Home Alone

A Grand View      

     For nine years, I had taken the right turn at the top of Grandview Drive onto Joseph Avenue, once a week, sometimes several times a week, to visit Mom and Dad.  For the last 26 years, it was to visit Mom after Dad passed away in 1999.  There was nothing noteworthy about taking that turn onto Grandview.  It was simply the last turn a few seconds away from pulling into the driveway.  There were countless reasons for me making the trip: mowing the lawn, raking leaves, shoveling the driveway, washing my car, or doing menial tasks around the house to lend a hand.  Mostly, it was simply to visit my parents.  I'd be treated to a home cooked meal, watch a game on television amid conversation with Dad, or spend Sundays and holidays with other visiting family members.  Over the last two and a half decades, it was to see Mom, enjoy her company, and usually be fed something a hundred times better than my usual diet of microwavable and take-out food.  But now everything's changed, and it will never be the same again.  Mom died last September. 

     I still feel like I'm going to pay her a visit each time I make that right turn at the top of Grandview while passing Anderson's old house at 2 Joseph Avenue.  I can see her front yard and driveway as I approach McKenna's house at 11 Joseph (it will forever be McKenna's to me, no matter the current occupants).  Three houses later I turn at the black mailbox with the number 25 on it, and into Mom's driveway.  This is when that feeling of anguish hits me, like a ten-foot wave I can't escape from, eventually soaking my entire body from head to toe.  It's a feeling I still feel, eight months after Mom died, each time I pull into the driveway and park my car.  A tidal wave submerging me beneath an inescapable, palpable weight of sadness, emptiness, and loneliness.  All because Mom is no longer inside the house waiting for me to come inside. Instead, 25 Joseph Avenue is now empty for the first time in 70 years.

      I'm parked in Mom's driveway now, sitting in her blue Ford Fusion.  I've just come from work after my night shift and I'm behind my old Honda Civic (sale pending) that's parked underneath the house's extended roof.  For years, it was the other way around - me in my Civic and the Fusion parked in the left spot by the door, whenever I'd pull into the driveway.  I sit in the car for a while, distracting myself to avoid going in the house.  Finding no one inside is something I haven't gotten used to yet, and it's something I dread each time I walk in the house.  So I delay the inevitable if only for a few minutes.  I fiddle with my phone, or gaze around without looking at anything in particular.  Sometimes I'll just hit scan on the radio dial until I can find a song or two that allows me to delay my exit from the car.  This ritual is almost an everyday occurrence for me now.

     Dad purchased the house for $15,000 in 1957.  A three-bedroom, one bathroom ranch typical of most houses on Joseph Avenue and the connecting streets.  Living in a house this size with six children, even with two converted bedrooms in the basement, seems unimaginable by today's living space standards.  But it wasn't uncommon at the time.  Our neighborhood block was perfectly typical for families like ours growing up.  The Joseph Ave/Grandview Drive block was filled with other young families, and friends mine and my sisters' age were aplenty.  The neighborhood was quiet, because the only traffic was from residents leaving and returning, which made the street itself its own safe playground for bike riding, skateboarding, chalk drawing, and any sports pick-up game.  Wiffleball, frisbee, street hockey, football tossing, and lacrosse catch were all a part of our pavement play.  The constant noise and activity of children and teenagers around our neighborhood lasted from daylight to dusk in the 1970's and 80's.

     I was the last of us six kids to move out of the house when I was 25, leaving Mom and Dad without kids under their roof for the first time in 35 years.  When Dad passed away, Mom was alone by herself there for the last 26 years of her life.  September 18, 2025 was her last day and night there at home.  She called 911 around 10pm and died unexpectantly in the hospital a few hours into the early morning the next day.  

The When

      "When I die..." was a familiar start to a sentence Mom would repeat hundreds of times over her last 26 years.  She wasn't afraid to confront her own mortality in both philosophical and practical ways. Nor was she afraid to voice a plethora of dying wishes, with detailed instructions.

     "When I die, remember my locked safe is in my bedroom closet - it has all my legal and monetary paperwork. Joann has the key."

     "When I die, I don't want a eulogy.  The priest's homily is all I want."

     "When I day, remember, all my funeral costs are paid for.  Use the money in my savings account for The Westwood (restaurant) bill."

     "When I die, make sure you contact Linda Molta (Last Will & Testament attorney)."

     "When I die, make sure you know how to properly turn the stove on and off. I've written it down."

     "When I die, make sure the septic tank is serviced every five years."

     Those last few directives were given to me specifically, because I was named executor.  Being the poorest and spouse-less child were a couple reasons for Mom's decision.  The support of Mom's decision by my sisters made that easier for her, I'm sure.

