescent frustration on "High School" grew up to take any interest at ALL in his recent 25th high school reunion weekend.
But I did; further, as I wrote above, I actually got involved ORGANIZING it.
For those of you who want to run screaming for safety when you hear the phrase High school reunion, I just have to say this: your fears are well-founded. And yet... and yet...
First of all, going to a reunion and seeing old friends, old enemies, old flames, old crushes... it's remarkably LIBERATING. Six years ago, I went out on a limb and, out of curiosity, decided to contact Cris, the girl for whom I would have mortgaged several stars at age 17-18. I sent a letter to her college alumni office, and a few weeks later, heard from her: she was married, living near DC, with two kids, one a recent arrival. We emailed back and forth and then met each other at our 20th reunion in 2001.
Unlike 12th grade, when the thought of Her With A Capital H being with Someone Else, Especially That Football Player made my blood boil with jealousy, meeting Cris and her husband at our 20th reunion felt (again, I can't avoid the word) LIBERATING. I'd carried not only curiosity about her, but the remnants of that high school crush, for 18 years or so... but now I knew: she was alive, healthy and happy.
Further, we had a shared past, and, freed of my teenaged longing, I found a FRIENDSHIP with someone I could relate to, laugh with, and commiserate with. And in her husband, I found yet another happy surprise: someone I liked and connected with almost instantly, because he was the love of my friend's life. He made her feel happy and whole. How couldn't I like him?
So... Cris and I reconnected at our 20th reunion, stayed in touch, and then, as our 25th rolled around, started planning for that one: first by forming a Yahoo group for our classmates; then by (haha) letting someone else do the heavy lifting for the reunion dinner and dance while we teamed up to plan the reunion picnic, a much more low-key get-together.
Last weekend was the reunion. Cris came up on her own on Friday evening, sans husband and kids (they made the trip north on Saturday). Friday night's event was a meet and greet at a pub in Carlisle. When we met, she said exactly what I was thinking:
"Do you want to go to this?"
I did and I didn't. I was worried that it'd be lame; that we'd just feel awkward and trapped and old and fat and stammery and uncool... and by the time we pulled up in the parking lot of the pub, it was almost 8:30... two hours past the start time. "I bet there's not even anyone there," I said as she shut off the engine of her minivan.
"You think we should go in?" Cris asked.
The minivan was quiet.
"We'll go in," I said at last, "and if it's lame, we'll just go over to Walmart and buy things for the picnic."
"Yeah," Cris said. "Picnic stuff."
And with that, she opened her door, and I opened mine, and we got out of the van and walked to the door of the pub... and our reunion weekend started as soon as Cris saw someone she knew from 25 years earlier and, shrieking happily, fell into her arms with a hug.
The rest of the weekend was more of the same. I probably summed it up best in a post on the class Yahoo group board:
Was it just me, or did anyone else...
...sort of dread the whole thing, starting with the "meet and greet" on Friday night? (Did anyone else say to themselves beforehand O.K., I'll go check it out, but if it's lame, I'll just exit quietly and then find, three hours later, that you didn't want to leave?)
...find that when you looked at classmates from a distance, you were thinking "Who IS that?" But then, up close, when you zeroed in on someone's face (their eyes) and started talking, they suddenly looked "the same as ever"?
...connect with at least one person (and probably more) whom you didn't know at ALL in high school, and not just connect with, but connect with like they were one of your oldest, best friends?
...have at least one person (and probably more) come up to you and greet you BY NAME, like the old friend they were, but WITHOUT WEARING A NAME TAG, and the whole time you're thinking Omigod...who IS this???? But you just couldn't say Uhhhhh... excuse me... I know you know ME, but... WHO ARE YOU???
...want to take the DJ aside and say "WE DON'T CARE IF YOU'RE GOING TO GO SEE FOREIGNER AT HERSHEYPARK THIS WEEKEND. COULD YOU PLEASE TURN IT DOWN SO WE CAN TALK???"
...find that one of the best parts of the weekend was seeing everyone with their FAMILIES and meeting their wives-husbands (and, at the picnic, their kids)?
...take a look at at least one picture of themselves on the screen of someone's digital camera and say "O.K... delete that one."
...feel like you were THE ONLY ONE who would feel awkward, old, out-of-place, etc etc etc.
Really, it was great seeing everyone. I only wish that I'd had more time... wish I'd asked more questions, conversed more... There never seems to be enough time...
Reconnecting with these people from my past makes me feel like NOW is all right. Like letting go of my decades-old crush, I dropped the illusions, the ideals, the fears, and found a group of people who were right there with me, right now, coming from where I was, feeling what I was feeling.
