Officially Done

      "The mind is willing, but the body is weak."

     This was my sentiment of thought when I finally decided to quit playing lacrosse at age 50, after playing competitively for 35 years.

"The body is willing, but the mind is weak."

     This is the sentiment I have now, after officiating high school and youth lacrosse for four years.  So I'm quitting.

     Getting back into the game of lacrosse as an official has been something I've enjoyed - to a degree. Not playing anymore and having had my fill as a high school coach for 15 years, becoming a high school and youth official seemed a chance to reconnect to the sport I've loved since my teenage years.  At age 58, I'm light years away from my playing days' speed, but I can still move well enough up and down the field as an official.  Learning the techniques of proper pacing, spacing, and angles from my fellow veteran referees has been immeasurably helpful in effectively doing the job.  So my body is willing and capable.  My mind and my psyche however, are not.  My mental stamina has fallen well behind my physical stamina, so I'm giving it up.

     Coach Bob Knight always preached that in sports competition, "The mental is to the physical as 4 is to 1".  Having talent will only bring about a certain level of success, he'd say.  The thinking part and mental toughness is what's needed to maximize those talents and bring about one's full potential.  This was a philosophy I fully subscribed to as a player and as a coach.  And though it's a principle meant for players, I find it fittingly applicable to officials.  I'd change the ratio of 4:1 to more like 10:1 when it comes to officiating, or maybe even 20:1.  The ability to remain mentally strong through all the adversity a referee endures during the course of a game and a season is quite challenging.  My fellow officials seem able to do it, but I've concluded that I cannot.  Not anymore.  I've had enough of all the verbal abuse.  I can't take the profanity directed my way.  I'm done absorbing the constant barrage of yelling and criticism.  From coaches, from players, from parents, from spectators.  I've had enough, and it's not worth it to me anymore.

     "You fuckin' suck ref!" a player angrily said to me as he walked by, inches away from my face after a game his team had just lost by a score of 17-5.

     "You're a fuckin' moron!" an eighth-grader yelled at me after I called an obvious face-off violation against him.

     "You're awful...You're a joke...You suck...You're the worst...You're blind...You're one sided...You're pathetic..." are just a few things repeatedly yelled at me from high school and youth coaches this past season. 

     Walking off the field after one game, one woman, obviously a mother of a player on the losing team, barked mockingly at my partner, Paul: "Terrible job, ref. Way to go!". I turned back to look at Paul as I was a few steps ahead of him.  He smiled, unphased, and strolled right past her without looking her way.  Meanwhile I wanted to shove my penalty flag down her throat and toss her into the nearby trash barrel.  Paul just shrugged it off.  Me on the other hand, I wanted to retaliate in ways that would've gotten me arrested. 

     Out of the approximately 40 games I officiated this year, I would guess that less than 10 of those games I'd consider free of unwarranted verbal abuse or criticism from the coaches and/or players. If I were to include heckling from fans, that number would be cut in half.  

     What gets under my skin the most is hearing it from coaches who know better.  Or should know better.  These are the coaches who played themselves, most of whom played in college.  They know the game well, and they know the rules.  But they watch the game with blinders on, seeing things in a biased way.  A blatant infraction called against the opponent is recognized as such, and it's the right call.  Yet the same infraction called against his own team is somehow an incorrect and terrible call.  If the flag is thrown or a call is made on the other team, then the coach will applaud and commend the official. But if the call is made against his own team, the default reaction of the coach is to disagree and argue the call.  Or worse, if his player for example, blatantly slashes the opponent in the helmet and a penalty is assessed, he expects the same penalty to be called when the opponent barely and inadvertently grazes ("brushes") the helmet of his player afterward.  Objectivity is non-existent.

     On the other end of the spectrum is the inexperienced coach, who typically had a non-existent or limited playing career.  He usually has only a few years of coaching experience.  This is the coach who, instead of having the desire and dedication for becoming as good a coach and teacher as he can be, focuses his energy on the officiating, blaming it for his team's shortcomings.  The "You fuckin' suck, ref" player had this type of coach.  Not only were the players inexperienced and poorly coached, they also reflected their coach's behavior when it came to their lack of sportsmanship and character. From the start of the game to the very end, the coach argued and whined non-stop, often about rules he had no clue about.  His ire was solely directed at myself and my partner, and never at the poor play and behavior of his players. The adage "Sports don't build character, they reveal it" was on full display this day.  Five unsportsmanlike penalties and two player ejections were called on his team, proof positive how players reflect the personality and character of their coach.  There's always a direct correlation of behavior, positive or negative, between coach and player.  I walked away from that game and made an immediate request to never be assigned to officiate that school again.  It was one of three schools I wouldn't officiate again because of the coach.

     George, Josh, and Kevin are examples of veteran officials who excel at the mental part of the job.  They are able to officiate a game, leave the field, and move on to the next game without dwelling on things that may have made the game difficult to ref.  I'm not able to do that.  Like my partners, I'm capable of doing my job in a professional and respectful manner.  I maintain a calm and collected demeanor throughout the game despite any criticism or insults hurled my way.  When warranted, I address any disrespectful or unnecessary verbiage made from coaches or players in a stoic manner.  I do so without showing emotion or raising my voice.  On the outside, I appear unaffected.  But on the inside, my fuse is lit, and it gets shorter with every such encounter.  I want to ring the neck of the player that yells, "C'mon...!"  or "You gotta' be kidding me!".  I want to kick every kid out of the game who I flag for a conduct or unsportsmanlike penalty, instead of just sending them to the penalty box.  I want to yell back at the coach who rages like a lunatic over a call that doesn't go his way.  But of course, I don't.  I stay in control. That's PROFESSIONALISM IN OFFICIATING: 101.  For me, that's the most difficult part of the job - keeping my cool when I want to go nose-to-nose MLB-umpire style and give back to the coach what he's dishing out.