     "You can do whatever you want with the house" She would say to me.  Move in, sell it, make it into a Bed & Breakfast, you decide."  My response was usually indifferent or comedic whenever Mom brought up the topic of her no longer being here.  "I'll probably die before you, Mom", I'd say. "You know I don't always prioritize my safety in a lot of situations I put myself in."  Mom's absence wasn't something I wanted to contemplate, let alone discuss.  So, I'd respond innocuously:

 

 "The first thing I'm going to do", I'd tell her, "Is get rid of your ugly leather furniture and light fixtures." I hated the three-piece creme-colored furniture in the living room and the two oversized chandelier-like glass ceiling lights in the kitchen.  One of which hung so low that anyone six feet tall or taller had to duck to avoid hitting their head.

     True to my promise, a few weeks after September 19, I did just that.  Out went the leather couch, chair, and loveseat, replaced by my new chenille fabric set from Raymour & Flanagan.  I removed the light fixtures, which involved taken apart about three dozen separate glass panels.  Replacing them with simple, much smaller and much lighter dimmer lights was the first of many changes to come.  In the first month, my Amazon purchase count totaled 43 items.  Light switches and fixtures, kitchen tiles, paint, window blinds, wallpaper, end tables, cabinets, bookshelves, and more.  I bought household necessities I had never owned before: drills, wire splitters, power screwdrivers, a dehumidifier, an air purifier, a ten-foot ladder, just to name a few.

Home Coming

     I moved in the first week of November and immediately I felt like a visitor or a guest in the house.  I still don't refer to the house as my own.  I still say, "I'm at Mom's" and "Meet me at Mom's" (calling it "Mom's" instead of "Mom and Dad's" is simply because Mom was there alone these last few decades).  Living there still feels uncomfortable all these months later.  Being alone by myself in the house I grew up in all these years later, isn't just emotionally and psychologically difficult, but physically taxing. I feel the heartache and heaviness, like a stake in my chest and a barbell on my shoulders.  Instead of a six week and counting healing timeline in the grieving process since Mom's death, I felt like I was back at Day 1 when I moved in.  Worse, I felt this Day 1 was more difficult in a lot of ways than September 19th.  It was easier back at my own place.  Now I was in a house that I never wanted to be mine.  I wanted it to remain Mom's and Dad's forever.  The realization of their absence by being in their home without them, made the loneliness lonelier and the emptiness more agonizing.  I'm just a guest here, no matter what the deed now says. 

     My first night "back home" was predictably unpleasant. Exhausted after three days' worth of moving, I realized I didn't have an Allen wrench to put together my disassembled wooden-pieced bed frame.  I didn't have a flat sofa, so my only option was sleeping in the lounge chair.  Getting comfortable was impossible.  It didn't recline perfectly flat, and the curves and angles of the chair didn't allow for much comfortable sleep at all. Not that that mattered much.  Based on the previous six weeks, I knew I wasn't going to get much sleep anyway.  Putting my mind to rest was a lot harder than putting my body to rest.  I managed only a few hours of fragmented sleep that night and not much more even in my reassembled bed the next night.  Since Mom died, I could count on one hand the number of nights I slept more than a few hours.

      I chose the smallest room as my bedroom, the same bedroom I occupied from age 12 to 19.  Lying awake in my bed on night two, I looked at the four bare walls and recalled how they looked 40 years earlier.  On my left I had a Jennifer Beals poster and a Nike poster of Paul Westphal on a playground basketball court with the caption, Going Home on the bottom.  The opposite wall had a Beatles poster from the Let It Be album, and the four portrait pictures of John, Paul, George, and Ringo that came included in the White Album. Against the window wall sat my mini stereo atop my storage cabinet of record albums and cassette tapes adjacent to my dresser.  Now, only Dad's dresser occupied space next to my bed.  Recalling those early years, I re-imagined my childhood German shepherd Duke, who would push open my bedroom door with his nose and wake me up, alerting me it was time for him to go outside.  I thought how having my own dog now would make for great company.  And maybe help me sort through and cope with the feelings of emotional loss I was unable to reconcile on my own.

Present Past

      Replacing Mom's furniture and kitchen lights was just the start of what I never thought I'd ever become: a home-decorator. For someone with minimum manual labor skills and home fix-up experience, updating things in the house wasn't the easiest undertaking. My sisters did all the cleaning and sifting through Mom's collectables, hauling away or donating decades worth of Mom and Dad's things.  Their help went above and beyond.  But when it came to the house's makeover, I declined all offers of help. I wasn't exactly sure why, but I wanted to go it alone.  I knew I'd never feel like the house was mine, no matter what the deed said.  So, I wanted to make sure whatever changes I made, it would still feel like the family home I grew up in, with all family members, including my parents, having an all-access pass to come and go as they please.  I was also hoping whatever task I undertook would somehow provide some sort of therapeutic relief.

