Bob Hammel - My Story

     September 10, 2000 is a date I'll never forget.  That was the day when Bob Knight was fired from Indiana University.  I was devastated.  My idol and hero was no longer the basketball coach for the team and university I grew to love.  The coaching legend, a god in the state of basketball-crazed Indiana, was dismissed by an egocentric bureaucrat looking to make a name for himself.  IU President Myles Brand was intent on becoming Bloomington's new sheriff in town by taking the reins away from the man who had held that title for 29 years.  Think of the western movie without John Wayne or Mount Rushmore without Thomas Jefferson.   Or about Rock & Roll without Elvis or The Beatles.  Think about the paintbrush being taken out of Michelangelo's hand before he had finished his work as an artist.  This was the significance of Coach Knight being ousted from a program synonymous with college basketball greatness.  The coach who oft-quoted Abraham Lincoln was now taken out by a man synonymous with John Wilkes Booth. The man who was my inspiration for coaching basketball myself no longer had a home.  Without him coaching, I felt a bit homeless myself.

Cinema Six

     We all have a list of movie favorites.  Some have their own thought-out Top Ten while others have a less definitive list which usually comes to mind when a specific movie is found channel surfing or brought up in conversation:  "Oh, that's one of my favorites!".  My list is a combination of both.  I can rattle off my Top Ten in no particular order, but I'll often come across a forgotten movie that I can easily see replacing one of those ten.  Rocky was my first and earliest favorite, even though It's A Wonderful Life (which I didn't see until my 30's) came out thirty years earlier in 1946.  Schindler's List is so unnerving I have only watched it once, but I consider it a favorite.  When Harry Met Sally is my all-time favorite romantic comedy, and Hoop Dreams is my favorite documentary.

   I'm no Siskel or Ebert.  My analysis and opinions on what makes for a great movie is relegated to a few subjective must-haves: A terrific screenplay, great acting, and cinematography that captures the script's mood and characters' emotions perfectly.  Two of my Top Ten, Jaws and The Godfather, are examples.  Jaws is filled with iconic scenes, quotable quotes, and a spine-tingling score.  Quint's haunting storytelling of his experience on the S.S. Indianapolis is masterful in its character analysis and story deconstruction.  It gives depth to Quint's personality profile and the backstory of his vendetta toward sharks.  The darkened backdrop of the three shipmates' isolation on the nighttime waters encapsulates the ominous mood.  Quint ends his frightening soliloquy of blood and death with his own attempt at justifying the horrific experience he endured, saying: "Anyway...we delivered the bomb." 

      Michael Corleone's transformation in The Godfather from an educated, military veteran and innocent bystander of mafia crime to a ruthless killer and crime boss, is a psychological study worthy of its own college course.  New York City is not just the backdrop of the movie, but a visceral emprise for the viewer.  The clothes, hairstyles, cars, restaurants, and neighborhoods welcome one's eyes and mind into the world of 1940's mob life in hypnotic fashion.  The shadow-laden lighting style, coloring schemes, and camera angles complement the film's narrative exquisitely. 

Sign, Sign, Everywhere I Sign

    

New York State of Mind.   

     I walked in the rain at dusk from Madison Park on West 26th Street, onto Broadway, and up 42nd Street.  I had a bounce in my step as my mind's eye pictured the last scene in Saturday Night Fever - the iconic John Travolta strut on the streets of New York City. "Staying Alive" played on the jukebox in my head as I felt an exhilarated calm and hyperawareness that I rarely feel these days.  The heavy rain wasn't bothersome to me, and the fact I wasn't using the most direct route back to my hotel room didn't matter. I enjoyed the cool, wet air amongst the purposeful walking of those passing me on the crowded sidewalk. Being a suburbanite visitor on the "mean streets" of New York is always a welcoming culture shock, and never scary.  I love The Big Apple.  I like how it gives me the simultaneous feeling of insignificance and empowerment.

