Spending The Hours - Part III

Spending The Hours - Part III

Sometimes I wonder what I'm gonna do
'Cause there ain't no cure for the summertime blues
 -Eddie Cochran

With both Max and my bladders emptied, it was easier to drift back off to my summer soul-tice.   Wrapping up my thoughts of the Manayunk bike race, I came to a horse of a different color…well actually horses themselves.  Growing up in Valley Stream, if the wind blew the wrong way, you could smell the manure.  Farms? Nope…it was the stables at Belmont Race Track.  While friends during High School would ditch to go there to place a wager, it was a certain Summer Saturday in June we would all look forward to...The Belmont Stakes.

The Friday night before the big race we would do all the prep work.  Beer and booze of all types were packed in an armada of igloos.  A designated few would be our first wave to the park.  I was single, and had no problem indulging before noon, so I was among them.  We would arrive before the gates would open.  Once we could enter, it would be a free for all to find a perfect spot.  Shade and a TV to watch the races was key.  Once our coolers claimed our stake, we would hunt out park benches like we were kids looking for Easter eggs.  These were more prized than a golden ticket.  Once dragged back to our encampment we would have to fend off attacking inquiries.  Onlookers were annoyed it was one man per bench…but each one of us would sit solitarily upon them keeping others at bay…until reinforcements arrived.

It was 1989 and this particular day the crowd was enhanced by the chance at a Triple Crown.  It had been just over 10 years that Affirmed had accomplished this feat and racing enthusiasts were getting antsy.  Ironically, now it has been another 22 years without one and this year, I’ll Have Another, will try and break that streak.  The 1970’s provided 3 of these champions, but this race would be the last chance for the 80’s.   It was Sunday Silence’s turn to make the loudest noise.  This race was turning out to not only be just another run at the Triple Crown…but a battle between two magnificent horses.  The other horse, Easy Goer, had given Sunday Silence all he could handle.  Their battle at the Preakness, the 2^nd Jewel of the Triple Crown, was legendary.  So close was this race that the stretch duel itself would be immortalized on ABC's Wide World of Sports prelude for 12 years…depicting the agony of defeat.

The Belmont Stakes would be one of the last races.  We would have a whole day of food and festivities beforehand.  As the morning turned to afternoon, the crew trickled in.  With each arrival our alcohol was enhanced.  Soon dozens of friends joined the original six.  Our female counterparts arrived with a prepared selection of foods as we were not responsible enough to go beyond imbibing.  Certain revelers we would not see but once a year.  Old friends would soon get reacquainted.  All afternoon people would flow in and out of our park bench fortress.  However, we would all gather around our TV once post time for the big race approached.  Most wagered that Sunday Silence would take the day.  But the horsewhisper among us knew the distance of the race, nicknamed "Test of the Champion", would be his undoing.

Sunday Silence would not prevail this day…it was not even close.  Easy Goer would win by several lengths.  All of us went home disappointed…well, all but one.

The evening was wearing on and Max let out one of his patented big yawns.  I looked at him and laughed.  Only recently had he been introduced to horses.  Max looked at them as if they were big dogs and he wanted to play…I think the horses had other ideas.  It reminded me that I would not be attending this years running of the Belmont Stakes and the next shot at a Triple Crown.  I was in full reminisce mode at this point and ironically thought, well, I guess…

I’ll Have Another…

Spending The Hours - Part II

Spending The Hours - Part II

Summer breeze
Makes me feel fine
Blowing through the jasmine in my mind

-Seals and Croft

Max settled back down next to me.  My refreshed drink helped restart the reminiscing.  As it was still Memorial Day my thoughts turned to the reason we had this day off.  As my summers would march on from this day, the weekend following I would pay tribute.  There is a yearly event in Reading, PA at the Mid Atlantic Air Museum where they transform their tarmac back in time.  It is the annual World War II Weekend, and of course I would attend.

With Memorial Day now in the rearview mirror, I headed off to Pennsylvania to rendezvous with college comrades.  Catching up with them at happy hour of their Friday furlough, we would formulate the weekend’s plan of attack.  On Saturday morning we headed to Reading Regional Airport, but when we arrived it would be Spaatz Field and the 1940’s.  Planes buzzed overhead, as you made your way through the military encampments below.  Over the loud speakers you could listen to Glen Miller's band…and it was better than before.  Re-enactors were everywhere…armed and ever playing the part.  You felt that you were the one out of time and place.  In the hangar however, were the real heroes.  Lines formed for a handshake, a photo and an autograph…and an all around “Thank You” for allowing us to be here today.

One of those times I had the opportunity to meet Captain Morgan.  No, not the pirate of rum fame.  This was Captain ROBERT Morgan; pilot of the famous plane made movie, Memphis Belle…where a young Matthew Modine amply portrayed him.  There was some playful banter between Captain Morgan and a P-51 pilot located at another table.  Morgan was the more stoic of the two and rarely took the bait.  Realizing he was the instigator, the P-51 pilot proudly proclaimed…”We fighter pilots are all pompous jerks, and that helped keep us alive in those hostile skies”.  Morgan nodded in agreement, as he knew they had bailed out his bombers many a time.  If you did not see the movie Memphis Belle, it was centered on the first bomber crew to complete its tour of duty…25 missions.  Not one had ever survived that many before.  Obviously, they made it…otherwise no movie…and more importantly, no Captain Robert Morgan sitting in front of me.  What the movie did not tell you was even more amazing about this gentleman.  After he completed the 25 missions, and after being sent home as a hero and selling war bonds for the cause…he went back.  He would fly an additional 24 bombing missions over Japan.

In the summers following, I would go back excited to see him again.  One year when I arrived, I noticed something was not quite right.  His booth was there, but gone were the lines of people, the photographers, the autograph seekers…and Captain Robert Morgan himself.  During that year, we had lost our hero to time…and somehow our society failed to let us all know.  Well, I am doing that now.

On Sunday of the same weekend, in the neighboring area, was the Manayunk bicycle race.  Nice…a two-fer!  This event is a scenic 156-mile classic through the city and outlying suburbs of Philadelphia.  It is revered as the longest running and most important single-day road race in the country.  This year there was a pre-race buzz. A young all-America bike rider, a 21-year-old Texan, a professional for only nine months, was competing…Lance Edward Armstrong.

Our Sunday would start Saturday night…and as any race enthusiast would tell you, it is the party before the party that counts.  The town of Manayunk was shut down to traffic in preparation.  The streets were prepped for the race and those lucky to live along the path put forth the parties.  My friend knew the locals so we were invited to partake.   Come Sunday morning, I was told there is only one place to see the race…the top of “The Wall”.  While it sounds innocent enough, upon seeing it, Roger Waters might have altered his lyrics.  The Manayunk Wall is a cruel, thigh-shredding half-mile uphill incline.  I was amazed they had to cycle up this, then I was more amazed to learn I would have to walk up it!