Maybe some people like to hold onto old crushes, but I like new friendships better.
Best moments of the weekend for me:
* Having breakfast with Cris at the Hamilton, the best restaurant in Carlisle, and talking about our lives and my move to Vermont and my brother and her sisters and our parents and her husband and my work and her kids and everything... then sharing the book English As A Second F*cking Language with her, watching as she laughed, and walking out of the restaurant, down the street to her van, cracking each other up with stupid jokes.
* Seeing John at the Meet And Greet. John was a wiry, small kid in high school with long blonde hair... at age 17. John was a big, strapping, barrel-chested MAN with short-trimmed blonde hair at age 43. I didn't recognize him at first; when someone pointed him out to me, I said "No, that's not John..." But as soon as I walked up and introduced myself, and started talking to him... like I said above, when I looked at his face, focussed in on his eyes, there he was: the old John.
* Having Sylvia, another classmate, approach me at the picnic and tell me that she didn't recognize ME at first, "but when I looked at your picture in the yearbook and saw that same smile, I knew it was you."
* Cris calling me on Saturday night, nervous that we hadn't quite finished shopping for the picnic yet, and there her family was, on the way.
"We'd better get it done today, because tomorrow," she added affectionately, "the Time Suckers will be here."
And then, later that evening, meeting her family. I already knew Cris's husband, of course, but I'd never met her 12-year-old daughter or 5-year-old son. Seeing them all together made the picture whole. It was fun reconnecting with him (we sat at the dinner-dance while the DJ played his awful Club Mix TOO LOUD, shouting at each other about music: him, Squeeze and Zappa; me, Brian Wilson and Merle Haggard) but even better was watching him and Cris together, seeing them fill in each other and pick up each other and FIT TOGETHER.
As I told her in an email, I'm happy for her and proud of her (and a little protective, too). Like a sister, really.
* One more Cris moment: While we were wandering up and down the aisles at the Carlisle Walmart, hunting down balloons and paper product for the picnic, I found myself needing a nap... needing to get away. This is driving me a little nuts, I thought, and then, surprisingly, God love Cris, but SHE'S driving me a little nuts.
And just as I thought that, Cris said "Probably about now you're thinking 'O.K.... I can't wait to hand her off to her husband."
I laughed. "You know how they say about grandparents that the best part of having grandkids is that they're not yours, and you can hand them off to their parents when you get sick of them? Well..."
* Our class's tour of the high school, where one of our classmates (Sherri, who is herself a teacher) almost gave the CHS assistant principal-tourguide a heart attack when she wrote on a Smart Board with a dry erase marker.
Again, from my post to the Yahoo group...
Something about the tour that I keep thinking about:
There we all were... 42, 43, 44 years old, all of us CHS 82ers... some of the spouses maybe younger, maybe older... but we're all ADULTS.
Meanwhile, there this assistant principal was, who was probably in middle school when we were seniors. I'm pretty sure we were all older than he was. At the very least, we were his PEERS... all adults.
So: WHY DID I FEEL LIKE HE WAS GOING TO YELL AT ME OR SCOLD ME????
I wanted to make sure I didn't put my feet up on anything, didn't go through the wrong door, didn't go to the water fountain without permission. Yeesh.
Before the tour started, Shelly asked me "Do you want a stick of gum?" and I took the pack from her, and then caught the assistant principal out of the corner of my eye, and actually thought Do you think he'll LET ME CHEW GUM???
On the other hand, if Sherri didn't become the first GRADUATE to get assigned detention on a school tour, I'm sure we were all safe.
Still... it was funny, the way I felt going back into the school with this "authority figure" who was probably at least five years younger than me.
A principal, I suppose, is always a principal.
* A classmate, Abby, approaching me on Friday night and telling me that she had one of my Grandma's paintings in her house. My grandma painted on wallboard scraps that my Grandpa cut for her at the lumber yard: country scenes, usually... barns and mountains and shaded country roads and landscapes. Apparently, Abby's father (a teacher) got this painting from Grandma in the '60s and handed it off to his daughter when he had his house renovated. "I can bring it and show it to you tomorrow if you want," she told me, and I kind of forgot about it...
...until Saturday, when she came up to me at the dance. "I have that painting in the car, if you want to take a look at it."
It was overwhelming, holding one of my Grandma's works that I'd never seen before. It was really like holding a lost part of my grandparents: her paint and scenery; his wallboard scrap. Another piece of my past, surprisingly reconciled. Wow.