     

     When the game is over, and I start up my car to drive home, that internal fuse reaches its end, and I mentally explode in varying degrees.  Whether it was one incident in the game that got my blood simmering, or if it was several that got me boiling over, I usually drive home in a silent rage. I perseverate over every negative interaction I had with a coach, player, and/or fan. I replay every angry look and argumentative comment I got from a teenage player.  A player with one-tenth or one-twentieth, or one-one hundredth of the talent I had as a player.  I hear and see again every trash-talking and posturing moment I witnessed earlier.  I hear the coach's barking complaints on a loop. The negative comments from the crowd of spectators echo in my head.  All this while I'm driving home, and it lasts, and lasts, and lasts. For hours, sometimes for days. If I happen to be scheduled a future game with the same team and coach that kept me from a regular night's sleep, the cycle repeats hours before the game.  I try my best to not let it affect me like it does, but my attempts are futile.

     Are all teams and coaches like this? No. But unfortunately, in my experience, they make up a small handful out of dozens.  I take no issue when a coach disagrees and questions a call I make or a call I don't make.  As a coach myself, I wasn't immune to such disagreements with an official's call (or two, or three...) during the course of the game.  That's a part of sports.  Referees will make mistakes and are simply not able to see everything that happens all the time.  Like a player who makes a physical or mental mistake, or a coach who implements a coaching strategy that ends up failing, officials also aren't perfect.  Yet the majority of coaches expect perfection (their interpretation of it) from the officiating.  So of course there's no shortage of yelling, cursing, and raging directed at the officials when a mistake is thought to made.  Coaches seem to think this is just part of the game, that this is what comes with coaching, that officials should expect the abuse they get, and that it's part of the job.  But it's not, nor should it be.     

     As a two-sport high school coach for 42 seasons, I can confidently say I never acted this way toward officials.  I never berated or demeaned an official. I never tried to embarrass one.  I never followed an official off the field or court to continue an argument after the game was over.  I never got so angry that I questioned my sportsmanship or my role as a good example and role model to the players on my team. And I bet that prior to, or after a game I've coached, no official has said to his partner about me, "That coach right there -- he's an asshole".  But that's something I've said many times myself about a lot of coaches whose games I've reffed. 

     As a high school lacrosse player I got an unsportsmanlike penalty in the first quarter of a game my senior year.  My coach benched me for the remainder of the game.  The worst thing for an ultra-competitive player like myself, was to watch the game from the sidelines.  That was forty years ago, and I've never forgotten it.  Lesson learned.  It was my first and last unsportsmanlike penalty in 35 years of playing high school, college, and men's league lacrosse.  In 700 or so games as a coach, I never received an unsportsmanlike/conduct penalty in lacrosse, and received only two technical fouls in basketball*. (*those two technicals I got were intentional, when my team had an insurmountable lead and I wanted to send a positive, albeit unusual, message to my players about their good play).  And I had a strict rule for my players: If you got a technical foul or unsportsmanlike penalty, you were benched for the rest of that game and for the upcoming game.  As Coach Knight would say, "There's no better motivator for a kid than putting his ass on the bench."  I had zero tolerance for that kind of thing.  My players were a reflection of me, and I never wanted to be seen as the "asshole" that shone through my players.  If I was going to demand from my players to act respectful to their opponents and the officials, I most certainly required of myself to set the example.  My players heeded the message.

     Out of all those seasons, the hundreds of games, and hundreds of players, I can count on one hand the number of times I had to bench a player for violating my rule.  On the rare occasion when one of my players did or said something I disapproved of, he'd get a deafening earful from me.  And maybe some extra "conditioning" as a consequence the next day in practice.  I had that power of authority as a coach.  As a referee, I don't.  It's in my DNA to teach, correct, and discipline young men.  I learned early in my coaching years about methodology of teaching by reading about, watching videotape, and attending clinics of some of the best college and NBA basketball coaches.  Teaching the game is something I strived to excel at.  Now when I see a player needing correction or discipline from his coach and he doesn't get it, it drives me absolutely crazy.  As an official, my role isn't what it used to be as a coach.  I feel stripped of the role and title I had and identified with as a coach for so many years.  I'm left just thinking to myself, "What the hell is wrong with this coach? He has no clue what his job entails as a teacher of young athletes".  It's disappointing to see.

     The best referees I've known over the years, like George, Josh, and Kevin, are able to find a balance where the positives strongly outweigh the negatives of officiating.  A love for the sport, giving back to the game, the endorphin rush that comes during a game, the pride of doing a job well, the bonding relationships made, the impact on bettering and promoting the sport.  For them, these things make refereeing enjoyable and worthwhile.  Which is why all three collectively have been officiating for more than 70 years.  It takes a special type of person with a dedicated and mentally tough personality to do it for that long, and not get burnt out by the negatives of the job.  Being able to endure the verbal tirades of the chronically disgruntled coach, or the disrespectful mouth of the 17-year-old punk, for as long as they have is astounding to me.  That these guys are able to endure and move on to the next play and the next game without getting discouraged is something to be admired.  I've realized that the mental toughness I had as a player I just don't have as a referee.  I'm not able to "forget about it and move on to the next play", like I did easily as a player.