     Once I started refurnishing, I did find it cathartic.  Hours, days, weeks, and months of making changes, just me by myself and my Amazon Alexa for company, gave me a focus and mission.  Painting, putting furniture pieces together, wallpapering, hanging pictures - all lent itself to sorting through a lot of thoughts and emotions, while also helping ignore things that were too overwhelming.  Memories of childhood occupied a good portion of my labor.  The good, the not so good, the happy, the sad, the memorable, the forgetful.  Working alone in the house had my brain taking a virtual reality trip back in time.  From teaching Duke how to roll-over, and later, Roxie, to Dad singing along to Sinatra records playing on our huge stereo console.  From Mom cooking and serving all eight of us a huge Sunday dinner to sibling fights to Christmas mornings to mandatory All In The Family and Happy Days viewings, to first days of school, to parties held when Mom and Dad were away.  Decades of memories flooded my thoughts while I painted, plastered, wallpapered, and put together furniture, keeping me company while Alexa played catalogues of 70's and 80's music by request.  Mom and Dad's transcendent presence was welcomed through it all. 

     Trying to balance doing my own thing while still keeping it Mom's house was imperative.  The fake fireplace TV stand that she loved - that stays.  Framed pictures of Mom and Dad's wedding remain displayed along with Dad's commemorative American flag. The Disney knickknacks and Mickey Mouse cabinet handles in the bathroom are staying, along with other collectables of Mom's affinity for everything Disney.  The three plastic geese occupying the grass in the front yard aren't going anywhere.  No matter that I've always hated them, and despite Mom tasking me with the obnoxious responsibility for changing their location on the lawn every week.  Me cutting the lawn wasn't a priority of hers, but keeping a realistic appearance of her fake plastic geese was.

     That first week in November, I had a dream that Duke came into my room, just like he used to do regularly four decades earlier, tail wagging and nudging me awake with his nose. I awoke with a smile of sentimental happiness coupled with a broken heartstring or two. Emotional duality I feel every day. Memories flicker through the slideshow of my mind's eye and have me simultaneously enjoying and disliking them.  Mostly it's seeing Mom - at the stove cooking something or sitting outside on the deck with her coffee and morning newspaper.  Sometimes I'll walk into the TV room and picture her in her lounge chair reading a book or working on her latest artistic project, waiting for me to come in, sit, and catch up on whatever happenings have passed since my last visit.  These happy images are usually accompanied with the blues.

     I feel like Forrest Gump - in that scene where he awakes to find his Jenny has left the house without notice.  He stands at the bedroom door where she slept, staring at the empty space and the empty room.  He sits motionless in disconsolate thought by the big bow window and again on a wooden rocking chair on his front porch.  I find myself doing the same thing often - walking around or sitting in the emptiness of the house, despondent over the quiet loneliness of time standing still.  I've lived by myself for over thirty years.  No spouse, no live-in girlfriend, no pet.  Yet this is the first time I've ever felt alone.  Mom had been a widow for 26 years, and I only now realize just how lonely she must've felt after Dad died after 42 years of marriage, because my guess is I'm feeling something similar.  Forrest eventually got up from his rocking chair and began his three-year run "to put the past behind (him)".  My running shoes are still in the box.

     After a few weeks in the house, I confessed to Uncle George my emotional turmoil over living at Mom's by myself.  I told him I felt lonely, distressed, unworthy, and most of all uncomfortable being where I was.  I asked him how long he thought this feeling would last.  I was banking on him giving me some sort of comforting platitude like how time heals all wounds and how it'll pass before I know it.  Something, anything, to keep me sane and sanguine.  Instead, he says, "Give it about two or three years.  I'm sure you'll be able to get through it just fine."

     "TWO OR THREE YEARS???" I replied.  "Are you kidding me?  I was hoping it'd be two or three months!"  Jesus, I thought...I don't know if I can handle it if that's my timeline. 