My only regret is that I was so overwhelmed (the painting on top of the reunion!) that I didn't really feel like I paid sufficient attention to the woman who'd brought the painting. I left that evening feeling bad that I didn't converse with her more, ask her more questions.
I'm sorry, Abby.
Anyway, after all that...
The capping moment of the weekend was the picnic on Sunday. It went off perfectly: Cris and I provided a hot grill, cold drinks and a venue, and the attendees and their families took care of the rest. We had a water balloon toss and all enjoyed each others' company for a few last hours before we posed for final group pictures and hit the road. Cris packed a few things in her van and told me she'd be back in a few minutes to help me finish cleaning up. I tossed out trash, gathered a few things into my car, and, just as I sat down to relax and listen to the end of the Orioles game...
... a motorcycle pulled up in the lot, with a man and a woman on it. He took off his helmet and sauntered over to the table with the woman (his daughter). "Max Shenk!" he called out, recognizing me after 25 years, even without a name tag.
Who are you? Good God, please introduce yourself, I thought.
"Hey, there," I said, and I apologized. The picnic had broken up, but he and his daughter could have a Coke. They sat down across the picnic table from me and sipped their Cokes. "We had a family reunion in Williamsport today," he said, "or else we would have made it sooner."
Williamsport. A two-and-a-half hour ride up rt 11-15 from Carlisle. On a motorcycle. Riding with his daughter. In 90 degree heat.
Now I really felt bad.
And worst of all, I couldn't remember his name... his first name... Lebo... Lebo... he was a Lebo... but which one? Lebos in Carlisle are like Stoltzfusses in Amish Country... Denny? Tom? Dan?
Please just say your name.
As I sat there reaching for any words, any, except the ones I wanted to say ("I'm sorry... I know you remember me, and I remember your face and your voice... but what's your name??!!"), I saw Cris's maroon minivan pull into the lot.
Saved, I thought as she strolled through the grass...
"Hi," she said to our last two picnickers, and the small talk continued.
The whole time he and his daughter talked, I could feel Cris looking at me, expectantly, and I knew just what she was thinking, because I was thinking it too. Finally, they finished their Cokes; we shook hands and said goodbye; I apologized one more time for them missing the picnic, and said I hoped they made it to the next one, and they walked over, mounted their bike, and rode off.
And Cris and I finally said what we were thinking:
"I kept waiting for you to introduce me so I'd know his name," she said.
"I kept waiting for YOU to introduce YOURSELF so he'd tell YOU his name and then we'd BOTH know who he was," I replied.
And we walked to her van and hugged goodbye while her daughter sat waiting impatiently for her Mom in the shotgun seat, a notebook in her lap.
(Cris said "Oh, she carries a notebook everywhere." I've got news for you, Cris: at that age, I did, too.)
(She's already a writer. Watch out.)
"Well," Cris giggled as she got into her van, "see you in five years!"
And I walked back to my car, and she drove off, back to Virginia and her life.
By the way, "Gary" was the motorcycle guy's name. I remember him from high school. Gary Lebo. One of those people I felt an inexplicable connection to back then. I didn't get it or question it; he was in a couple of classes of mine and I met him and just liked him.
Same as with Cris and so many others from two-and-a-half decades ago. Who knows why?
Maybe I knew back then that someday our paths would cross again... our pasts merging with our futures... our old illusions dissolving into new friendships... all of us looking for something in each other.
Mainly, though, just hoping to see each other again.
NOTE: If you want to hear the track "High School," email me --maxshenkwrites@aol.com-- and I'll send you the MP3 file!
Scooter
The story, paraphrased somewhat, is as follows:
When Phil Rizzuto and Bill White were both New York Yankees play-by-play men, they were broadcasting a game on a very windy day in "the stadium" (New York-centric aphorism for "Yankee Stadium" conceded JUST THIS ONCE...), and White's scorecard blew out of the front of the open radio booth. He worked an inning or two as the color guy, but then when he had to take over the play-by-play duties, he needed a scorecard... so he said "Hey, Scooter... can I take a look at yours."
"Sure, sure."
White said that under the names of two or three players in one inning, Rizzuto had written the notation WW. So White said, "Scooter, I know what the rest of this is... BB, SAC... but what's WW?"
"WW. 'Wasn't watching.'"
It's been a much-used, favorite scorecard notation of mine ever since.
A salute from this Orioles fan to the late Phil Rizzuto, Yankees Hall of Fame shortstop (I don't care what ANYONE says: the defensive geniuses belong in there too!) and, for many years, the voice of the Yankees on their radio and TV networks... a true original. Rest in peace, Scooter, you Huckleberry!