Sunday morning arrived, and me and my hangover headed up “The Wall” to our pre-race positioning.  While this half mile incline may not seem like much, walk it some day…dehydrated from the night before, lugging a wheel-less cooler of beer, in 80+ degree sticky Philly suburb weather…then get back to me.  By mid morning we would arrive at our perch.  Directly a top “The Wall” was a VFW.  It was opened to the public and provided restrooms, but with a catch…you would have to buy one of their beers first.  Yep, I accept your terms.  On the first lap I realized the pot of gold at the end of our rainbow.  While those who sat low, or on street corners or straight-aways caught a fleeting glimpse…”The Wall” provided us with a still shot.  As the cyclers reached the pinnacle of their struggle up the incline, it was like they were motionless…hanging in mid air.  They would be able to hear every decibel of your encouragement.  You could easily identify the riders…and the one we all came to see...and Lance Armstrong would win the race easily that day.

We would have many years with the flying and cycling summer weekend.  I had always found it fitting to combine the two since the Wright Brothers were originally bicycle makers.  They used this endeavor to fund their growing interest in flight. This one weekend however, would be the only special weekend to combine two legends, Captain Robert Morgan and Lance Armstrong.  I am going to go out on a limb and guess which one you knew about before this blog…

Max and I now both had to pee…one of us used the bathroom, the other the bushes…at this point I am not sure who did which.  I returned to my chaise lounge to continue my journey.  As Max arrived back, I patted my own little legend on his head.

I sat there disappointed that this weekend did not include the local Jones Beach airshow.  But as I reminisced, I was glad I was able to attend the one held years earlier in Reading.

Before I missed a chance to meet a hero.

Spending The Hours - Beginning

Spending The Hours - Beginning

Some are like summer coming back every year
got your baby, got your blanket
got your bucket of beer

-James Taylor

This weekend was the unofficial start of the summer.  On Monday evening, after all had come and gone from the weekend, I found myself sitting with Max…sipping what was left of my drink.  Due to circumstances and scheduling, my ideal plans for the 3 days never materialized.  I took a moment in that solitude, Max now asleep at my feet, to reminisce of summers gone by.  Memorial Day weekend used to kick off what was a carefully orchestrated string of events, trying to squeeze every moment out of these sunny days.

Memorial Day weekend would bring the start of our Hampton’s House share.  The holiday weekends were a free for all, since all in the house were invited…including half shares.  As a ½ share myself, this gave me opportunity to mingle with the B-side to our A.  If lucky enough, you might find new friends on the other side, allowing you passage to the house on your off weekends.  My fellow coworker and I would always get a head start on this potential make or break weekend.  What better way than to take the Friday off beforehand.  Our warm up spot would reside on Dune Rd…THE road if you know the Hamptons.  Summers appropriately would be our destination.  While this bar was usually reserved for the pumped and the pretty, the weekdays were a bit different.  We would usually be among the faculty and foreigners, those who have ample time off.

One year I would not allow the weather to deter us.  An early fog and forecasters called for rain.  I convinced my pal this would not be the case.  Having roomed with a meteorologist major I had long since watched the weather channel creating my own conclusions.  We arrived at Summers only to find winter.  Bars boarded up, windows closed.  We found a lone sole packing up equipment.  It was the DJ and he informed us, Not today gentleman.  I told him my chronicle of climate.  He spotted the owner looking to leave.  The DJ offered to open one of the smaller bars for the two fellows who traveled out here for their yearly tradition.  The owner acquiesced.  It was noon and we could look across at Neptune’s Bar, barren of life.  The clock struck one and the fog began to lift.  Behind it was not the forecasted rain clouds but a brilliant bright sun…and the crowd came.  The owner emerged from his office realizing he had sent his service staff home.  He scrambled to retrieve them, as the DJ became a one-man show.  Dozens of drinkers turned into droves.  The owner finally formulated some semblance of sanity from the chaos.  He approached the DJ and stated "Can you imagine? I was closed this morning and this turned into a big money making day!"  He inquired where the young lads who braved the early morning chill and forced his bar open.  The DJ pointed to us...we would not have to pay for drinks the rest of the day.

We would head to the house conquering heroes.  Some housemates had even heard the tale of the two who forced summer to come to Summers.  It was a great start to an even better season.

With the reminiscing done for the moment, Max awoke as I headed to refill my glass.  A milk-bone for Max, and a Mike’s for Mike…I headed back poolside and fell into a dream…

Thinking of what was the next song in this summer set.

Part II Tomorrow

Hard Day's Night

Hard Day's Night

Yesterday, Christina was staying at a friend’s so Max and I would have a boys-night at home.  Unfortunately I wound up having to work late.  I felt bad for Max that he had to wait a little longer to be let out.  When I got home he greeted me like it was any other night…of course it was directly out to do business first.  Afterwards, he did seem to have a look of concern.  Maybe he felt that it was his fault I was away so long.  I tried to reassure him with words that this was not the case.  Cesar says don’t place human emotions on a dog.  I say F*@K him.  He never met Max.

When it was time to retire, Max took Christina’s side of the bed.  He would have one of his worst nights yet.  I could feel the bed quiver even before his midnight terrors began.  I would wake him and wait for a tail wag and a kiss…a sign he was fully awake and pulled from his panic.  As we fell back asleep, whatever haunted him returned.  We continued the waking routine through most of the night.  Before I left for work in the morning, I sat with him a bit.  I did not want to leave him alone to his dreams.

As with arriving home late, I wish he could tell me what it was that brought him to this dark place.  It reminded me of something someone sent to me.  The 10 Things Your Dog Would Tell You if he could talk… and I address each with Max in mind.

1. My life is likely to last 10 to 15 years. Any separation from you will be painful: remember that before you get me:

Of course this one hit me right away since it applied directly to my late arrival home.  I have more separation anxiety from you Max, than you have from me...trust me.

2. Give me time to understand what you want of me.

Max listens to every word I say, head tilted when he does not quite recognize the meaning.  I actually have to be careful, as my words are not always intended for him.  At first, when I yelled at a sporting event on TV, which I tend to do from time to time, he would head into his cage.  After a few treats and an explanation, he now doesn't move from the couch.  Daddy’s crazy, he gets that now.

3. Place your trust in me- it is crucial to my well-being.

When we first got Max, Christina wanted her Dad to meet him.  Apparently, what she never knew was that her Dad was hesitant around large dogs.  Are you sure you are his daughter?  I would show him how much trust I had in Max.  I opened Max’s mouth wide and would place my face between his teeth.  My Father-in-law and Max are now good friends.

