I

    DRAFT    DRAFT    DRAFT    DRAFT    DRAFT

 I doubt Jane Malden thinks about me much these days.  In fact, I can almost guarantee that wherever she is, she hasn't thought about me in probably 35 years or more.  And that's okay.  But that's not the case for me.  She comes to mind at least once a year (sometimes more, depending) each Labor Day weekend.  

     Christmas, New Year's Eve, Valentine's Day, your birthday... some days on the calendar bring with it a certain significance or celebration for most people.  I think I'd be hard-pressed, however, finding someone who would consider Labor Day a holiday of nostalgia or one that ignites the memory cannon.  A day to recognize the American labor movement and the contribution of laborers is typically seen by most as just a three-day weekend and the end of summer. But since 1986, Labor Day weekend has meant something different to me.  Something trivial, maybe, and in the grand scheme of things, certainly insignificant.  But I can't escape the fact that Labor Day always reminds me of Jane, Gordie, Chris, Teddy, and Vern.  Five characters that will forever remain alive and well in a special place in my memory.  Of the five, Jane was the only one who was real.  

     Jane Malden was a year behind me in college.  She had straight, dirty blonde hair parted in the middle and cut to her jawline - a bob cut.  She had brown eyes, a small Barbie-like nose, and prominent cheeks that complimented her slightly crooked, pearly white smile.  She was about 5'6" with a slim figure and small-breasted chest.  Her arms were tone and had prominent shoulders.  Being a swimmer and tennis player played a part in her athletic physique.  She loved being outdoors which seemed to give her a warm, glowing skin tone, even in winter.  On a scale from bland to gorgeous, Jane would fall under the cute-plus category.  Hiking, running, and nature communing were favorite pastimes. Never one to wear make-up or wear anything less comfortable than jeans and a sweatshirt or oversized sweater, the self-described tomboy could stereotypically be judged as gay.  As a classmate and casual friend of hers who shared a few classes together and a few friendly tennis matches and walks together, I wondered that myself.  

     "There's just something about her" my lacrosse teammate Rob would say.  "I don't know what it is, but whatever it is, I like it."  Rob had a major crush on her. That she showed no interest in this ladies' man both confused and titillated him.  She was vivacious and independent yet had a shy vulnerability about her that showed up, only rarely, when she let her guard down and shared something personal.  She was seemingly unphased by outside opinion, and who was interested in dating her.  Unlike the typical coed who used weekends as an excuse to get drunk and engage in activities that inevitably came with Monday morning regret, Jane was different.  I felt the same way Rob did - that there was "something" about her.  But I wasn't going to let him know that.  He and I were the two biggest competitors on the team, and he didn't need another challenge off the field. I had a relationship with her - platonic, yes - but at least I was possibly in a position to upgrade my status.

     To my delight, I eventually learned that no, Jane was not gay.  The summer of 1986, before my senior year and her junior year, I was lucky enough to upgrade my friends-only status. She drove from her home in Cheshire, Connecticut and I made the longer drive from Massachusetts to meet at a beach in East Lyme, Ct.  After a day of sunbathing and swimming, we went out to a sports bar for drinks and a bite to eat.  Afterward, our brief romantic interlude came during a long goodbye by her car in the parking lot.  That she smiled and blushed with shyness between the moments of our kissing only made me crush on her even more.  Eventually we left the parking lot and drove off in separate ways, her in her black Camaro and me in my '76 light blue Pontiac 6000.  Things seemed promising as I drove home in the warm night, happy to have gone from exchanging volleys on the tennis court with Jane to exchanging kisses in a parking lot.  I was well aware, however, that the chances of a relationship status getting any more serious was slim to none.  Our parking lot kissing wasn't so much a new beginning, but a beginning to a goodbye.

     In the upcoming fall semester, Jane was headed to England for a foreign exchange semester.  I resigned myself to the fact that we were never going to be a couple because of that.  But maybe the girl with the simple name would be interested in more blush-inducing activities before she left.  I saw Jane one more time before her trip. 

     It was Labor Day weekend when I took the 50-mile drive to her home in Cheshire.  I stayed in her mom's guestroom Saturday night, and the next day the rain nixed our beach plans, so we decided to see a matinee.  I suggested a new movie that had just come out, Stand By Me.  I may have heard or read a headline praising the movie, though I had no clue what it was about.  The title did entice me, in that it was also the title of a John Lennon song, which, whether relative or not, was reason enough for me wanting to see it.  I didn't realize until after the film, that "Stand By Me" the song, was actually a 1961 song by Ben E. King.  Lennon and many others had done covers of it since.  One other fact I didn't know was that Stand By Me, the movie, was based on a 1982 novella by Stephen King called "The Body".  I learned that decades later (even though it is prominently displayed in the ending credits).

