Ladies And The Camp

Ladies And The Camp

It had been less than four months since my knee surgery.  A few weeks earlier I finally had my knee immobilizer removed.  I had cabin fever.  My roommate suggested we gather the girls and go camping.  Hmm, camping…I seem to like that idea.

It was October of 1987 and we were having an Indian Summer.  We chose Columbus Day weekend to give us an extra day to recover.  I would go pick up the girls and bring them back for our departure.  It was Friday and my friend had classes…well, I had class too, I just chose to ignore it.  Drexel was mostly engineering majors so we always seemed to date girls from other schools.  This time it was the strict Catholic college, Immaculata University.  You heard about Catholic High School girls…now imagine them in college.  I did, and that was why I was there.

Being warm I took off my removable sunroof and rolled the windows all the way down.  The Immaculata campus was usually strewn with Nuns and I always liked to have my presence felt.  I arrived blasting Van Halen’s Running with the Devil and traversed the campus’s roads.  Pulling up at the girl’s dorm room I subtly honked the horn…yeah, subtly.  The girls popped their heads out of the second floor window and let me know they would be right down.  They emerged so scantly clad I thought the Nun at the door would drop.  It reminded me of Cannonball Run II.  Marilu Henner and Shirley McClain were disguised as Nuns.  Later, when they revealed their true selves, they came out in hot pants and tight tops.  These girls too were no Nuns…and I had no problem being their Captain Choas.  I jumped out to usher them in…Hey, I am still a gentleman you know.  I placed their luggage in the trunk and hopped back in the car.  I fast-forwarded my music tape, cassette not 8-track, to VH’s Beautiful Girls.  Because these girls were just that, and I wanted to let them know.

We arrived in the woods around dusk.  Tomorrow, a larger group would join us, friends of the girls.  This night however would be only the four of us, so we would make the most of it.  Even though the day was warm, the night in the mountains was cool.  We started a fire and passed the bottle.  The girl I was with played the guitar…something about a woman playing an instrument.  We laughed, we drank, we sang…until other campers shushed us…so we called it a night.  Something about the campsite rules we were told.  We would get to know more about them the next day.

It was around noon and the girls had designated a diner to meet their friends.  I would drive them there and my roommate would hold down the fort.  Well, their friends were late…four hours late.  I didn’t mind, I had the girls to keep me company.  My friend on the other hand only had the alcohol…and it showed when we returned.  He was ticked and tanked.  Luckily his slurring was slipping into silence…alcohol has that affect.  The new campers began unpacking.  I had never seen so much booze…yes, me.  The campfire was lit, as it soon would be sundown.  What was an intimate setting the night before was now a commune of campers.  A few hours in, the decibels rose…alcohol has that affect.  My roommate had vanished, but no worries, I had new found friends.  Soon I would have to take a leak…alcohol has that affect.  I sauntered off to the boys oak tree.  As I was relieving myself a shadowy figure passed.  Big Foot?  No, not unless he decided to wear a Park Ranger hat.  The noise had gotten his attention.  He quietly approached the fire.  Should I yell?  Should I warn them?  No…they had to see him coming right.  They did not.  He joined the group without anyone the wiser.  They had no clue he was even there…alcohol has that affect.

He startled the crowd with his introduction.  He proceeded to pull out the camp registry and inquired, “Is there a Michael Walsh here?”  I had forgotten it was I who rented the campground the night before.  When my friend asked me whose name we should put down, I responded it didn’t matter.  I wish I had given that more thought.  I gathered myself and headed towards my fate.  The guy looked less like Park Ranger Smith from Jellystone and more R. Lee Ermey from Full Metal Jacket.  I hoped I would not be his Private Pyle. “Son, you do know there is no al-key-hol allowed in state parks.”  I responded I did not.  I really didn’t know and what else could I have said anyway.  I was apologetic and he was surprisingly polite.  He said he would have to confiscate all the alcohol but we could retrieve it when we leave.  He loaded up his nearby 4x4 and was on his way.

I was the oldest in the group and they all appreciated my handling the situation.  Did I really have a choice?  No one was really disappointed though, we were all already sufficiently soused.  Things settled down when someone wondered where my roommate was.  I told them don’t ask me how I know this, but you see that outhouse there in the distance.  You will find him in the last stall passed out on the hopper.  No really…Yes really.  Even his girl did not know this.  Not believing, they followed me to the building.  As we approached we could hear snoring that would make Fred Flintstone proud.  And there he was.  In the last stall.  On the hopper.  With his pants down around his ankles.  In all his glory.