4. Do not be angry with me for long, and do not lock me up as punishment.

I try not to be angry with Max, but it happens…like with a spouse, co-workers and friends too.  It is how you handle that anger that matters.  Max was trained to get a time out in his cage.  With the command “CAGE”, he knows he did something wrong and off he goes.  There are times he does something wrong and he puts HIMSELF in the cage.  See if any of YOUR kids give themselves their own timeout!  Max, I am never really angry with you...you are my spoiled child, you do no wrong...and in all honesty, for the most part you haven't.  Sometimes you just need a little encouragement to do the right thing.

5. You have your work, your entertainment, and your friends. I only have you.

While I am at work, my entertainment and with my friends, all I do is want to be with you and I talk about you...I know, my friends are tired of it.  Oh, and check out this blog entry.

6. Talk to me sometimes. Even if I don't understand your words, I understand your voice when it is speaking to me.

I talk to Max all the time, he listens better than Christina!  I don’t dumb it down for him either. I find myself talking in full sentences and he seems to understand.

7. Be aware that however you treat me, I will never forget.

I am only too aware of this because of your treatment from your previous owner.  Apparently you have not forgotten…even as hard as we try to erase it with good thoughts.  And I know how you feel about me.  I saw how you greeted me upon my return from New Orleans...if we got that on video we might have been 10,000 bucks richer!

8. Remember before you hit me that I have teeth that could easily hurt you, but I choose not to bite you because I love you.

Refer back to the part where I am putting my face in his mouth.

9. Before you scold me for being uncooperative, obstinate or lazy, ask yourself if something might be bothering me. Perhaps I might not be getting the right food, or I have been out too long, or my heart is getting to old and weak.

Scold? Like Max, stop giving me so many kisses I need to breathe.  I try and understand his needs…but isn’t this the point of this blog…I WISH he could just tell me!

10. Take care of me when I get old; you too will grow old. Go with me on difficult journeys. Never say: "I cannot bear to watch" or "Let it happen in my absence." Everything is easier for me if you are there, even my death.

This will be the hardest thing I will ever have to do.  But you have earned it from me.  For all the good things you have given to me, and the ones that are still to come…I will be there for you.  I will not let you travel your final journey alone.  I will hold you and sing you your song…as you head off for your final slumber.

Maybe then you will only have good dreams…

American No How

American No How

They’ve been working on the East Side Access, over two thousand days….

They’ve been working on the East Side Access, as our infrastructure decays…

In 2006 the East Side Access project was signed, sealed and just had to be delivered.  The due date was set for 2011.  This coincided with my office's projected move to Midtown East.  What timing!  But 2011 turned in 2012, then 2016…and the latest is now 2019.  The work is now taking 2 ½ times the original projection.  It made me think back…how did this country ever get to where it is today.  What happened to us as a thriving society?  Have we just become so corrupt, or have we become too complacent…

I decided to look back at other major milestones in our Nation’s history.  I wanted to compare rail apples, to rail apples so I decided my first stop would be the First Transcontinental Railroad.  This stretch of track broke ground in 1863 and was completed in 1869… while having a little thing like the Civil War being fought.  We were able to finish going across the country in less than 7 years…it has almost been 7 years for the MTA and they haven’t made it across town.  I am sure in the 1860’s some palms were greased more than the tracks themselves…however there was a drive to complete this venture unlike today’s projects.  There were no modern marvels back then, just backbreaking work.  The Central Pacific railroad coming from the west had to go through the foothills of the Sierra Nevada, then by the mountains themselves and most importantly the winter snowstorms.  The Union Pacific had easier terrain, but had to deal with Indian raids since the workers were intruding on their land.  I can only imagine how long and over budget the MTA would be with this today…and no one is shooting arrows at them.

I then went from rail to road…or bridge to be exact.  The Brooklyn Bridge, the oldest suspension bridge we have here in the States.  It was the longest suspension bridge upon its opening in 1883…and when did they break ground?  1870.  13 years for the workers of their day to span the East River with a wonder of the world at the time.  Today it takes them 13 years just to pave the roadway spanning it.  To give you some time reference, the first car produced for the masses in the U.S. was an Oldsmobile, there were 425 sold in 1901.  Henry Ford did not roll out his Model T until 1908.  Both were several years after you would think you would have NEEDED a bridge of that magnitude.  Back then they had the foresight.  Really, has Manhattan gotten that much bigger from say 1980 to today that the East Side access might have been planned BEFORE it became a need?  Not in today’s world…or MTA’s world.

I went across, how about up…lets say 102 stories up!  The Empire State Building was started January 1930 and completed in May of 1931.  Not being a mechanical engineer, I assume going up seems to be easier than going across.  But still, imagine if the MTA had its say in this project?  I am sure the completion date would have been pushed back several years.  Poor King Kong…what would he have climbed in 1933 if the MTA had been in charge!

Now I started thinking outside the box.  What about something that SHOULD take time.  A project you did not want to rush…how about Mount Rushmore.  From 1927 to 1941, over 400 workers sculpted the colossal 60-foot high carvings…and I believe that was Abraham Lincoln’s nose alone!  14 years to complete.  If the MTA stays on schedule….hahahahahahahaha, sorry, I have to compose myself…the East Side access will be complete in 13 years.  Maybe they should alter the sculptures to put frowns on our founding fathers to show their disgust.

These four examples showed what our country could do when they put their mind behind it.  I am going to rule out corruption, because I will assume that will never change.  Somehow complacency has crept into the heart of Americans.  We complain about things that really aren’t, and turn a blind eye to the things that are.  A few years back a show called The Crumpling of America was televised.  It documented the disasters lurking in our untouched infrastructure.  Had this been on FOX instead of the History Channel, the sheeple would be up in arms for our politicians to act.  Instead our short attention span is focused elsewhere…and shame on the media, FOX and all the others, for not bringing this to the forefront.

Do you remember the I-35 Bridge in Minneapolis that collapsed in August of 2007?  When it did, it was 24/7 news.  It was caught on a security camera and the images shocked a nation.  It has now been long forgotten.  The collapsed bridge left 140,000 daily vehicles with no access across the Mississippi River.  By the way, that is the approximate number the MTA hopes to help with the East Side Access.  What the media did not show, because it is not dirty laundry, was good old American ingenuity jump into action.  This is something that has been long dormant for our infrastructure...I reference the trains built in 1980 I still commute on.  Within a few days of the collapse, the Minnesota Department of Transportation planned a replacement bridge.  Construction was completed rapidly, and it opened in September of 2008…a little over a year later.  It was state of the art with LED lighting and concrete that absorbs the cars' carbon monoxide…YES, I said concrete that absorbs carbon monoxide!  I can’t even get a train with toilets that work!  The know how is there…why are we so stuck behind the times?  Why does it take a tragedy to show we can…when all we need to do is plan for our future.

The LIRR was due to arrive at Grand Central Station through the East Side Access in 2011.  It will now be there in 2019…some 8 years late.