When Phil Rizzuto and Bill White were both New York Yankees play-by-play men, they were broadcasting a game on a very windy day in "the stadium" (New York-centric aphorism for "Yankee Stadium" conceded JUST THIS ONCE...), and White's scorecard blew out of the front of the open radio booth. He worked an inning or two as the color guy, but then when he had to take over the play-by-play duties, he needed a scorecard... so he said "Hey, Scooter... can I take a look at yours."
"Sure, sure."
White said that under the names of two or three players in one inning, Rizzuto had written the notation WW. So White said, "Scooter, I know what the rest of this is... BB, SAC... but what's WW?"
"WW. 'Wasn't watching.'"
It's been a much-used, favorite scorecard notation of mine ever since.
A salute from this Orioles fan to the late Phil Rizzuto, Yankees Hall of Fame shortstop (I don't care what ANYONE says: the defensive geniuses belong in there too!) and, for many years, the voice of the Yankees on their radio and TV networks... a true original. Rest in peace, Scooter, you Huckleberry!
Monday, August 13, 2007
A summer symphony
The sound of the Orioles game on the radio is a sound of summer... the sound of the two-year-old girl shrieking, laughing and playing in the neighbor's back yard, another... the song from the Mr. Softee truck as it comes down the street, yet another...
But the ballgame on the porch radio, with the sound of the little girl shrieking and laughing as she watches the Mr. Softee truck approach... that is aural heaven in August.
But the ballgame on the porch radio, with the sound of the little girl shrieking and laughing as she watches the Mr. Softee truck approach... that is aural heaven in August.
Friday, August 10, 2007
AOL Welcome Screen Headline Of The Week
Christopher Walken Cooks Chicken
Runners-up:
Have You Seen Albino Kangaroo?
and
See How 3 oz. of Fluid Can Explode
Runners-up:
Have You Seen Albino Kangaroo?
and
See How 3 oz. of Fluid Can Explode
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Barry Bonds and Baseball For Beginners
The question, posed in a thread called SPORTS on, of all places, the Beach Boys chat board I frequent, and posed by John K., from the Netherlands, a professed snooker aficionado, was simple enough:
What do you baseball fans think of Barry Bonds, who seems to have equalled some record? It appears that a whole bunch of people hate him. Why would they do that?
Anyone care to expand?
If ever I had an opportunity to write the antithesis of a "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus" letter, it was in response to this post.
I wrote the following in reply:
Keep in mind that Mark (one of the board's moderators), God love him, is a fan of the team that Barry plays for. I don't hold it against him any more than I hold it against Yankees fans for being the misguided souls that THEY are.
What ~ I ~ think of Barry Bonds is that he's a tragic figure. He was one of the game's best pure hitters early in his career. A great player in his early years with Pittsburgh and his first few years in San Francisco; by all accounts, a lock for the baseball Hall of Fame. Had he continued to play the game the way he had in the first ten years of his career, that would have been enough by any standard. He was great, unstoppable. I always had the utmost respect for him as a competitor. I never "hated" him; always feared him. He was a dangerous player, multifaceted, with great skills, natural speed, a great hitter... the "whole package," as a scout would probably say.
However...
Unfortunately, by all accounts and testimony, Bonds was "turned to the dark side" at around age 34, and started using performance enhancing drugs and supplements, reportedly out of extreme jealousy over all the attention that was beng lavished on some of the power hitters (Sammy Sosa, Mark McGwire) in the game. He undertook a regimen of steroid use expressly designed by those who supplied him with the drugs to "fly under the radar" of the random drug tests implemented by the sport. He testified that he "never knowingly" used steroids. People who are convinced that he DID use them (me among them) point to the radical change in his body and inexplicable spike in his stats (his performance improved at an age where his peers were almost all declining).
They also point to a book called GAME OF SHADOWS, which sadly lays out, count by count, a pretty scary, sad, sickening case against Bonds, most of it from grand jury testimony, none of it circumstantial or hearsay.
He's also pretty much of a jerk to the press and, worse, to the fans, the people to whom he is most beholden for paying his salary.
He seems to me to be the antithesis of what Cal Ripken spoke of in his Hall induction speech when he said:
...When I realized that I could use baseball to help make life better especially for the kids, baseball became a platform. By trying to set a good example, I could help influence young people in positive and productive ways. And some of this became apparent to me in my earliest playing days. So as my major league career unfolded, I started playing a little more attention to my actions. I remember when Kenny Singleton showed me a tape of me throwing my helmet down after a strikeout and all he said was, "How does that look?" I remember learning about a family who saved their money to come to Baltimore to see me play. I got thrown out in the first inning and their little boy cried the whole game. I remember how I reacted with anger when dad was fired after an oh and six start, and after each of those events and others, I vowed to act better the next time.