How did I know?  Well, this obviously wasn’t the first time he did this.  It actually became quite common.  It started our freshman year.  Tuesday was movie night on campus.  We would have a few, and sneak a few more in.  After one of the movies, an announcement came over the PA.  “If anyone is missing a friend, we found him in the bathroom”.  Well, we were missing a friend.   We thought we would find him praying to the porcelain god.  But no, we found him asleep in the last stall.  That night we were able to wake him up, but that would not always be the case.  For the next several years, whenever he got too drunk, that was where we would find him.  And not being able to wake him, and no one wanting to pull up his pants, that is where we would leave him.  This would happen no matter where we were and what bathroom it was.  And apparently the woods were no different.  Each time he would eventually find his way back home.

Not surprisingly I awoke the next morning to find my friend had returned.  We decided to wrap things up.  As we left, we went to retrieve the alcohol from the Park Ranger’s office.  It was under my name so I would do the deed.  The others watched in awe as I approached, they had already given up the liquor as lost.  I realized later it was because they were all underage…I guess they did not know I was already 21.  I approached R. Lee Ermey and he seemed less imposing in the light.  He brought out our boxed up booze.  He looked over my shoulder at the rest of the group, and then down at the abundance of bottles.

He simply said, “Were you expecting more people?”

Here I am at Camp Granada

Here I am at Camp Granada

In the spring of 1983, my friends and I were approaching the end of our high school careers.  We felt we needed a place to celebrate, somewhere away from all watchful eyes.  The idea was born to go on a camping trip.  The first one would be at the end of our senior year.  It would eventually become a tradition for the next several summers.  It was always a nice escape from reality.  The gang had gathered once again after we all returned from our inaugural year in college.  Immediately on the agenda was planning another camping trip.  The naysayers told us that it was not really camping, all you guys are doing is drinking in the woods.  What’s your point?

Friday would be our departure day.  I had only been home a few weeks and I couldn’t wait to get out of the house.  I originally offered up a different weekend. This one happened to coincide with graduation at our alma mater…and I wanted to attend.  Friday morning came and I was able to head to the high school for a little while.  A few friends followed.  I didn’t think my ex would be there since she was still a junior.  I was wrong.  Forgotten was the fact that the school band played for the ceremony, and she was in it.  I had not seen her since last summer.  Funny how ex’s seem to look better after you are no longer with them.  Another year of being a teenager was pushing her into womanhood.  And she wore it well.  We couldn’t stick around long since we needed to finish prepping for our trip, so she never knew I was there.  I would have liked a chance to rekindle.  Maybe it was for the best I would be getting away for the next few days.

Besides graduation, there was another reason I did not want to go this particular weekend.  The Michigan Panthers had a playoff game that Saturday.  During our senior year the USFL was created.  My friends and I, being football fanatics, all chose a favorite team.  My team would be the Michigan Panthers.  They would go on to win the first USFL Championship.  This was now year two of the fledgling league and the Panthers were prepared to repeat.  Knowing I was going to miss the game, Mom would record it on the VCR…she was good like that.  Over the weekend I tried not to find out the score, but that never works.  It made the news since it was the longest professional football game ever played.  The Panthers field goal kicker would have two tries to end the game in overtime, and he failed at each one.  Steve Young, yes that Steve Young, would eventually lead the L.A. Express to victory in triple overtime.  Knowing the outcome I never wound up watching the game.  The Michigan Panthers were disbanded during that offseason.  This game would be the last they would ever play.

With the preparation done I began picking up passengers.  I arrived at the first friend’s house.  A few months earlier another one of our friends had started dating his sister, breaking a bit of an unwritten rule.  The dater was not coming with us on this trip, but his car was parked out front.  My friend noticed the windows were open and a baseball, a foul ball from a Yankee game, was displayed on the dash.  As we were leaving he removed it from its resting place.  A little payback perhaps.  It was a year earlier that six of us trekked out to Yankee Stadium.  We would sit in foul territory along the right field line…why?  Well, Lou Piniella played right field…enough said.  They were playing Texas that night and Billy Sample lined a hard foul…and it was heading right towards the group.  It deflected off a fan’s hands a few rows in front of us, hit the seats behind us, and rolled under our row.  It was bedlam for the ball, something out of the WWF.  I don’t think I ever saw it while I was in this scrum.  Eventually one of us crawled out into the aisle for relief…and the ball was there waiting for him.  Ever since that day it found a home in his car, until now.  Later that day while camping, we would use that ball for a catch.  An errant throw and it disappeared in the brush.  We searched for it but to no avail.  Well, I never caught a foul ball, but I CAN say I have lost one.  Hmm, I hope he doesn’t read this….