Maybe I shouldn’t complain when my Ronkonkoma train is only a half hour behind schedule…

Bus’ted

Bus’ted

As we head towards Memorial Day weekend, we all have thoughts of summer dancing in our heads.  One of the blessings that will come with it is the removal of the abundance of school buses on the roadway.  They are the Cicadas of the school season.

I have heard that the wheels on the bus go round and round.  Apparently the one’s directly in front of me go round and stop…round and stop.  As I am rushing to catch a train, kids converge in front of their own house.  They are chauffeured away like these were big yellow taxis instead.  Couldn’t these groups assemble on a corner for one prime pick up place?  Instead I have a front row seat for the morning ritual:  Blinking lights on, stop bus, stop sign out, doors open, kid gets in, close doors, kid sits, stop sign in, blinking lights off, move bus to the next house and repeat.  And just when we get to the end of the block, the bus is sure to miss the light.  This way, it sits with its right blinker on, preventing me from turning on red…at the longest light in Long Island history.  Just once I wish it was piloted by Otto, ignoring students and street signage alike.  But Mike, it’s just a bus and the children, oh the children, need to get to school right?  Well, yeah I suppose…but my bus disgust travels back a bit.

In our old neighborhood, the main bus yard was right around our block.  Even with the convenience of this location, they did not provide passage for our local students.  Instead, the black refuse that plumed from their exhaust choked us.  As they returned from the allotted rounds they backed up our streets.  Making matters worse, the captains of these yellow demons parked their own vehicles on our street.  This would force us to play ball elsewhere, where one might not know what a new fangled sewer looks like.  Our parents complained all the way up to the Mayor, bus our kids and stop blocking our driveways.  Their words fell on deaf ears.  You CAN fight city hall, just don’t expect to win.

It was a Friday afternoon near the end of the school year, my first in Junior High.  As usual, our gang gathered on the corner.  We would watch the incoming buses and the exodus of parked cars so we could settle on our playing field for the day.  Taking our parents lead, we learned to despise them.  As the last car departed, the players took to the blacktop field.  I had recently been to the doctor to have a huge blood blister drained that was on my ankle.  Yuck!  I had no idea how I got it, I have never had one since.  So this day I was a spectator, my ankle wrapped, the drain still inserted and me in flip-flops.  I settled into a spot on the curb when I noticed it.  One of the drivers in his haste had dropped his keys…and not ANY keys, but the keys to his yellow chariot…#222.  We decided to act.

The following morning about a dozen or so of us amassed across from the bus yard.  It was a collection of kids, boys and girls, ranging in age…but most of us in our early double digits.  We entered through a side gate and searched out #222. The buses were bunched like a can of yellow sardines. We found the big fish, she was nestled right in the middle.  We opened her up and took our rightful place in the seats that should have been used to shuttle US to school.  It was suggested that someone take the helm.  Never one to be shy, I occupied the driver’s seat and did my best Ralph Kramden.  The bus was blocked and we never intended to take her for a spin.   However, all the other gadgets were at the ready.  Blinking lights on, stop sign out, doors open, kid gets in, close doors…I am sure you have heard this somewhere before.  We decided to start her up, just to let some of that famous black puke smother it’s own.  What we didn’t know is they had Saturday security.  The sudden rumbling sound awoke them from their slumber.  Someone was coming.  We exited the bus as I shouted, "I think this is our stop".  We climbed on top of the bus.  We walked across the yellow rooftops of the tightly packed buses. This was the easiest way out and best way to avoid security.  That was fine by me considering my flip-flop state.  We squeezed back through the gate and out we went.  We could here them yelling “We called the cops on you!”  This was always an idol threat in our neighborhood…no one ever did call.  We laughed it off and headed up the block.

We were about a block and a half away when the laughter stopped.  Two unmarked cop cars pulled up like they were Starsky and Hutch.  We bolted down the block and the chase began.  We turned the corner and a few chose to cross the street to the park to seek refuge.  The majority headed to that blocks end, to make another right.  We had now rounded the corner and were heading down the next block.  The group darted into a backyard.  Flip flopping my way in the rear, I followed.  I entered the back yard to see everyone find a hiding place…behind bushes, the side of the garage, under the car.  I was brought to a halt by the chain link fence in the back of the yard…and with no cover.  All the good spots were taken and I froze.  That was until I heard behind me…“Freeze!”  Without looking back I hopped over the fence like I was an Olympic high jump hopeful…flip-flops and all.  As I got to that house’s front yard I could hear the fence rattle behind me.  Flip-flops don’t fail me now!  I was now headed back TOWARDS the bus yard.  I looked back but did not see my pursuer.  I continued a few houses down and dove behind a car in a driveway before I could be spotted.  I thought, if needed, I could continue through the yards. This was MY briar patch and they were not gonna catch this rabbit.  Just one thing, I noticed I was not the only one panting.  As I turned to my right, there he was behind the fence.  Today you have Pit Bulls and Rottweilers that frighten the masses, my nemesis back then was the German Sheppard.  Knowing the yard was occupied, I was now trapped.  I peered under the car to see if the coast was clear.  Too late!  Someone was coming.  I begged with Rin Tin Tin not to bark…so we know what he did.  His howl was loud and strong, like the fire alarms that sounded in the neighborhood to alert the volunteers.  The feet approached the car and I gave in to my somber situation.  I was prone and my head looked up for mercy…only to see my friend’s grade school brother.

He informed me that when I hopped the fence, all the others panicked.  They came out of their hiding places and Nassau’s finest had their hands full rounding them up.  The fence’s rattle was the smallest of us following me.  I guess between flip-flop boy and a 7 year old the cops decided not to pursue, they had bigger fish to fry.  But we were still not out of the woods.  We couldn't retrace our steps, we would have to go forward.  I held the boys hand like I was taking my younger sibling for a stroll.  We were mostly Irish kids in the neighborhood so we were easily interchangeable.  We just whistled past the bus yard.  With all the commotion in front they never gave us a second thought.

Later that day the news was all over the neighborhood.  Everyone involved had received Juvenile Delinquent cards…well, almost everyone.  My parents had no doubt I was part of it.  They must have wondered how flatfooted the officers were to allow me to escape in flip-flops.  I think they were just happy they did not have to pick me up from the police precinct.

I guess I couldn’t have taken the bus home…

There's None in My Raincoat

There's None in My Raincoat

In my life I have been accused of many things…and most of the times, I can say…Guilty as Charged.  But what happened Friday night at Yankee Stadium caught me off guard…and it wasn’t the first time.

During the inning break, my buddy and I bolted to the bathroom.  At the exit of the Men’s room there is a family facility, which for convenience sake, I have used before.  The door was left wide open and my companion offered me the unoccupied.  As I exited, I was confronted by security.  Wait here.  She ducked her head in the john and quickly emerged.  Did I pee on the seat?  Did I leave the seat up?   I was ordered to offer up my ticket.  I had no idea what I did wrong.  She said she smelled smoke.  I responded, maybe she should call the fire department.  Not humored at all, she shot back “No Sir, you were smoking in there weren’t you.” I flashed back to childhood like Anton Ego did when he tasted Remy’s Ratatouille.