As the years passed, it became clear to me that kids see it all, and it's not just some of your actions that influence; it's all of them. Whether we like it or not as big leaguers, we are role models. The only question is will we be positive or will it be negative.
Should we put players up on a pedestal and require them to take responsibility? No. But we should encourage them to use their influence positively, to help build up and develop the young people who follow the game...
More than that, though, Bonds, to me, is symbolic of the sad state of professional sports in the USA right now. There are a lot of people who defend Bonds, and on this point, I agree with them: if he indeed took steroids or other performance enhancing drugs to amp up his records, he did so in an environment where baseball, if it didn't ENCOURAGE such behavior, certainly looked the other way while it happened. The gate receipts from record breaking home runs were what turned the owners and the game's "commissioner" to "the dark side." They ALL ought to be ashamed of themselves.
As one of my favorite baseball writers, the Baltimore SUN columnist Peter Schmuck, said in a recent column, "Sports fans want their games back. They want to talk about statistics, not steroids. They want to be able to turn on SportsCenter and not have to explain to a 10-year-old what it means to 'make it rain' at a strip club. They wish baseball didn't need a Mitchell investigation and football didn't need a Goodell doctrine."
Bonds, fairly or unfairly, right or wrong, guilty or innocent, has become the poster boy for this frustration. That he has been under this cloud of suspicion while striving to break the most hallowed record in baseball (Hank Aaron's career home run record) probably exacerbates it.
Still, as far as I can see, he and the powers that run baseball (the owners, the Players' Union, and the "Commissioner" of the game) brought it all on themselves. They deserve each other.
Got it, Netherlands?
What do you baseball fans think of Barry Bonds, who seems to have equalled some record? It appears that a whole bunch of people hate him. Why would they do that?
Anyone care to expand?
If ever I had an opportunity to write the antithesis of a "Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus" letter, it was in response to this post.
I wrote the following in reply:
Keep in mind that Mark (one of the board's moderators), God love him, is a fan of the team that Barry plays for. I don't hold it against him any more than I hold it against Yankees fans for being the misguided souls that THEY are.
What ~ I ~ think of Barry Bonds is that he's a tragic figure. He was one of the game's best pure hitters early in his career. A great player in his early years with Pittsburgh and his first few years in San Francisco; by all accounts, a lock for the baseball Hall of Fame. Had he continued to play the game the way he had in the first ten years of his career, that would have been enough by any standard. He was great, unstoppable. I always had the utmost respect for him as a competitor. I never "hated" him; always feared him. He was a dangerous player, multifaceted, with great skills, natural speed, a great hitter... the "whole package," as a scout would probably say.
However...
Unfortunately, by all accounts and testimony, Bonds was "turned to the dark side" at around age 34, and started using performance enhancing drugs and supplements, reportedly out of extreme jealousy over all the attention that was beng lavished on some of the power hitters (Sammy Sosa, Mark McGwire) in the game. He undertook a regimen of steroid use expressly designed by those who supplied him with the drugs to "fly under the radar" of the random drug tests implemented by the sport. He testified that he "never knowingly" used steroids. People who are convinced that he DID use them (me among them) point to the radical change in his body and inexplicable spike in his stats (his performance improved at an age where his peers were almost all declining).
They also point to a book called GAME OF SHADOWS, which sadly lays out, count by count, a pretty scary, sad, sickening case against Bonds, most of it from grand jury testimony, none of it circumstantial or hearsay.
He's also pretty much of a jerk to the press and, worse, to the fans, the people to whom he is most beholden for paying his salary.
He seems to me to be the antithesis of what Cal Ripken spoke of in his Hall induction speech when he said:
...When I realized that I could use baseball to help make life better especially for the kids, baseball became a platform. By trying to set a good example, I could help influence young people in positive and productive ways. And some of this became apparent to me in my earliest playing days. So as my major league career unfolded, I started playing a little more attention to my actions. I remember when Kenny Singleton showed me a tape of me throwing my helmet down after a strikeout and all he said was, "How does that look?" I remember learning about a family who saved their money to come to Baltimore to see me play. I got thrown out in the first inning and their little boy cried the whole game. I remember how I reacted with anger when dad was fired after an oh and six start, and after each of those events and others, I vowed to act better the next time.
As the years passed, it became clear to me that kids see it all, and it's not just some of your actions that influence; it's all of them. Whether we like it or not as big leaguers, we are role models. The only question is will we be positive or will it be negative.