     I strutted unabashed with my huge 2'x3' double-sided poster board sign strapped around my shoulder.  On one side read "IGNORING IT IS WHAT THE GERMANS DID" with the faces of Donald Trump, Adolph Hitler, and Elon Musk on it.  The flipside read "THE ONLY IMMIGRANT STEALING AMERICAN JOBS IS A NAZI" with Musk flashing his infamous Nazi salute. 

     "Be careful" are the repeated words I hear from both Mom and Uncle George whenever I tell them I'm off to partake in one of my sign-wielding protests.  Usually that warning comes when I embark on one of my solo sidewalk demonstrations.  Their concern is valid, and a sad commentary on the hatred and violence of the Donald Trump MAGA movement, of which I feel compelled to stand up against. On this April 5th, there was no need for concern.  I was with roughly 100,000 like-minded, peaceful people for the "Hands Off" march, a nationwide protest spanning hundreds of locations across the country. Safety in numbers in New York was its own impenetrable defense.  Even as I walked alone for two miles from Madison Park to my hotel afterward as night approached, I felt as fearless as ever.  Emboldened by the task completed and the knowledge that my exposed sign in the mostly Trump-hating city, left me with absolutely nothing to worry about. Compared to the hundreds of times I've been cursed at and threatened back home, the city of 8 million people is much safer than a white suburban town of 30,000 when it comes to opposing a white supremacist, racist, dictator.

Man's Two Best Friends

     You never forget your first love.  My earliest childhood memory is of our first family pet, a German Shepherd/Husky mix puppy. I was two and a half years old, sitting on the kitchen floor with my siblings, adoring the newest addition to the household.  The puppy appeared timid amongst his new surroundings and the attention of six kids hovering over him.  The circumstances of our new pet joining us are unclear to me, but I remember Dad's declaration when he walked through the backdoor after his day at work.  "His name is Duke", he said.  And Duke it was.

     Duke and I grew up together.  As is the difference of the species, Duke grew up at a much faster rate than I. The breed of a protector, Duke always kept a keen eye on me and my often-mischievous outdoor play around the neighborhood block.  When the school bus dropped me off at the bus stop down the street, Duke was always waiting from atop our front yard hill, closely watching for my safe return and welcoming me home.  As I slowly closed the gap of maturity, Duke transitioned from guardian to boy's best friend. Pictures of me as a child often include Duke by my side, a requirement of mine if I was implored by Mom or Dad to pose for a picture.  I'm sure my sisters each individually felt the same as I did - that Duke was truly my dog, despite him being the family pet.  But being a male and an alpha-type breed, I think Duke naturally gravitated to the men of the house, that being Dad, and later on, me also.  I was the one who went on walks and runs with him.  I was the one who taught him new tricks.  I was the one who had to retrieve him every time he was waiting on the doorstep of the latest neighborhood female in heat.  I was the one he'd wake up in the early morning when he needed to take his business outside. And I was the one who spent the most time with him for the twelve years of his life.  When a boy with five sisters needs someone to play with or cry to, sometimes your dog is the only one you can turn to. 

A Complete Gentleman

     When the movie ended and the credits rolled, I stood up from my theater seat to scan all the attendees in the movie theater.  I knew the chance was slim that Tommy was there, but it wouldn't have surprised me if he were.  I thought how it was similar to that time my good friend Doug texted me hours before the Springsteen concert in Albany last year.  I hadn't heard from Doug in years and hadn't seen him in twelve since he moved to upstate New York. But he was going to the show, and he knew the chance of me taking the road trip to see Bruce was pretty good.  He was right.  We met after the concert and talked up old times.  This morning, if Tommy were in the theater, it would make perfect sense.

     The movie was A Complete Unknown, a new biopic about the early years of Bob Dylan's musical career.  Tommy was the only true die-hard Dylan fan that I knew.  And him being in the theater, the first showing the morning after its Christmas day release, was a decent possibility.  Then again, he probably went to the first showing the day before - not wanting to wait - the birthday of our Lord and Savior notwithstanding.  Or maybe he had gone to a special VIP pre-release premiere.  With his connections to the music world and its artists, that wouldn't be unheard of.  Like Doug, I hadn't seen Tommy in a lot of years, but while watching the movie, he was forefront in my mind.