 

     I remember my freshman year of high school when it took me up until the last day before spring sports tryouts to choose between playing lacrosse or baseball.  Way before there were youth lacrosse programs, I had played and enjoyed Little League Baseball since age six.  And although I had a lacrosse stick, courtesy of my older sister's boyfriend, I was totally unfamiliar with the unpopular sport.  I gave it a shot, and it turned out to be probably the best decision I've ever made in life.  It was a perfect marriage.  I decided to give officiating a shot too, but it's just not for me.  Being a referee in any sport is often referred to as a thankless job, and I've learned firsthand that there's a lot of truth to that. The result is a shortage of good officials and umpires in all sports and at all levels.  And unless coaches, players, and parents collectively stop being the asshole, it's not going to get any better. 

The Ghost of Bruce Springsteen

     I had put my convertible top down about a mile ago.  After the four hour drive in the midday sun, it was cool enough now to allow the feel of the outdoor air and the pre-set sun.  My GPS showed one more stoplight and a half mile to go before I'd come to Kingsley Street.  I shuffled my car stereo player to Bruce's "Darkness On The Edge Of Town" and skipped to the third track, Something In The Night.  My memory flashed back 22 summers ago to 2002, when my best friend and fellow Springsteen fanatic Mike and I did the same thing. The difference being it was a cassette tape we popped in and not a cd. We had to stop at the beginning of the street before we could proceed, waiting to hit the right spot on the cassette tape before we pressed play.  On this day, by myself, the timing was perfect, there was no waiting.

     The four-note piano intro starts which follows with a three note measure repeat. Bruce's wordless voice enters 20 seconds later, accompanied by a crescendo of drumbeats... "Ohhh, Ohhh, Ohhhhhh...." Crashing symbols are followed by Bruce's first line of the lyrics another minute later.  I take my left turn in perfect timing... 

"Well I'm riding down Kingsley figuring I'd get a drink

Well, I turn the radio up loud so I don't have to think..."

 

     A wave of excitement hits me.  My heart fills with a surge of euphoria.  I'm here.  Asbury Park.  More specifically, The Asbury Park boardwalk.  The place where it all began: the other Genesis story. Only this one was not the creation of man, but the creation of the rock star. The defining touring spot for every Bruce Springsteen fan looking for the Bruce Springsteen museum.  Except instead of a brick or stone building filled with statues and memorabilia, this museum is an open air museum of musical nostalgia and history.  It sits between Kingsley Street and Ocean Avenue, and between Ocean Avenue and New Jersey's Atlantic Ocean.    

     I see the old carousel and the shell of what was once the Asbury Park Casino on my right.  I drive slowly past The Stone Pony and various shops and restaurants until I see The Wonder Bar on the corner of 5th & Ocean Avenue up ahead. I make the turn on 5th and miraculously find an open parking spot adjacent to the Bar.  I get out of my car and the music of Something in The Night shuts off and is immediately replaced with One Step Up. Not from my car stereo, but from the musical soundtrack hidden in my subconscious that plays from time to time.  It's a Pavlovian response dependent upon whatever stimulating forces pervade my senses. Here, it's the outside of The Wonder Bar right in front of me, where inside Bruce filmed his 1987 video for One Step Up.

"When I look at myself I don't see the man I wanted to be

Somewhere along the line I slipped off track

One step up and two steps back..." 

     To my left, Ocean Avenue continues north up the Jersey coastline for many miles through Long Branch and Monmouth County, with beautiful beaches and mansions the size of castles.  But right in front of me, nestled between the Convention Hall and the skeleton of the casino, is where I want to be.  A portion of boardwalk less than two football fields in length, jampacked with bars, restaurants, arcades, and mobile pizza and lemonade stands on one side, and the Asbury Park Beach and the Atlantic Ocean on the other.  I cross Ocean Avenue and walk a few more steps until I feel the wood beneath my feet. Here I am, on the boardwalk. The Asbury Park boardwalk. The warm breeze and the salty air hits my face as I stand motionless, soaking in the oceanscape in front of me, disappearing into the endless blue and white clouded horizon. I look to my left, then my right, then repeat approximately a dozen times. On this Friday evening, the beach and boardwalk are at maximum capacity.  There's not a lot of unoccupied space on the beach, boardwalk, or outdoor restaurant tables.  The hundreds of people with their hundreds of voices pass me by.  Music is being played from everywhere.  But all I hear is one singular voice coming from that soundtrack inside my brain:

"I come from a boardwalk town where almost everything is tinged with a bit of fraud.

So am I, if you haven't figured that out over the past forty years.

In 1972 I was just a guitar player, on the streets of Asbury Park.

And that was pretty much all that I knew."

     Those were some introductory words Bruce spoke during his Broadway show.  I'd hear his voice speak these words on a loop over the entire weekend whenever I'd stroll on the boardwalk or sit on one of its benches.  My Pavlovian boombox was constantly on play-mode. Every time I walked past Madam Marie's psychic teller booth: 

"Well the cops finally busted Madam Marie

For telling fortunes better than me

This boardwalk life for me is through

You outa quit this scene too..."

- (Asbury Park/4th Of July (Sandy)

     When I'd see a girl in bluejeans:

"Chasing the factory girls underneath the boardwalk

Where they'd all promise to unsnap their jeans."

- (Asbury Park/4th Of July (Sandy)

     When my mind's eye pictured the music video clip of Bruce walking from that merry-go-round carousel next to the casino:

"There's a room of shadows that get so dark, brother

It's easy for two people to lose each other

In this tunnel of love..."