Should we put players up on a pedestal and require them to take responsibility? No. But we should encourage them to use their influence positively, to help build up and develop the young people who follow the game...
More than that, though, Bonds, to me, is symbolic of the sad state of professional sports in the USA right now. There are a lot of people who defend Bonds, and on this point, I agree with them: if he indeed took steroids or other performance enhancing drugs to amp up his records, he did so in an environment where baseball, if it didn't ENCOURAGE such behavior, certainly looked the other way while it happened. The gate receipts from record breaking home runs were what turned the owners and the game's "commissioner" to "the dark side." They ALL ought to be ashamed of themselves.
As one of my favorite baseball writers, the Baltimore SUN columnist Peter Schmuck, said in a recent column, "Sports fans want their games back. They want to talk about statistics, not steroids. They want to be able to turn on SportsCenter and not have to explain to a 10-year-old what it means to 'make it rain' at a strip club. They wish baseball didn't need a Mitchell investigation and football didn't need a Goodell doctrine."
Bonds, fairly or unfairly, right or wrong, guilty or innocent, has become the poster boy for this frustration. That he has been under this cloud of suspicion while striving to break the most hallowed record in baseball (Hank Aaron's career home run record) probably exacerbates it.
Still, as far as I can see, he and the powers that run baseball (the owners, the Players' Union, and the "Commissioner" of the game) brought it all on themselves. They deserve each other.
Got it, Netherlands?
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Wednesday, August 01, 2007
Love and hate, reconciled
This past weekend, I drove to Cooperstown, NY to see my favorite Oriole of all-time, Cal Ripken, Jr., get inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.
It's strange: I've followed Cal's career from the start, when Orioles manager Earl Weaver switched him from third base to shortstop his rookie season (1982); I saw him play in his first World Series (against my other favorite team, the Phillies) and though I was distant most of his career, still got to see him play many times at Oriole Park at Camden Yards; I admired Cal's work ethic, his effortless skill and his willingness to learn and change as a ballplayer. As I emailed a friend the other day...
...I am tired of hearing first about THE STREAK when I hear Cal's induction talked about-written about etc. So often when Cal's detractors mention THE STREAK, they do so with a whiff of condescension: "How does just playing all those consecutive games make you a great player?" It's hard for me to believe that anyone who knows anything about baseball could actually say something like that, much less retain a position of journalistic credibility after uttering-writing it. Never mind that much of Cal's streak was also a CONSECUTIVE INNINGS streak (during the 2632 he played a string of 8243 innings in a row, which means that for approximately 915 straight games [Clarification: it was actually 904 games-mhs], he not only started, but was never pulled for a late-innings replacement, and certainly not sent in as a token pinch-hitter "just to keep the streak alive"). What the streak says is that for 2632 games, Cal's managers felt that with him in the lineup, their teams had the best chance of winning. What does that say about him as a player?
Also never mind the 3000 hits. That should be enough to get him in the Hall right there.
Also his DEFENSIVE PLAY. Again, I am reminded of Schmidt, as in: I forgot what a great defensive player he was until I saw those highlight reels at the Hall. Like Schmidt, Cal made it all look so easy... he was so good that he looked EFFORTLESS to the point of almost being blase.
The thing about Cal was: he was of course a talented physical athlete, but he was also thoughtful. But unlike Schmidt, who seemed to be thoughtful to a fault (it was his achilles heel in some ways) Cal used his thoughtfulness to ANALYZE his performance and the performance of those around him and change to improve his game and his team. I remember reading an article in the Orioles' magazine OUTSIDE PITCH where Cal talked about how he knew, as he got older and lost range, he had to position himself differently to "cheat a step" on certain players... no wonder he never seemed to have lost any range.
I also remember how, when I'd see Cal hitting after NOT having seen him for some time (I can't watch the Orioles on TV where I live now, so usually I'd only see him play every couple weeks when I'd go home to see my parents), he ALWAYS seemed to have made some adjustment in his stance: sometimes just raising the bat a little, or opening up a little, or widening his legs, or holding his hands higher. All in an effort to adapt and improve his play.
So there was all that... and yet... and yet....
Somehow I always had kind of a love-hate relationship with Cal, and I could never quite figure it out until this weekend.
My Oriole Fan roots go deep. I remember when I was little, in the hall closet of my parents' old house in Carlisle PA, there was a c.1964 Orioles cap which, even at age 6, was too small for me to fit into. I knew it was mine, but I couldn't remember wearing it.
In other words, before I could even remember being a baseball fan, I was wearing an Orioles cap. Like I said: deep roots.