I never understood smoking, but I never lectured those who do.  However growing up with my Mom and Step Dad, cigarettes were a hotter commodity for them than for incarcerated individuals. Our freezer was filled with cartons of the carcinogens as if smoking prohibition was on the horizon.  No room for chicken or chops, we needed to keep the Bel-Air and Pall Mall fresh.  I don’t think I ever saw them kiss only observing their ritual of touching cigarettes to ignite.  When they professed they held a flame for each other, I didn’t know it was from a Bic.  I did not take my meals in the kitchen, rather I retired to my room.  Even at the dinner table my parents smoked like North Jersey.  It was not my ideal idea of smoked meats.  Others wondered how I did not become a smoker.  This actually drove me further from it as possible.  Even back then, I was astonished when I became a kid accused.

I was in the 6^th grade and with it came a yearly ritual.  The graduating grade schoolers would go on a week long trip.  It was the first time many a kid had been parentless, let alone out of the nest.  The destination was upstate New York and we would have a week packed with events.  The final evening was skit night at the lodge and I was the last one out of our cabin…actually the last one out of all the cabins.  Reminds me of a line from Stripes where Sergeant Hulka approached Bill Murray:  “I noticed you are always last.”  Murray responds with “I am pacing myself”.  Well, for those who know me, apparently all my life I have been pacing myself.

As I headed in the frozen darkness towards the lodge, I wanted to scribe a few facts in the journal I was keeping.  Hmm, maybe someone should have directed me towards a writing career…Guidance Counselor anyone?  I spotted a spotlight off of one of the barns and stood under it like I was up on a stage.  I placed my mini-golf like pencil in my mouth so I could remove my mittens.  I thumbed through the book to the place were I left off.  Then I heard it through the darkness.  “Hey, Kid…come over here”.  I was more annoyed than apprehensive, I was already late and still needed to jot down my thoughts.  It was a counselor and he inquired, “Where are they?”, like it was some kind of code and I needed the proper response to pass.  I had no idea what he was talking about so I offered no answer.  I half expected his next inquiry to be “Is it safe?”  Miffed at my silence he finally asked if I was smoking.  What?  I thought maybe I failed to leave the smell of my house at home.  He asked for the contraband, but I could not offer up what I did not have.  I was frisked.  Hmm, no Amber Alerts back then.  Not getting what he wanted…well, at least I hope he didn’t…he was pissed off and let me pass.  He said I must have ditched them in the woods.  I finally arrived at the lodge, tepid and tardy.  I found a seat near my friend and he offered up one of his gems, “It’s cold as balls out there…I was blowing smoke out of my mouth and nads”.  He always ended everything with "and nads".  While I was a little concerned of what medical malady could have his testicles steaming, it was the former that helped me solve the smoking situation.  What the cantankerous counselor had seen under the light that night, was a pencil in my mouth and the cold smoke of my breathe.

Having that flashback subside…I found I was still standing before my Stadium accuser.  She had my ticket in hand and was stamping it for a smoking offense.  I could not convince her otherwise.

Apparently where there is smoke, there is Mike smoking…

Game Time

Game Time

During my dating career, whenever a girl would break up with me…and they eventually would…I would find myself with idle time.  Before the Devil could fill my dance card I would break from the routine boredom.  Not necessarily with a ‘bucket list” per say, since I was closer to the starting gate than the finish line…but with things I now had time for.

I won’t rehash history that I am a buff of…well...history…specifically World War II.  I immerse myself in everything associated…movies, books, artwork, models… and board games.  Somewhere around the age of 10, if I wasn’t falling into sewers, I was partaking in these historical board games.  Risk and Stratego were Milton Bradley’s mainstream, but we delved into detailed games where rulebooks resembled novels.  On rainy days in the summer, we would set up shop in a hobby store.  The proprietor preferred our presence as it attracted attention to his gaming inventory.  In 1983, as I went away to college, time for this went away too.

It had just turned 1991 and dumping me was apparently on someone’s New Years resolution list.  With time now on my side, I sought out a solution.  It had been 7 years since I had war-gamed and I had the itch.  Business at my old hobby hangout had long since ceased.  I needed to locate a new locale where I could find fellow gamers.  I let my fingers do the walking, and I discovered a destination.  This new store had a bulletin board for messages, it was facebook of its time.  I noticed a flyer with a new game starting, Empire in Arms.  I called and was invited to join.

I had a hard time locating their venue and arrived a bit late…and that perturbed the players.  It was an interesting group.  I am EXTREMELY competitive and I started to size up the competition.  You had the alpha…he immediately stood out as the one to beat.  Not so much to become alpha myself, but to silence his bravado.  I could also see he pegged me as a rube.  That’s fine, let him think less of me…it will certainly piss him off when I show more.  Then you had the biker dude.  I was glad he preferred to kill things made of cardboard instead of flesh.  I knew I could use his aggressiveness against him.  A third was the biker’s complete opposite.  He was laid back.  He preferred a drag on his cigarette and a gulp of beer than having to actually move the pieces.  The 4^th I would soon learn was the die roller.  Like a gunslinger in the old west, you did not want to go one on one in a rolling shootout with him.  The final foe was the host.  Friendly and sarcastic…I could have been his brother, which I was mistaken for on later occasions.  This group was older, and being 25 and looking 18, I was nicknamed The Kid.  By the way, I won that first game.

The group gathered in this incarnation for several years.  Eventually, the biker dude dropped out, or was arrested…not sure which.  The laid back guy lost interest…shocking!  They were replaced with two gamers who were friends with each other…and they fit right in.  By the turn of the century we would break away from Alpha, as it became less about fun and more about winning at all costs.

The remaining group still gathers frequently today, but as good friends now…and not always for gaming.  Vacations, weddings, birthdays…and funerals.  In 2006 we lost one all too soon.

In 1991, I went looking to fill some idle time…instead I wound up filling a lifetime.

Sailing Away

Sailing Away

Tomorrow marks the first time this season I will be going to a Yankee game.  And for the first time in almost 15 years, I will be attending without a season ticket.  A combination of economy, relocation and transportation led to the lapse of the ticket renewal.  The latter carrying more significance than the others.  See, our pregame was part of the ritual itself.  And it seems that every time we thought we got it right, it left us.