- (Tunnel Of Love)

          

     The Oxford Dictionary defines spiritual as relating to or affecting the human spirit or soul as opposed to material or physical things.  I'm certainly not the first to claim Bruce's music and storytelling as having a spiritual component to it.  The beauty and wonderment of his songs and how they can elicit a plethora of emotional responses from the listener is why he is so good at his craft.  He speaks to his listeners; he speaks for his listeners. But it's not so much what is heard by the listener, but what is felt.  Make a list of emotions as long as you can, and you can bet Bruce has written a song that relates perfectly to whatever that emotion is that you're feeling. It may just be one line in a song that stirs you, like in Brilliant Disguise: "God have mercy on the man who doubts what he's sure of."  Or it may be an entire song of his, with a cinematic story of characters, simultaneously wrought with desperation and relentless hope, like The Ghost Of Tom Joad.  That's the measurement of greatness for any musician or artist or author or sculptor: the emotional and spiritual response and connection their creation elicits from their audience or peers.  

     I've felt that connection to Bruce's music for decades.  Seeing him in concert 78 times magnifies that connection well beyond any quantifying explainability. Yet there was something new on this day, on this boardwalk way past dawn.  I actually felt Bruce's presence, as if he were next to me.  Specifically, like he were right behind my right shoulder.  Call me crazy (and I do), but it was undeniable.  The psychology of the brain can do some wonderful gymnastics sometimes, no doubt.  But whether real or imagined, my musical hero made his presence felt, and I welcomed it unquestionably, like a friendly ghost or spirit.  And of course, this led me back to hearing, and more strongly - feeling - his words. 

     Over the last several years, and during the last several concerts I've been to, Bruce has invoked the term "ghost" often.  More specifically, "ghosts".  He has spoken about the loss of friends and band members during tribute songs, and talks about "the ghosts that are all around us, trying to reach us, every step of the way", invoking all the good and wonderful influences left for us by those who have passed.  How their spirit remains with us, and how we carry the gift of their spirit in how we live and how we share it with others.  His latest album, Letter To You is themed with the inescapable inevitability of what every life on earth will experience: It's ending. The losses of those we love, and the ever-present reality of life being a finite thing.

     The Stoics of classical antiquity were known for their philosophical adherence to the concept "Memento Mori", the Latin translation for "remember death" or "remember that you have to die".  The Stoics taught that having death at the forefront of thought will allow one to live life to the fullest without wasting the precious time one has left. Bruce seems to have adopted this philosophy quite well, sharing his love of music and performing for us with no plan to stop.  And like he is wont to do, he invites anybody willing, to come along for the ride. To be present with him, and feel the presence of others in a celebration of being alive.

  

     The next day I expand my tour to the usual mandatory sites to see. I make the trip to Bruce's childhood homes in nearby Freehold.  I visit where his first home on Randolph Street used to be, right next to St. Rose of Lima Catholic Church where he served as an altar boy.  I drive down Institute Street and locate the home where as a 7-year old, Bruce watched Elvis perform on The Ed Sullivan Show for the first time - a transformative, life-changing experience. I take a selfie with 39.5 Institute as my background.

"Well I got out of here hard and fast in Freehold

Everybody wanted to kick my ass in Freehold

Well if you were different, black, or brown

It was a pretty redneck town, back in Freehold"

- (Freehold)

     I Google-search the tiny house Bruce rented in Long Branch where he wrote his masterpiece album Born To Run, released on August 25, 1975. I park and take another selfie. Of course, in Asbury I make stops in The Stone Pony and see a favorite band play at The Wonder Bar. If Yankee Stadium is "the house that Ruth built", The Stone Pony was built by Bruce.  Everywhere I go, I feel an expanded feeling of ecstasy, of tranquility, of presence.  Like the feeling of being surrounded by God when looking up at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, the spirit of Bruce was here for the taking. It would've been cool driving along Ocean Avenue with the top down and Bruce in the passenger seat beside me (a fleeting visual hallucination I briefly imagine), but this feeling is still pretty cool.

     To the average person, to the uninitiated, making a 200 mile trip to Asbury Park, New Jersey for the weekend seems kind of odd.  Making a trip to Asbury Park not to see Bruce in concert, but just to see places he's lived and where he honed his craft is a head-scratcher to most.  But Mike gets it.  My concert partner, Cindy gets it. Mom understands. And Paula understands more than anybody. They understand the magical and mystical power of Bruce's music, and its emotional and spiritual impact upon the music lover. In one of my favorite lines from Springsteen On Broadway, Bruce tells his fans, "You've provided me with purpose, with meaning, and with a great, great amount of joy. I hope I've done that for you and that I've been a good traveling companion". He's done that for me more than words can describe.  And as long as I'm alive, Bruce will forever be my very best traveling companion.

"It's just your ghost moving through the night

Your spirit filled with light

I need, need you by my side

Your love and I'm alive"

- ("Ghosts") 

  

A Final Lap

Cav & Me (1984)

"Everything dies baby, that's a fact
And maybe everything that dies someday comes back" 
 - Bruce Springsteen (Atlantic City)

      At the end of his High Hopes concert tour last year, 65-year old Bruce Springsteen told an audience in Kilkenny, Ireland:

“The older you get, the more it means.”

     
     When Justin invited me to rejoin the Westfield Cranx lacrosse team after playing elsewhere the previous two years, the thought of returning had to that point never entered my mind. But after he put it out there, nothing made more sense to me.