I remember watching Brooks Robinson gobble up everything hit in his path during the team's 1970 World Series win over the Reds, and then, a year later, watching on TV as Jim Palmer hung his head on the mound while Roberto Clemente circled the bases behind him, leading the Pirates to the 1971 World Series championship.
I loved Brooks and Frank Robinson and Boog Powell and the four twenty-game winners (Palmer, Pat Dobson, Dave McNally and Mike Cuellar), but as that first group of favorites got traded (Boog, Frank, Davy Johnson), benched (Mark Belanger), retired (Brooks) and replaced by new players, I gradually lost interest in the Orioles.
When I came back to the team in the early 80s, there was Cal. He was the last in the original line of Orioles greats: players who played baseball the Oriole Way.
For as much as I enjoyed watching Cal play, as his career progressed and the Streak overtook other aspects of his play, I found myself becoming ANNOYED with him. Nay, angry. I loved him as a player, admired him as a person (he ran a literacy campaign, sponsored youth baseball... stayed late after games to sign autographs for fans... what WASN'T to like?), yet in a lot of ways I found myself HATING him.
It's strange: I've followed Cal's career from the start, when Orioles manager Earl Weaver switched him from third base to shortstop his rookie season (1982); I saw him play in his first World Series (against my other favorite team, the Phillies) and though I was distant most of his career, still got to see him play many times at Oriole Park at Camden Yards; I admired Cal's work ethic, his effortless skill and his willingness to learn and change as a ballplayer. As I emailed a friend the other day...
...I am tired of hearing first about THE STREAK when I hear Cal's induction talked about-written about etc. So often when Cal's detractors mention THE STREAK, they do so with a whiff of condescension: "How does just playing all those consecutive games make you a great player?" It's hard for me to believe that anyone who knows anything about baseball could actually say something like that, much less retain a position of journalistic credibility after uttering-writing it. Never mind that much of Cal's streak was also a CONSECUTIVE INNINGS streak (during the 2632 he played a string of 8243 innings in a row, which means that for approximately 915 straight games [Clarification: it was actually 904 games-mhs], he not only started, but was never pulled for a late-innings replacement, and certainly not sent in as a token pinch-hitter "just to keep the streak alive"). What the streak says is that for 2632 games, Cal's managers felt that with him in the lineup, their teams had the best chance of winning. What does that say about him as a player?
Also never mind the 3000 hits. That should be enough to get him in the Hall right there.
Also his DEFENSIVE PLAY. Again, I am reminded of Schmidt, as in: I forgot what a great defensive player he was until I saw those highlight reels at the Hall. Like Schmidt, Cal made it all look so easy... he was so good that he looked EFFORTLESS to the point of almost being blase.
The thing about Cal was: he was of course a talented physical athlete, but he was also thoughtful. But unlike Schmidt, who seemed to be thoughtful to a fault (it was his achilles heel in some ways) Cal used his thoughtfulness to ANALYZE his performance and the performance of those around him and change to improve his game and his team. I remember reading an article in the Orioles' magazine OUTSIDE PITCH where Cal talked about how he knew, as he got older and lost range, he had to position himself differently to "cheat a step" on certain players... no wonder he never seemed to have lost any range.
I also remember how, when I'd see Cal hitting after NOT having seen him for some time (I can't watch the Orioles on TV where I live now, so usually I'd only see him play every couple weeks when I'd go home to see my parents), he ALWAYS seemed to have made some adjustment in his stance: sometimes just raising the bat a little, or opening up a little, or widening his legs, or holding his hands higher. All in an effort to adapt and improve his play.
So there was all that... and yet... and yet....
Somehow I always had kind of a love-hate relationship with Cal, and I could never quite figure it out until this weekend.
My Oriole Fan roots go deep. I remember when I was little, in the hall closet of my parents' old house in Carlisle PA, there was a c.1964 Orioles cap which, even at age 6, was too small for me to fit into. I knew it was mine, but I couldn't remember wearing it.
In other words, before I could even remember being a baseball fan, I was wearing an Orioles cap. Like I said: deep roots.
I remember watching Brooks Robinson gobble up everything hit in his path during the team's 1970 World Series win over the Reds, and then, a year later, watching on TV as Jim Palmer hung his head on the mound while Roberto Clemente circled the bases behind him, leading the Pirates to the 1971 World Series championship.
I loved Brooks and Frank Robinson and Boog Powell and the four twenty-game winners (Palmer, Pat Dobson, Dave McNally and Mike Cuellar), but as that first group of favorites got traded (Boog, Frank, Davy Johnson), benched (Mark Belanger), retired (Brooks) and replaced by new players, I gradually lost interest in the Orioles.