My Old Neighborhood

     The more things change, the more they stay the same.  At least according to some little-known French author of that well-known expression. Conversely, the opposite seems to hold some truth to it as well: that the more things stay the same, the more they change.  Not much in my old neighborhood has changed.  Outside of some modernized renovations, the houses and landscapes on Joseph Avenue and around the block are relatively the same as they were 50 years ago.  But now the neighbor part of the hood is totally different.  When I look out my picture window, unknown figures occupy the house across the street, where Jeff Beach used to live.  Two houses down to the right, the Cavallon's house is now occupied by an anonymous man with a company pickup truck who seems to be doing repairs on it. every day.  Jeff and Mark Cavallon were two of my best childhood friends growing up.  We all played Little League, basketball, and lacrosse together for years and all through high school.  When I sit on my non-leather couch sipping my morning coffee, I have a direct view of McKenna's house on the corner.  Marybeth and Sheila McKenna were inseparable best friends of my older sisters.  The occupants have been there only about a year, after the still recent deaths of Bob and Mary McKenna, Mom's good friends for all those 50 years.  My once-upon-a-time familiar, noisy, and wonderful neighborhood, with mothers and fathers and kids and roaming dogs and cats, whose names and faces were known to everybody, is now filled with people coming and going in quiet anonymity.  Not that I didn't know this many years earlier or understand the reality of changes over time.  But it wasn't a full-time experience for me until now.  There's something dispiriting when your nostalgia gets replaced by something new and unknown.  For someone who has always loved his solitude and privacy, the old neighborhood has become so ghost-like and unfamiliar, even I feel isolated.

Passing Time

     I drove down East Mountain Road on my way to Mom's the other day, after doing some errands and officiating a youth lacrosse game.  I put on my left turn blinker to turn onto Grandview Drive, then turned it off after a few clicks.  I passed Grandview and drove another few miles on East Mountain, wasting time and looking for somewhere else to go.  Somewhere else besides home.  It wasn't the first time I've done this, or the first time I delayed going home by going elsewhere.  It was more like the 100th time.

     "Give it two or three years" I heard Uncle George's voice in my head again.  I'm at month eight now, and I haven't seemed to make much progress at all.  I wonder if therapy would help, I thought.  Or a (therapy) dog.  Maybe I just need a nice long sunny summer of outdoor activity and Vitamin D exposure after the past too many cold months of winter and spring.  Maybe a few more Springsteen concerts or a new Springsteen album might do the trick.  The Stoics acknowledged that, as imperfect human beings, it is perfectly natural to grieve, but not to mourn for eternity.  They say your focus should lie on having celebrated the time shared with a loved one and feeling gratitude for that experience.

     Until I'm able to do that - better than I currently am - I'll probably continue avoiding home from time to time.  I'll probably still detour from taking that turn onto Grandview Drive every now and then until it becomes less of a struggle.  And I'll probably continue sitting in Mom's Fusion in the driveway for a few extra minutes before going inside the house, like I'm doing right now.  Until...

       I finally get out of the car and walk the few steps to the back door.  I unlock the door and step into the kitchen and the quietness of the inside.  I walk over to the sliding glass door to the outside deck and open the blinds to let the morning sunshine in.  I picture Mom sitting outside at the patio table with her morning newspaper, doing the Jumble.  It's a nice, imagined picture I see frequently when I look out at the deck, and per usual, is coupled with a bit of sadness.  That feeling of loss - not as heavy as earlier months - surrounds me again.  The Stoic principle of recovery is there - I can hear it and see it.  It's just not within reach quite yet.  Not today anyway.  Maybe in another two or three more months, or maybe two or three years.  Someday hopefully, 25 Joseph Avenue will feel like home - again.   

Make Rape Evil Again

Laura   

My first personal experience with sexual abuse was when I was a junior in college.  Donna and I had shared a few Psychology courses over the previous three years and became friends.  I'd visit her from time to time in her dorm room in Dickinson Hall, and Laura roomed a few doors down the hallway from her.  Donna introduced the two of us, and we hit it off pretty well.  After a few weeks and a couple dates, Laura and I commenced our first make-out session on the bed in her dorm room.  It seemed to be going okay for a minute or two but abruptly took an eerie turn.

     Laura's lips suddenly froze and her body, which was partially under my own, stiffened like a mannequin.  When I pulled back my face from hers, I saw she wore a catatonic stare, and her eyebrows furrowed and stuck in position.  Her eyes locked onto mine, but her gaze wasn't looking at me as much as it was looking through me, as if her focus was locked on something ten feet behind me.

"Laura? Laura? Are you okay?" I asked.  Nothing.  No response.  Not verbally, not physically.  Her stare was hauntingly lifeless and cold.  She looked like a corpse, with unblinking eyes and a complexion faded to ghost white.

"Hey, what's wrong? Laura...? What's going on?"  I asked, unsuccessfully trying to wake her from whatever trancelike state she was in. Her hands were up against my chest, and she slowly grabbed onto my shirt and clenched it tightly in her white-knuckled fists.  She coiled beneath me. "Stop...stop", she whispered.  Then louder, "Stop! Stop!".

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.

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 earlier.  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.