     We started this thing 31 years ago. Cav, Flynner and I wanted to continue playing after our respective spring college seasons had ended. So what started as a six-team league of unmatched uniform jerseys and bucket helmets, gradually became an elite 14-team league of perennial talent and competition (and 21^st century fashion flash and equipment). Cav and Flynner still debate today as to which one of them came up with our famously named “Cranx”.  But what isn't in any doubt is that what we started in 1984 was a franchise that has long outlasted, outclassed, and outmatched any program that has tried to overtake it.  The only remaining team from that inaugural year continuously has been without equal when it comes to success and tradition.

E Street Lacrosse

     "Sure. We need somebody to be our waterboy."  That was the texted message I received back from Jared after I had inquired about joining his summer lacrosse team a season ago.  Ten years earlier, when I was Jared's high school JV coach, a similar derogatory comment would have cost him about a thousand windsprints and possibly a choked larynx.  But now, Jared was a recent college All-American and the coach of the Wilbraham Zebras lacrosse team.  I was a 47 year old once-upon-a-time decent player, but now dependent upon a knee brace, ankle tape, and mega-doses of Advil and Icy-Hot just to survive a few shifts per game.  Plus, for the first time in 30 years, I was a rookie.
 
     After 28 seasons of playing summer lax with the Westfield Cranx team, the need for a change in venue and the chance to play with a new group of players became unavoidable.  As great as the Cranx franchise was, and as much as I loved playing with truly awesome guys and many lifelong friends over the years, looking for a new playing experience was something that simply became inevitable.
     It'll be just like what Bruce Springsteen did, I told myself.  Just another little experience about my life I can compare to my hero, I thought...besides the whole rockstar/millionaire/world famous thing, of course.  When Bruce went on the road for the 1993 Lucky Town/Human Touch tour, he did so without the E Street Band.  Instead, a new group of audition-picked musicians took their place; Bruce's need for a fresh approach fueled his decision making:
          "You can get to a place where you start to replay the ritual and nostalgia creeps in" he explained. "I decided it was time to mix it up.  I just had to cut it loose a little bit so I could have something new to bring to the table."

James Maddock's "Better On My Own"

   

    The multi-talented musician James Maddock performed in Old Saybrook, CT on November 22.  As always, James played and sung masterfully and emotionally to an appreciative crowd that filled the Katharine Hepburn Arts Center.  Telling James afterward about the music video I had just finished that day using his song "Better On My Own", his enthusiastic response he repeated often the rest of the evening: "I can't wait to see it!"

Father's Day (June 16)

John S. Funaro (1923 - June 16, 1999)

     Probably what I love most about Bruce Springsteen's music is the songwriting craft of his lyrics.  Nobody paints a more vivid and detailed picture in your listening mind than Bruce does.  Whether those picture frames form a short one-act play or string themselves into a full feature film, Springsteen packs more intimately visual imagery into one song than most songwriters do on an entire album.  Equally as affecting is how he is also able to let the listener fill in his own blanks to the stories he tells, allowing for an autobiographical, and usually more meaningful experience and reaction to the songs.

     When it comes to music videos, Bruce only rarely (compared to the vast amount of songs in his catalog) makes them.  My guess is that he's keenly aware that most of his songs become personal to his fans in this autobiographical way.  And I'm sure he doesn't want his songs detracting from that interpersonal connection by showing just his interpretations of them.  Aside from the conspicuously forbidden lust video "I'm On Fire", Bruce's videos usually involve him singing with his guitar, and simply a myriad of atmospheric backgrounds.  Instead of visuals he lets his lyrics take care of the cinematography.

     When I made my own video to the song "When I'm Gone", I didn't have the luxury of letting my songwriting do the talking for me.  So instead, I used Brian Vander Ark's beautifully written lyrics and music and made them my own in my mind's eye.  Taking a page out of the same playbook Springsteen follows, Vander Ark allows the listener to extract his own personalized interpretation to the song.  And like so many of Bruce's songs, "Brilliant Disguise", "My Beautiful Reward", "The Promise" to name just a few, "When I'm Gone" became not just the artist's thoughts, but mine as well.

My Top Ten Basketball Movies

Go Badgers! (I think)

     As far as moral dilemmas go, I could probably come up with a few hundred others I've encountered in my lifetime that carried a weight a hundred times heavier than this one.  So, at least my preface is on the record.  That said, here's the inner turmoil festering inside of me:  I don't know who I should root for in this year's NCAA basketball tournament.

     When Coach Knight's teams were in the NCAA's, there was never a question about it.  Indiana it was, all the way!  From IU's national championship team in 1987 to their awful first round loss to Richmond in '89 (which I blame for the four car accident I caused the next day).  From my month long depression over the '92 Final Four loss to the devastating injury to Alan Henderson in '93, which almost certainly is the reason why Coach Knight has three national championships instead of four.  From the '80's to 2000, March meant the Indiana Hoosiers.  Every other team be damned. 
     Ditto for Texas Tech. Through five NCAA appearances and with underwhelming talent, it was "Guns Up" for the Red Raiders all the way.  If I had a son who played for a school competing against one of Knight's team, it would be a no-brainer.  I'd root for the General.  If my kid wasn't good enough to play for Coach Knight, then that's his fault.  My loyalty came first to Knight.  My son came afterward.

     But since Coach Knight's retirement five years ago, the next best team I enjoyed most has been Wisconsin, and I've followed and rooted for them ever since.  I consider UW my de facto favorite, and the team I've most wanted to cut down the championship nets. But the way this year's bracket is set up, it's brought me some unprecedented problems.  Hence my dilemma...