Well before the birth of a new Yankee Stadium, our path to the park was via parkway.  Upon arrival, our parking preference was part of the local penitentiary.  This second story setting was seemingly set aside for us…the parking, not the penitentiary.  Unlike the multi-layered Kinney lot adjacent to the Stadium, this unknown gem had easy in, easy out access.  You were within arms reach of the Deegan, where passing truckers would blast their horns at the rooftop tailgaters.  You had room for a catch, or even a football game.  Fans mingled among one another and familiar faces were abundant.  It was a concrete paradise…and at the bottom of the exit ramp laid an oasis.  Ozzie and his hot dog cart.  But these were no ordinary wieners, these were Ozzie dogs.  A creation made famous by this peddler of pigs in a blanket.  A collection of condiments created a chorus of flavors.  I’ll take two please…

With plans of a new Stadium on the horizon, there was no place for the concrete correctional facility.  Down came the structure…parking and all.  We never did see Ozzie again…making me wonder if he was actually on work furlough from the bygone building.

Now what?  Removal of spaces was bad enough, now they cordoned off a huge area for the new “Home of the Yankees”.  This left many parkers parkless.  We needed something new.  This happened to coincide with my occupation moving me to Manhattan.  It was here I would discover something awesome.  Our tailgate would head to the high seas.  I give you the Yankee Clipper.

This ship set sail from Pier 11, but our journey would begin well before.  A few hours before departure, we would seek out a familiar watering hole.  Hey, we were no longer motorists…no need to moderate.  Our stop, Blind Tiger Ale House on Bleecker.  In warmer weather the bar was windowless and we would procure a prime spot.  If we were lucky, a microbrewer had saturated the taps with their brand a day before…and we would sample as many as we could.  5:00pm and we were off to catch the 1 down to South Ferry.  We would board our boat, and head straight aft…for that was where the bar was.  A few beers bought and we headed to the bow.  What a way to go to the game.  We passed under the BMW bridges and headed up the East River.  This wonderful whirl seemed to be uncharted by locals, as tourists always surrounded us.  My baseball buddy would become an impromptu tour guide.  He pointed out landmarks on both banks, adding in his own experiences as we sailed on.  I was always surprised someone didn’t try to tip him, as one would think he was part of the Clipper experience.  About an hour up river we would disembark.

The Clipper would head home 30 minutes after game’s end.  We would work our way back to the boat and resume our position on the bow…beers in hand.  The city was now lit up in all its glory.  An amazing site to see from our standpoint.  A cool breeze off the river refreshed after a drawn out day.  High tide was our only hassle …with many a time the Captain asking the passengers to head forward to allow the vessel to clear under the smaller bridges.  As the pilot’s bridge passed safely under one, a cheer went up from the voyagers as if Jeter had stepped up to the plate once again.  Our return trip would be shorter, since we would exit at 34^th st.  Not so much that we wanted off…but more because at that location was a little Mexican cantina we would frequent right before closing.  The staff knew us and our assigned mission was to finish the frozen Margaritas…they couldn’t keep and would only be tossed.  After our mission was accomplished, we would cab it to Penn.  My hour and a ½ railroad ride home awaited.  Hey, who won the game anyway?

Before last season the Yankee Clipper was discontinued due to high costing diesel.  Last year Delta stepped up and sponsored a one-way water taxi to the game.  However it seems they were only trying to wean us off the water.  We went from full, to half to now none…as the Delta shuttle was shut down too.

Gone is the topside tailgating.  Missing will be our wonderful waterway.  We are taking the subway to the Stadium tomorrow.  The D line.

I think D is the grade I will be giving our new pregame experience.

When I Knee'd You

When I Knee'd You

Two weeks ago I found myself home earlier than usual.  By chance, I tuned into the Yankee pregame show and they were just announcing some breaking news.  Mariano Rivera had hurt his knee chasing down a fly ball during batting practice.  As a fan, I knew this pregame ritual was not new for him.  The talking heads said the local media caught the incident on video.  As we all watched, they focused on his knee hitting the outfield wall and how he must have bruised it…he banged it pretty hard.  However that is not what I saw.  A step before the wall something went wrong, very wrong…you see, I have taken that fateful step myself.

It was the fall of 1985 and my dorm football team had topped off a successful season with an intramural championship.  The year melted into the next and hockey was on the docket.  Not having this sport available at Drexel, I helped form a team through my cooperative job.  We practiced for weeks and the team’s schedule arrived.  We opened our season January 29^th, 1986.  The day before our game, my roommate and I awoke to some somber news.  A pounding on our door and we were alerted to turn on the tube.  Sweet dreams and flying machines in pieces on the ground…the space shuttle Challenger had exploded.  People piled into our room, it was one of the few with a TV…and a bar.  We spent the better part of the day watching.  The world changed a bit that day, little did I know mine would change the very next.

The hockey game started like any other.  Towards the end of the first period, of our first game, it happened.  I was going into the offensive zone and took a step to avoid a defender's hit.  It was the last step my right ACL would ever take.  The pop in my knee shook the very core of my body.  I remember hearing the opposing player plead to the Ref, “I didn’t even touch him!”  It didn't matter.  I was helped off.  I would watch the remainder of the game, and the season, from the bench.

Growing up I endured every bump and bruise a boy could imagine…but this was different.  Two days passed and the swelling did not subside.  I stubbornly set off to the hospital where I was informed the knee had to be drained.  It was almost comical the size of the needle needed.  The Doc detailed that the color of the liquid would indicate the severity of the damage.  In my own words…If it’s clear no fear, If it's red have dread.  It was red.  I had an ACL tear, but how bad was not known.  Rehab was my first and less intrusive option…so this was the road taken.

My college cohorts were a bustling bunch and I began to miss out.  My Saturday ski trips were no more.  One of those adventures included Midnight Madness…the slopes were open from 12am to 6am.  The dorm was never so empty…and silent.  I was starting to see this ligament loss was solitary confinement.  I concentrated on my rehab so I could quickly recover, but to no avail.  MRI’s were in its infancy and x-rays were only fruitful for fractures…they would have to go in.  Arthroscopic surgery was scheduled for August 7^th, 1986.

The minor surgery was a success and cartilage was cleaned out, however a completely torn ACL was confirmed.  Once again rehab was on the menu.  However this time, with the cartilage repaired, the knee functioned better.  I was fitted for a brace, one in which Mark Gastineau himself, after a recent playoff victory, triumphantly displayed in a photo on the back of Newsday.  Slowly the sports came back…football, hockey and eventually skiing.   Winter break brought back the slopes and I was sprung from solitary.  The college crowd rented a house near Shawnee, our hill of choice.  Day one I took it easy and that evening we all celebrated my successful return.  The second day would not be so kind.  After a stop for dinner, we headed back for a few runs.  Shadows fell and the limited lighting was turned on.  I never saw the dip.  Before I knew it I was airborne.  When the knee was whole, I would try and achieve as much air as possible.  But now, as I came down, the brace could not hold the knee together.  Ski patrol was summoned and I got the bumpy toboggan ride down.