      It was only a year ago when I read my first Stephen King book.  And it was mostly by accident.  No matter how popular and prolific the best-selling author was, his genre of horror fiction wasn't anything I was ever interested in.  Nonfiction was my exclusive reading content.  Be it sports, politics, history, philosophy, or biographies, if it wasn't true, I wasn't interested.  On this particular day, I Googled "best memoirs", and King's On Writing was among those listed.  The summary said it was part autobiography and part a tutorial on how to write well.  After reading it, I became an instant fan.  Underlining lines or paragraphs in books is common for me - in case I want to reread or reference something in the future I found enlightening or provocative.  I doubt I've underlined any other book more than this one.  It prompted me to buy and read his novella, Apt Pupil, a story about a teenager obsessed with Nazism and its horrific acts during the Holocaust. Disturbing and engrossing in detail, King's writing placed me amongst the characters in every scene, watching silently from a few feet away. It reminded me of why I like Bruce Springsteen's songwriting so much.  I feel personally involved in the storytelling, either first or third person.  To date, the eight novellas and one novel I've read of King's have not dissapointed.

     

     I watched Stand By Me three days ago - on Labor Day.  It's a movie layered with personal losses, triumphs, emotional hurt, adolescent humor and innocence.  Both the good and bad elements of pre-teen boyhood and finding your way in a world too big and uncontrollable for the adolescent mind.  I've probably watched the movie a half dozen times or so over the years.  Like any good movie, rewatching often reveals something previously unnoticed or provides a new or different perspective about the film.  On this day, one thing stood out.  My thoughts about director Rob Reiner's death last December.  He and his wife were horrifically murdered by their son.  They died from multiple stab wounds.  In the film, we learn that the adult Chris Chambers dies trying to be a peacemaker - by a knife to the throat.  We learn this as his boyhood image walks away, fading before it disappears.  I made my own short video 12 years ago using this same fade technique on myself, with this exact scene in mind.       

         

     The adult Gordie LaChance says about losing touch with friends over the years: "That's what happens sometimes.  Friends come in and out of your life like busboys in a restaurant." Like most of my college friends from yesteryear, Jane became one of those metaphorical busboys almost immediately after graduation.  But thanks to Stand By Me, I'll remember her at least once a year, every Labor Day.  Along with Gordie, Chris, Teddy, and Vern.  

  And to quote Chris Chambers speaking to Gordie: You might even write about us guys (me) if you ever get hard up for material." 

 

     I remember Jane liking the movie.  But I'm sure she didn't like it as much as I did.  A film only about boys and men tend to be favored by the male viewer.  And like any well scripted and well-made films about the male experience, rewatching such a film is everyone's metric on how good a movie is.  And when real-life experiences automatically bring to mind scenes from the film, you know it's had an impact.

     Like how I co-opted Chris Chambers' line when Gordie says "See ya."  His reply: "Not if I see you first."

     Or being granted two punches to the arm, for the "two for flinching" rule I learned from Teddy Duchamp.

     Or that time I was hiking in Glacier National Park and a pair of doe suddenly appeared only a few feet away on my path, staring motionless at me for a long minute, just like what happened to Gordie by the railroad tracks.

     Or that one year in the '90s, when I was coaching high school lacrosse, and named a defensive alignment "Chopper".  Thanks to my retelling of the movie scene to my players, their response to my play-call to set up in Chopper, was "sick balls!"  

     Or every time I hear Ben E. King's song.

     Or how in my homemade music video When I'm Gone, I ended the video with me walking away, disappearing in a fading effect.  I lifted that directly from the scene of Gordie's narration detailing how Chris died, with Chris fading out of the frame. 

     And recently, when Rob Reiner and his wife were horrifically stabbed to death by their troubled son last December.  After my immediate thoughts of sadness, I thought of Chris Chambers' death - being stabbed in the throat.  That horrific irony and analogy I still won't let myself dive into.   

      

     I doubt that Jane thinks much about Stand By Me these days.  My guess is that she probably never thought much about it at all since we saw it back on Labor Day weekend in 1986. She probably hasn't thought about me either since we lost touch with each other shortly after graduation.  Like the adult Gordie LaChance says at the end of the film: "That happens sometimes.  Friends come in and out of your life like busboys in a restaurant." 

 Holidays tend to bring to mind certain things and certain memories.  The scope of which ranges depending on one's subjective experiences.  Memorial Day could bring about a feeling of sadness for a mother or widow who lost a loved one in the Iraq War, or a feeling of pride for the son of a World War II veteran who lived a long and fulfilling life.  Christmas is a season of joy for most, filled with memories of childhood wonderment and the traditional gift giving and receiving.  For some, it comes coupled with an association with loneliness or depression.  Memories filed in the backs of our mind are brought to the forefront each year when the holiday comes around again.  Sometimes old photographs offer reminders of things past.  Of people past or present, or a particular song, or a movie stuck in time and only relevant once a year. 

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 things will never be the same again.  Mom died last September. 

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.