When I came back to the team in the early 80s, there was Cal. He was the last in the original line of Orioles greats: players who played baseball the Oriole Way.
For as much as I enjoyed watching Cal play, as his career progressed and the Streak overtook other aspects of his play, I found myself becoming ANNOYED with him. Nay, angry. I loved him as a player, admired him as a person (he ran a literacy campaign, sponsored youth baseball... stayed late after games to sign autographs for fans... what WASN'T to like?), yet in a lot of ways I found myself HATING him.
Part of it was that, for all of his greatness as a player, his reliability, his nonchalant defensive brilliance (same as one of my other favorites, Mike Schmidt), the Orioles never got back to the World Series after his sophomore year. I think I kind of blamed him for that, even though it wasn't totally his fault. Like the Phillies did with Schmidt, I think that the Orioles made the mistake, after they won their championship, of trying to build AROUND him, and he wasn't really a LEADER that way. There was never a Pete Rose or Lenny Dykstra on the Orioles to play off Cal's Mike Schmidt demeanor.
But the other thing that made me mad at him was that, as I wrote above, Cal Ripken Jr. was the end of the line for me as far as my favorite players were concerned. Not only was he the last great product of the Orioles farm system steeped in the Oriole Way, but more than that, Cal Ripken Jr. was the last player I really loved who was OLDER THAN I WAS.
Cal's tragic flaw in my eyes was that he was the last link on the field to my youth, to my being a baseball fan as a kid. I was 18 during Cal's rookie season; from that point on, he always felt like my connection to being an innocent baseball fan: one of the last players I not only enjoyed watching play, but LOOKED UP TO in the way you look up to baseball players when you're a kid.
I got angry at him for growing older --how dare he grow older. How dare he have thinning hair, and go grey, and yegads, HAVE BACK PROBLEMS. I didn't want a hero who was growing old and clanky and grey and bald with a cranky back, like me, even if he WAS still an elite athlete.
And then, the final insult: HE RETIRED! How dare he abandon my game and my team!
Traitor! Like I said, love and hate.
Going to see Cal get inducted last weekend, I finally not only became conscious of all these conflicting feelings and thoughts, but I reconciled them. I realized that my "hate" and "anger" was really about ME GROWING OLDER. I forgave Cal for the mistake of being a human being, not a "legend" (as the irritatingly overused word puts it) and came to see all of the things I always LOVED about him, about his play ON the field, and his demeanor OFF the field. I felt happy and proud of him, happy that I got to see him play, proud that he played for my team.
I know that sounds corny, it doesn't make much sense, but as Bill Lee himself said, it's baseball. It's not SUPPOSED to make any sense.
I'm still processing the weekend and will probably write more about it, but for now, I have to say it, for the record: I love you, Cal, I'm proud of you, and proud to be an Orioles fan.
Congratulations, and thank you!
But the other thing that made me mad at him was that, as I wrote above, Cal Ripken Jr. was the end of the line for me as far as my favorite players were concerned. Not only was he the last great product of the Orioles farm system steeped in the Oriole Way, but more than that, Cal Ripken Jr. was the last player I really loved who was OLDER THAN I WAS.
Cal's tragic flaw in my eyes was that he was the last link on the field to my youth, to my being a baseball fan as a kid. I was 18 during Cal's rookie season; from that point on, he always felt like my connection to being an innocent baseball fan: one of the last players I not only enjoyed watching play, but LOOKED UP TO in the way you look up to baseball players when you're a kid.
I got angry at him for growing older --how dare he grow older. How dare he have thinning hair, and go grey, and yegads, HAVE BACK PROBLEMS. I didn't want a hero who was growing old and clanky and grey and bald with a cranky back, like me, even if he WAS still an elite athlete.
And then, the final insult: HE RETIRED! How dare he abandon my game and my team!
Traitor! Like I said, love and hate.
Going to see Cal get inducted last weekend, I finally not only became conscious of all these conflicting feelings and thoughts, but I reconciled them. I realized that my "hate" and "anger" was really about ME GROWING OLDER. I forgave Cal for the mistake of being a human being, not a "legend" (as the irritatingly overused word puts it) and came to see all of the things I always LOVED about him, about his play ON the field, and his demeanor OFF the field. I felt happy and proud of him, happy that I got to see him play, proud that he played for my team.
I know that sounds corny, it doesn't make much sense, but as Bill Lee himself said, it's baseball. It's not SUPPOSED to make any sense.
I'm still processing the weekend and will probably write more about it, but for now, I have to say it, for the record: I love you, Cal, I'm proud of you, and proud to be an Orioles fan.
Congratulations, and thank you!
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