I returned to my doctor and the knee needed to be drained again.  My mom was with me that day.  For whatever reason, through this whole process, she had been adamant that I was NOT to have the intrusive major surgery.  The needle was brought out, so large it might have felled Quint’s shark.  My Mom was a very strong woman.  But on that day she saw her son harpooned and she got queasy.  She asked, “Is that what you have to go through each time the knee is drained?”  I just shook my head yes.  Major surgery was scheduled for June 22^nd, 1987.

It has been 26 years, 3 months, 2 weeks and 3 days since the injury.  There have been good days, there have been bad days…but luckily no further surgeries.  Over this period of time I would go to see several knee experts…ones who worked for the Jets (my friend’s Dad still had a connection!), Islanders, Devils and Knicks.  In sports, after ACL surgery on a player, you hear that they are back to 100%.  I can tell you that they never really are…neither physically nor mentally.  I continued to play sports but my brace was always in tow.  I even went back to skiing…but nothing was ever quite the same.

My current hockey team's locker room is now filled with braces, bandages and Ben Gay...masking players previous maladies.  Some of them minor, some of them major…each with their own story…and this is mine.  When one step changed everything.

And I will always recognize when I see that fateful step.

See Spot Run

See Spot Run

I decided to continue on with the thoughts of my hometown.  I recalled how many days in a child’s life they awaken to wonderful surprises.  Life was still fresh and new. Cynicism still lay dormant in the soul.  Many of these times might be Christmas, birthdays…or summer vacation (I should have been a teacher!).

One such morning for me was supposed to be just another ordinary day.  I had been up late studying or watching a war movie on the late, late show…you decide which.  I was in a deeper REM state than most mornings, but I could hear a commotion in the house...we always had commotion in the house.  My door was thrust open.  I hardly moved, since I knew I still had allotted sleep time.  Shortly I awoke to this horse of a dog, face-washing me as I tried to pull myself from my slumber.   At the time, we had a Daschund and a Lhasa Apso/Maltese mix…and you could not confuse this pup with either.  All I saw were flashes of black and white…and a red tongue all over.   I pulled back to see one of the 101 Dalmatians with big floppy ears.  I inquired was she ours…and was asked if I wanted to keep her.  Like there ever was a choice...she was already home.

My younger brother for obvious reason named her Spot.  I liked the name…it was the Munster’s pet’s pseudonym.  However to her identity, I realized it was neither staircase dragon nor Dalmatian, the dots where not polka.  I broke out my Big Book of Dogs.  Spot was taller and the snout more square.  I uncovered her heritage…a Harlequin Great Dane.  As to the others, the Daschund, Fritzy, was my first…in 1972.  Cricket, the Lhasa Apso/Maltese mix was adopted to keep Fritzy company…in 1974.  In 1979 when Spot arrived at our home, an instant bond was created.  We grew even closer when Fritzy went to the Rainbow Bridge 3 years later.

It was an odd lot of fur.  The little guys were males, and the thoroughbred a female.  It was especially humorous when a frisky Fritzy would spot Spot.  All she had to do was stand up to thwart his advances.  Cricket on the other hand had a tude.  When people approached our fence, Spot would easily tower over the gate with her front paws to greet them.  Friends would ask; Can I pet her, is she friendly?  If they had looked closer, they could have seen it in her soulful eyes.  But why the growling they’d inquire…I'd warn them it's not her, but you might want to be careful of the little guy at the bottom.

As gentle a giant as she was, she was also a great guardian. Size alone intimidated, imagine if she were a male.  I recall arriving home one night from college.  It was late, after the house had long been asleep.  I quietly went to my bedroom and the route passed my parent's room, where Spot slept.  Suddenly an angry growl emerged from the darkness.  Spot had accounted for everyone, whom could this be lurking in the shadows.  Realizing I needed voice recognition, I whispered loudly….Spot, it’s me!  I was greeted like it was that first day, our first meeting.  Her person was home.  She was almost apologetic that she had mistaken me at first.  I was pinned down on the floor, I could only image what she would do to a burglar.

When I was home I would run Spot…and see her run.  She would gallop as if she were bred at Belmont.  The strides were long and graceful, unlike Max who runs like a drunken fraternity brother.  As back paws touched front, she was airborne…daylight between her and the ground.  I wish I had the property then as I do now to allow her full flight.  She loved to run…and run she did.

In 1987, when I was away at college, her time for the Bridge came.  I never did get the chance to say goodbye to my girl.

Hopefully one day I will see that familiar gallop heading my way…

Puddle of Mud

Puddle of Mud

As with most holidays, we find ourselves going back to places of nostalgia.  A place, where we reminisce of a simpler time in our lives.  Mother’s Day…and a Happy Mother’s Day to those reading…is one of those times.  I found myself passing through the old neighborhood.  Gone are the many trees, the older houses and the kids playing on the street corners.  What remains are the street corners themselves, and I could visualize my friends and I there…as if we never left.

I was 10…give or take a summer or two.  “I’ll call for you” was the rally cry of the day.  Once gathered, all we needed was a ball…and maybe a broomstick handle doubling as a bat.  My poor grandfather…he had a garage full of broom heads with no matching shafts.  He would mumble something in Hungarian at me, but he knew a simple sacrifice would keep a cadre of kids occupied, and off his property, all day.

Our games were never ending, unless our one and only ball would go astray.  As soon as it would veer off course, “CHIPS” would be shouted.  This one word call meant the kid who had hit it, had to pay for it, if it were lost for good.  The first choice would be to retrieve it.  More often than not, this break in the game became part of the game.  Our blacktop turf was teeming with traps…roofs and gutters, yards with dogs and the dreaded nemesis…the sewer.  Sewers were the black hole.  Covered by low-lying grates, they lay in wait on each cornered curb, hoping a hit would head their way.  They drew in a Pinky like it was needed for its very survival.  Our ball would eventually find our foe.  But we were resourceful rug rats and we would always find something to pry open the manhole covers.  Ball retrieved…game on!

Our corners’ would vary depending on the maze of parked cars.  One day we ventured to a corner I had never played on.  Some of the older boys searched out this site.  No cars…and only a 10ft x 10ft fenced off square that protected a concrete cavern.  We used one side of the fence to pitch against and we hit away from it.   It worked well until I fouled off a pitch that went up...and behind…and down…about 15 feet down.  The ball found a resting place at the bottom.  Someone yelled out CHIPS…yeah, yeah…I know.  I had never come across anything like this cement crater…but it was either buy a new ball, or take on the untamed unknown.  I was able to shimmy through the chained gate…no beer belly back then!  There was a metal ladder descending down the hole.  How convenient…this was going to be an easy score…no CHIPS for me!  I arrived at the dry end of the bottom.  I spotted the ball in the corner of a puddle and headed over.  My plan was simple, walk through the water, grab the ball, scurry back up the ladder and on with the game.  Only one thing…that was NO puddle.  As my first step hit the water, it was like I fell through a trap door.  I was immersed in water…and waste.  I was in over my head…literally!  I can’t recall how long I was submerged…wet sneakers have an anchoring effect on a kid.  I felt like I sprung back out as quickly as I went in…but I knew that was not the case.  Seems everyone knew it was NOT a puddle, but me.  I pulled myself out of this sarcophagus of stench.  I could hear nasally laughter as they held their noses.  “What where you thinking?” they said…”didn’t you know that was a sewer.”  Apparently not…

I was wet, I was cold, I was covered from head to toe…but far worse…I stunk!  I headed home…and my newly attached coating began to harden like Magic Shell.  I walked through the front door and Mom was just coming out of the kitchen.  “WHOA…don’t come in here with all that mud on you young man! “. She approached to shoo me back outside where I came from…when it hit her.  “What’s that smell!?  Did you fall into a sewer!?”  Well, yes, as a matter of fact…I did.  Mothers seem to have to put up with a lot when they have boys…but I would think this was on the far end of the spectrum.