Basket Blame

      I hadn't laughed that hard all season long.  And with the comical cast of characters on this year's basketball team, that's certainly saying a lot.  We may not have the smartest or most talented group of players ever comprised on a high school team, but we probably could compete as one of the funniest.

     There's Zack, whose impersonations are limited to just two, but are spot on.  If you closed your eyes, you'd think Chewbaca was bellowing at you.  Or that you were being ordered to get into the chopper by Arnold Schwarzenegger.
     Kevin's usually good for a few laughs a day, from flexing his non-existent muscles to shouting out "Shooter!" before launching his own jumpshot, which usually results in one of two things: either hitting nothing but air or almost breaking the backboard.
     And then we have Josh, who persistently tries everyday to dunk the ball, but looks more like a 5-year boy reaching to catch a seagull flying by on the beach.  He'll never come close to getting it, but that doesn't stop him from trying.  Which leaves all onlookers laughing out loud.

The Price of Expression

     I'm no fan of Tim Tebow.  Never have been.  And it has nothing to do with his football abilities.  Whether he should or shouldn't get more of a chance to prove he can quarterback in the NFL, I don't have an opinion on.  I'll defer to the New York Jets coaching staff and any other team that may be interested in acquiring him, seeing that I'm as qualified at assessing football talent as I am at figuring out the goings-on inside a woman's head.  What seems simplistic is often anything but inside the XX chromosomal make-up of the female brain and vice versa.
     My less than favorable opinion of Tebow stems from his religious beliefs.  Not for what they are but for how he chooses to express them.  I don't think anybody questions the sincerity and conviction of Tim's christian beliefs.  From what we've learned about Tebow, he's devout in his faith and his charitable and missionary work is quite commendable.
     In work and deed, I admire him.  When it comes to his spoken word however, not so much.  Anytime a camera or a microphone is upon Tebow for strictly football reasons, he will always use it as an opportunity to evangelize.  A question about the game?  Tebow will first respond by thanking his Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Want to give God some free advertising?  Paste eye-black stickers on your face with biblical scripture passage numbers written on them.  Want millions to watch you repeatedly pray to the Almighty?  Strike a genuflecting pose on the football field sideline.  And even though there's nothing new or unique about said pose, trademark "Tebowing" as your own.  God bless America and its copyright ownership laws.

'Twas A Night In October

(Scroll to the bottom for the complete picture storybook)

'Twas a night in October When The Boss would come play
   To Hartford, Connecticut Cindy and I made our way...

We left around 2 on a warm autumn day
   And took 91-South singing Bruce all the way
It doesn't get any better for Cindy and me
   Than a Bruce Springsteen concert, and the pit, hopefully

The XL Center was tonight's concert setting
   We wanted pit tickets, we were hoping, we were betting
We got there by 3, good timing we thought
   But Cindy had forgotten the band-aids she brought

So back to the car she goes while I wait
   She's a pain in the neck, but still the best Springsteen date
We'll sing, dance, and cheer tonight, when our hero appears
   Like we've done many times over the last ten years...

James Maddock vs. Bruce Springsteen

      In the world of Bruce Springsteen fandom, of which I am an exclusive member, I'm about to speak blasphemy. Here goes: I recently had a concert experience that I enjoyed as much as, if not more than, a Springsteen show. There it is, I said it. And I'm sticking to it.

     
     Now compared to the JFK assassination conspiracy, and Pluto not being a planet after all, this declaration is not much of a great, historical revelation. But for the five or six friends and family members who read this incredibly unpopular blog, that statement I'm sure comes as quite a shock. If Jesus Christ is the savior of my soul, then Bruce Springsteen certainly is runner-up.

     
     Two weeks ago, a slightly lesser known and much more under-appreciated songwriter and musician named James Maddock left me with the same feeling I get upon leaving a Springsteen show: A high no drug could duplicate, a soul-stirring warmth no religious sermon could top, and a refreshing, optimistic perspective on life so desperately needed for a lonely and boring middle-aged man living an existence of banality between Boss concerts and basketball seasons.

A Mother's Day Wish

     

     Mom knows as well as anybody, what are without a doubt my two biggest passions. One, of course, is basketball.  Ever since I was six years old, not a day has gone by where I wasn't either playing basketball, watching basketball, coaching basketball, or thinking basketball.  As a kid, I'd willingly shovel the driveway during the winter, not for Dad, not our driveway, but the driveway next door, because they had a basketball hoop where I could shoot when I was finished.  Though my childhood NBA dreams faded quickly, I still played through high school, and later became a Park & Rec, and then a high school coach.

     Through it all, Mom was there every step of the way.  Driving me to practice and to games for twelve years.  Cheering for me when I led my 3rd grade T-Bird team averaging 4 points per game, up to when I was lucky getting 4 minutes of playing time per game on the high school varsity.  Dad was there supporting me as well, but in a different way:  In an analytical, constructive way--in a way where I use that perspective as a coach today.  But Mom, she was my stability, the one I could always count on as my number one fan, whether it was with a ride when I needed one or by collecting write-ups from the sports page when my name was in it. Or by not making an issue over my late night drunkenness the night I quit the varsity team my senior year, when under any other circumstance I would have been severely punished and grounded "indefinitely".  At 46 now, nothing has changed.  She's still my #1 fan, even if she doesn't like me as much now that I'm a loud and temperamental coach, and not that quiet and shy six year playing Biddy Basketball.  

