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.

Dead To Me

      College basketball season started 32 days ago.  So far, around 3,500 Division-I games have been played, most of which have been televised or streamed.  And I have not watched one of them. Or one minute of one of them.  For most of my life, the anticipation of the start of college basketball began once the calendar hit October.  It was something akin to the excitement children feel waiting for Christmas morning, with all its wonderment and special gifts.  When it wasn't college basketball season, I'd fill my entertainment needs by playing or watching lacrosse, hiking, beaching, going to the theater or a comedy show, and attending a few Springsteen concerts if he was on tour.  All of that was a filler of time and space, however. Like the coming attractions before a movie, or the opening act before a favorite band takes stage.  Once Autumn's cool air ended the summer's heat, the countdown began, like December 1st began the countdown to Christmas and Santa Claus.  But this year, there's been no countdown, no anticipation, no Christmas morning.  College basketball is dead to me now.  My five-month long season of joy and dedication, spanning four decades, has come to an end.

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.

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 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.

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.

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. 

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.

Why Johnny Can't Shoot

     Like many of the high school basketball players I've coached over the last 17 years, Drew is as enjoyable a kid as I've ever been around.  He's smart, athletic, and has a terrific work ethic.  He's a player who's always eager to learn and improve; who doesn't shy away from criticism or pout when receiving a tongue lashing for not playing up to his physical and mental capabilities.  That Drew is also a lacrosse player, and from all reports a stud of a player, automatically solidifies him as someone worthy of my extra attention.

     Drew's not loquacious by any means.  If anything, he's more on the shy side, which may seemingly clash up against his athletic 6'5” frame.  Physically he's got an uncanny look and build similar to center Rony Seikaly of old Syracuse fame, masking a personality likened more to genius nerd Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory. But when Drew does open his mouth, his words usually blend a unique mix of self-deprecation, unpredictability, and subtle sarcasm, like there's a good chance he's only a fraternity pledge away from turning into a John Belushi from Animal House.

     But like nearly every high schooler I've coached on the basketball court, Drew drives me nuts on almost a daily basis.  He has made an art form out of being consistently inconsistent.  One day he'll pull down rebounds like Dwight Howard and on the next day like Howard the Duck.  On Monday he'll finish shots going to his right and his left, high side and baseline, and on Tuesday he'll throw up more bricks than a masonry worker on any given day.  And his free throw shooting is no different.

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)