The water from backyard hose never felt as cold as it did that day.  I would never again see the clothes I was wearing.

I did however get the ball back…

Saturday in the Park

Saturday in the Park

As we have already established, I am somewhat of a Steelers fan…I have been as long as I can remember.  My Step Dad liked sports…his job actually encompassed it…but that is a blog I am saving for a rainy day.  However, my parents did not like to drive to the games so I rarely got to go.  Queens was too far…even though we lived right on the border…and the Bronx?  Fuggedaboutit. 

My first real Yankee game, one not at Shea, I would drive to myself…in May of 1983…my senior year of high school.  With my first Yankee game under my belt, I now needed to see the Steelers in person.  A week after that Yankee game, the NFL schedules were due out…and there it was.  The game lit up on the page:  Steelers @ Jets Saturday December 10, 1983 12:30 pm.  Not only did I get the Steelers coming to Shea Stadium, but it also was a Saturday game to boot.  The scheduling Gods had answered my prayers.

I was off to college in September of that year.  A few have asked why I chose a university in Pennsylvania…as a matter of fact, why ALL the colleges I applied to were in the Keystone State.  Obviously those who inquired hardly knew me…PA would televise Steeler games on Sunday…what better way to determine my education and my future!  I packed lightly but took a few books, one was my yearbook as I had a hard time letting go…and another was my NFL Bible of Stats…can’t leave home without that!   A good friend from High School had scribbled in my yearbook “I hope you find someone who loves football as much as you…or is deaf”.  I found the former.  My new dormitory neighbor had a bit of a connection…his Dad was a former NFL head coach.  We became fast friends.  As fall headed towards winter, we spent our Sundays studying…oh wait, that wasn’t us!  We were planted in front of the TV from noon to 60 Minutes.  Others would come and go, catching a quarter or 2, but our only movement involved putting beer in and letting beer out.

My football friend’s Dad’s last coaching gig was with the N.Y. Jets, so he had bonds to this team.  He mentioned his loyalties changed year to year, depending on the team the family’s livelihood came from.  I kidded back, same with my Step Dad…but our loyalties changed from game to game.  It was the beginning of November and I subtly mentioned the Saturday Steeler game approaching.  I hoped his Dad still had a few connections left.  It was then I first heard something, something so hideous…so horrendous…that I could not fathom.  At first I thought he was kidding, he had to be.  See, I am usually good at being the butt end of a joke…I will get into that in a future blog.  My friend’s response to my request, “Oh, we can’t go, we have finals on that Saturday”.  Huh?  Weekends were made for Michelob and ME!  I dismissed the statement and filed it away under, "he did not want to disturb his Dad".

Thanksgiving arrived and all our dorm-mates dispersed.  I headed home to familiar friends.  First night back they presented me with the Holy Grail…a ticket to the Steeler/Jets game.  I am in!  I never gave that silly finals talk a thought.  I arrived back at Drexel, ticket in hand.  The semester drew to a close and our finals schedules were posted.  Fortran:  Saturday December 10^th, 11:15 – 1:15.  No, it can’t be!….my pals must have prodded the professor to pull such a prank.  I sought out the schoolteacher and he confirmed…This was no drill.

The game took on even greater importance to me.  Terry Bradshaw, the Steelers future hall of fame quarterback, was returning from injury to play for the first time ALL season.  Even my recently completed English paper, which had to be on a public figure I admired, was on Terry Bradshaw.  I so wanted to see his return in person.  Unfortunately reality was settling in that I would not be attending.  I COULD however watch it on TV.  But wait, the game was at 12:30…the final did not end until 1:15…and by the time I handed my work in, got across campus and to the dorm... it would be almost 2.  I would miss the whole first half of the game!  There was no NFL network back then to show a replay of the game, it was live or not at all.  It was then I took a stand against this Saturday assailant.  I decided I would get as much of the final finished, then exit stage left with enough time to high tail it to the television.  Noon would be my scheduled departure.

Exams where handed out and I had more than my share of #2’s…no time to waste on broken points.  Fortran was my foe that day and the exam consisted of writing 10 programs.  I quickly scribbled as much basic computer gibberish I could for each…hoping to gain points for the obvious.  I went back to the beginning to actually read the questions and fill in the Fortran.  It was at question 6 the bell tolled for me…time to go.  I quickly closed my exam, got up and headed towards the proctor.  What happened next stays embedded in my mind.  400 people looked up and sneered in my direction.  I realized what was happening.  They thought I was actually FINISHED!  That I was such a geeky jerk and I was rubbing it in their faces.  Only my 5 fellow dorm-mates knew of my plan and laughed in amazement…he was REALLY leaving!  THEY knew my exam was nowhere near complete.  On my way out, one friend near the door scoffed…You’re gonna fail.  I responded quietly…Maybe, but I am gonna go drink that case of beer you left in my fridge…touché!

I arrived at my destination just in time to hear that familiar game time music.  My football friend, not a student of Fortran, had my usual spot next to him prepped and ready.  Beer?  I thought you’d never ask.  He had no doubt I would hold to my plan.  The game started and Bradshaw was on fire!  He tossed 2 touchdown passes in the first half and the Steelers took a commanding lead.  Coming back from a commercial break, about an hour into the game…it happened.  “Now in at quarterback for the Steelers…Cliff Stoudt”.  Bradshaw had reinjured his throwing elbow…he would never play another down of football again.

I earned a C that day…however Fortran joined the many Middle Eastern languages to be among the deceased.  I never regretted my decision.  Had I stayed to finish the final, would I have done better…who knows?  What I did know is if I remained, I would have missed Terry Bradshaw’s last foray…his last moment to lead his team…his exclamation point on a hall of fame career.  I was somewhat satisfied with my TV viewing consolation prize.  However, I would later find out from my friends attending the game that it was the best time ever.  They even had their picture show up on the back page of Newsday…

All three of them…next to an empty seat.