Bruce Springsteen's "Rocky Ground"

     The greatest rock musician and songwriter of all time has once again proven himself worthy of that distinction with an incredible combination of rock, soul, gospel, and lyrical brilliance on his new album, Wrecking Ball.  Throughout a career spanning five decades, Bruce Springsteen has repeatedly invoked religious, biblical, and Catholic imagery in his music.  "I'm stuck, it's a part of me, it's there for good" Bruce has often quipped about his Catholic upbringing and its influence upon him (for better and worse) before introducing the song "Jesus Was An Only Son" in concert.

     More often, Bruce will let his lyrical theater speak on its own spiritual merit, from "The Promised Land" to "Adam Raised A Cain" to the the majority of songs on albums Tunnel of Love and The Rising.  To know Springsteen music is to know the ethereal.  

     His new song "Rocky Ground" is another high in Bruce's catalog of both the reverence and irreverence of the spiritual and cultural issues of today and of all of history.  The gospel teachings of the Parable of the Sower proves itself as powerful today as it ever was.  And with subtlety, elegance, and a poetic call for spiritual introspection, Bruce shares with us another gem.

The Art of Dan

     It's now official. I've become my father. This is no surprise—our comparable personality traits and mannerisms have been quite obvious for a long time. But it was only recently that the apple fell directly under the tree at the exact same time that the chip came off the old block.

     It happened at the end of basketball practice. The team huddled for a customary cheer and some motivational words from one of the team captains. Far from garrulous and certainly not the most poetic, Lance offered up a hodgepodge of bland and uninspiring words:

      “Okay, guys...good practice today...Umm...Hmm...Let's see...Um...Okay, 'Brotherhood' on three, ready...One, two, three...” (all together) 'Brotherhood' the team mumbles out of sync.

      The team breaks their huddle and I can't let them go without voicing my displeasure over Lance's mundane choice of words.

      “That was just awful” I say as the guys make their way to the locker room. “Worse than awful. For tomorrow you better make sure you give me something a helluva lot better than that. Give me something from Sun Tzu.”

At that Dan turns and mutters partially toward me and partially under his disgruntled breath, “Why's it always gotta be from Sun Tzu?” Instantly irritated by Dan's petulance I snapped backed loudly, “Because I said so!” My glare followed Dan as he left the gym. Him shaking his head and me wanting to wring the neck attached to it.

A Lesson From Coach K

     As Mike Krzyzewski looks to surpass Bob Knight in becoming the all-time winningest coach in NCAA history, I'll be watching along with most every other college basketball fan in the country.

     I'm certainly not the only basketball coach who has devoured just about anything and everything having the name "Coach K" on it:  biographies, articles, his own books and videotapes.  I still have Duke playbook manuals having a Smith-Corona font and picture illustrations of a rail-thin Johnny Dawkins and Jay Bilas with a full head of thick hair, both wearing those classic short shorts of the '80s.  When I watch Coach K's teams play, I always have my notebook at arm's length in case I need to jot something down I haven't seen Duke do over the last two decades.  I mean, it doesn't take a genius IQ to figure out that the soon-to-be 903 win coach probably has a pretty good grasp on the game of basketball.  Especially when said coach has learned a thing or two from his own college coach, a guy with a mere 902 wins.  A guy named Knight.
     

     If imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, then theft is shameless adulation.  I've stolen Krzyzewski's principles on denial defense, his modified motion offense, a number of baseline out-of-bounds plays, and countless other basketball ideas.  I've even found myself personalizing his own sideline posture from time to time-- the way he sits, the way he gestures.  But of all the things I've learned about the game from observing one of the best at his craft, what I've learned from Coach K that has been most important to me is something having nothing to do with basketball.

Sneakers, September, and Springsteen

     Before every young basketball player wanted to be like Mike, I wanted to be like Dan.  Back in the '70's when Nike and Converse were the popular sneakers of choice for most basketball players around town, Danny Trant was the only one I could see who was wearing adidas.  And if the best basketball player around was going to buck the popular trend, then so was I.  To this day, adidas remains my sneaker of choice.  And to this day, each time I pick up a new pair of adidas, images of Danny tearing up the court in those white sneakers with the three red stripes flood my mind.

     
     September has always been one of those defining months of the calender year.  It lets us know that the summer days are coming to an end and our vacationing days are over for awhile.  September tells us that school is back in session and trips to the beach are long gone until next year.  Whether it's you as a teenager or as a parent, early mornings bring with it the traffic of school buses and cooler temperatures.  And at the risk of exposing myself as someone who has watched a "chick-flick" or two over the years, I can't help but feel similar to Tom Hanks' character in You've Got Mail when he says that still, as an adult, "the fall makes me want to go out and buy school supplies."

A Bronx Slap Shot

       
     After a recent lacrosse game, I was chided by teammates Ben McCarthy and Andy Liptak when I admitted that I had never seen the movie Slap Shot. At least not from start to finish, and only in a version edited for television.
     The reaction from my two friends ranged from disbelief to palpable indignation.
      "Are you kidding me? What's wrong with You?!" Ben says.
      "What are you, some kind of fascist, sacrilegious, anti-American, troglodyte (or words to that effect)?" Lippy asks.
     The topic came up during discussions on everyday things, like nuclear physics and the role of cultural differences upon modern global ethics. 

    
     "I've got a lot of talent" Ben says to me. "And I'm not talking about lacrosse, either. You have no idea the talents I possess." I nodded in a "I don't doubt it" fashion, and asked if he had ever seen the movie A Bronx Tale. Both he and Lippy said no, and now I'm the one making accusations of fascism and sacrilege. I explain how Ben's comments reminded me of the theme behind this classic movie's repeated mantra, Robert Deniro claiming "The saddest thing in life is wasted talent".

What the F*#@!?

      I believe that there is an inverse correlation between the use of profanity and level of intelligence.  The more frequent someone curses while speaking, chances are that the lower their I.Q. is.  Of course I have zero empirical evidence to support my hypothesis on this claim, other than only a few decades worth of personal observation.  Nonetheless, my experience and keen Seinfeld-like sociological perception says that all signs point to yes.

    It's been said that "profanity is the common crutch of the conversational cripple", and I tend to agree.  There are few things more vexatious to me than overhearing a conversation between two or more people who have trouble conjugating the verb to be, but have no trouble liberally using the F-word as a noun, verb, adjective, and dangling participle.  This style of dialogue and the use of what I call "conversational profanity", is about as revealing about the participants as admiring the Kardashian sisters or cast members of The Jersey Shore.  There's no rational or intelligent justification for it, and it more than likely proves that the subject at hand prefers reading People magazine over Time or Newsweek.

There's No "I" In Nowitzki

A funny thing happened on the way to the NBA championship title.  The less athletic and less talented team walked away with the Larry O'Brien Trophy.  Dallas Mavericks star Dirk Nowitzki and a supporting cast of past-their-prime players outplayed, outcompeted, and outclassed the overhyped and overconfident Lebron James and the Miami Heat.

     The win for the Mavs epitomized the adage that the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, and that disciplined play, teamwork, and fundamentals will usually outlast showtime and showboating.  Or in this case, the self-proclaimed "King" James and "The Big Three".

     Beyond the on-court differences in strategy and personel between the two teams, what I found quite interesting was the post game press conferences afterward.  A few sample quotes:

     Nowitzki: "This is a win for team basketball.  This is a win for playing as a team on both ends of the floor.  For sharing and passing the ball.  We worked so hard and for so long.  The team had an unbelievable ride.  No one can take this away from us."

     James: "I was able to do things the last two series.  I won two more games than I did in '07.  And hopefully next time I get here I'll win two more games than I did in '11."

Bruce Springsteen vs. Your Wife (by Coach Fun)

A Few (Less) Good Men

     In the movie A Few Good Men, Jack Nicholson's portrayal of Colonel Nathan Jessup earned him a well-deserved Oscar nomination.  It also earned him the honor of having spoken one of the most popular lines in cinematic history: "You can't handle the truth!" the cantankerous Marine commander spouted at the interrogating questions posed to him by the prosecuting attorney during that famous courtroom scene.  The American Film Institute ranks the quote at #29 in their list of  all-time Top 100 most memorable movie quotes.

     But it's Jessup's explanation of why "you can't handle the truth" that speaks volumes about many factions of American society today where vast differences of philosophy can only be understood by those who have experienced those differences first hand.  Although tragically wrong in his decision making that led to the death of a marine under his command, Jessup offers this education to the young lawyer about what life and death combat is all about:

You can take Jimmy Chitwood

     In the movie Hoosiers, Hickory High’s basketball team had only eight members on it. “I thought everyone in Indiana played basketball” its coach Norman Dale inquired upon meeting the team for the first time. One of the players answered that a school with only 64 boys in the whole student body in a town where farming is a necessary priority, leaves very few players available.
     Even if you’ve seen Hoosiers several times, you’d be hard-pressed to remember the names of most of those players, including the one who quickly established to Coach Dale and the viewing audience the all-encompassing theme of the movie: Against all odds…the Cinderella story…David vs. Goliath.

     A commonality among most of the best films ever made is how the theme of the movie carries the story, and its characters, though essential, make up the background setting that propel that theme, not the other way around.

The Responsibility of a Coach

     When Bill Parcells was a 23 yr. old first year assistant coach at Hastings College, he spent an entire week of practice teaching one of his safeties a specific move and strategy in stopping their upcoming opponent’s most effective play. When the Saturday game came and his young player failed at the task at hand, allowing a touchdown on that exact play, Parcells lit into him on the sidelines, on and on, in front of everyone. Noticing the tirade, head coach Dean Pryor told Parcells that that was enough. “But we worked on that play all week” Parcells barked. “Well, you didn’t work on it enough because they scored” the head coach replied. Parcells got the point, and he has never forgotten it.

     As coaches, we sometimes fail to see our own coaching deficiencies while only seeing the deficiencies and mistakes of our players. Probably more than in a lot of other sports, in lacrosse, there seems to be more than enough player failure to go around. Especially if you’re a former player yourself, or if you coach in a youth program or an inexperienced high school or college program. And more often than not, unlike baseball, basketball, football, or soccer, lacrosse lends itself to being more of a challenge to coach, given the popularity and exposure these other sports have in comparison.

Victory Favors the Team Making the Fewest Mistakes

     (Written: June 2007)
     Hall of Fame basketball coach Bob Knight has had a sign in his team’s locker room since he began coaching at Army in the 1960’s and that sign is still present in his Texas Tech locker room in 2007. It simply reads: Victory Favors the Team That Makes the Fewest Mistakes.
     You won't hear any disparaging remarks coming from me when the subject of Coach Knight is brought up. What I’ve learned from Knight about not only basketball and competition, but about character and integrity, I could talk about for hours. But as a coach and player, there are no words in my opinion, that say more about being able to compete in any team sport, better than these nine words.