We finally arrived.  It was late June and the extended daylight would give us ample time to set up camp.   We had carted a couple of kegs, as we were tired of dragging cases of beer…along with the challenge of keeping them cool.  A simple central station for suds could be easily iced.  The campfire was lit and the food was grilled.  As the night wore on, the gang crashed one by one.  Most had worked that day and it had been a long four-hour trip upstate.  Only myself and the first friend I picked up remained awake.

I was glad to get away from Valley Stream.  Things had changed for me while I was away that first year in college.  When I returned home, I felt all of that fading away.  I was falling back into old habits.  It was, however, nice to see some old friends…I hear it is good for the soul.  That night we were treated to a meteor shower.  My friend and I sat upon the hood on my car, backs against the windshield, eyes towards the sky.  It was a stunning celestial show.

For all the reasons to come out here, this seemed to be the best of all.

The Eyes Have It

The Eyes Have It

One of the reasons I chose Drexel University was that it offered a cooperative work experience.  A fifth year of college is added so you would be able to complete the co-op assignment.  The middle three years would be split in half between classes and work.  In 1986, my second co-op assignment was at the Philadelphia Naval Shipyard.  I would learn Penn State offered a similar program, and I soon would be working with someone from it.  Penn State was among my college choices so I became friends with my new cooperative co-worker.  As the football season approached, he invited me out to Happy Valley to attend a game.

On Friday, the night before the game, we would travel to his parents’ house.  It was not too far off campus.  We would arrive late and the house already settled in.  We had a few beers to relax after our long drive.  I crashed on the basement couch.  I had just drifted off when I awoke to some rustling.  We were in farm country so I thought maybe it was just a mouse.  Even though it was dark, I could tell it was inspecting my clothes strewn about on the floor.  But it made too much noise for a mouse, a cat perhaps?  No, felines are stealth like…no way they would make such a racket.  I knew full well that whatever it was, it could see in the pitch black…and I could not.  I slowly inched towards the lamp on the end table, careful not to make any sudden moves.  I successfully reached it and turned the knob.  Out of my jean pant leg popped out a head.  What the heck is that furry white thing with big red eyes!  I can only imagine it saw me and thought the same exact thing.  Both of us took off in opposite directions.  I went to my friend’s bedroom in a panic.  “Dude, you got some sort of demon rat in your basement”.  At first I thought he would wonder what hallucinating drug addict he invited to his home.  He calmly informed me that it was his pet, an albino ferret.  He must have gotten out and was curious about the newcomer.  You think he might have wanted to share that with me beforehand…

The next morning, after a restless nights sleep, we prepared to depart for the game.  At breakfast the ferret and I now became fast friends.  He was my mini-me.  An hour later my friend and I arrived at his designated parking place.  We awaited his tailgate team.  That’s when I saw it.  A 1976 Chevy Nova…painted blue, and I mean painted with a paintbrush blue.  The blue of course was Nittany Lion Blue.  As it drew closer I could see a preponderance of white paw prints.  On the hood were the words “We Are Penn State”.  As it pulled into the spot next to ours, I noticed two round holes in the trunk.  Being a smart ass New Yorker I asked if they were there so the bodies could breathe.  My friend sarcastically chuckled, “Just wait”.  The new arrivals piled out of the car.  They proceeded to open up the trunk to reveal no bodies, but two kegs on ice.  They quickly tapped the kegs and ran the hoses through the two holes.  They closed the trunk and finished the job by attaching two tap spouts.  Their car officially transformed into a kegerator.

Part of the group was a cute little co-ed.  She looked very young, but I was assured she was a college student.  She told me I was missing something and proceeded to paint a paw print on my face.  They seem to like their paw prints here.  As she applied the paw her bright blue eyes looked directly into mine.  Sorry to say it made me forget my ferret friend.  He would understand.  I would soon learn the value of the face paint.  This weekend was alumni weekend and soon flowed in a river of RV’s.  Each one offered their own food, and it would seem my paw print would be the pass.  She had known this, being a sophomore and already attending a previous alumni game.  Taking my hand, she led me to all the finer fare from the visiting alum, both young and old.  A lovely octogenarian couple asked us how long we had been dating.  I looked at my watch and said, “Oh, about a ½ hour now…in another 30 minutes it will be our One Hour Anniversary!”  She liked the fact I did not miss a beat.

The next few hours were filled with food, fun and making the blue car lighter for the trip home.  Soon it would be game time and we headed to the Stadium, Beaver Stadium.  There’s that word again…funny huh?  My friend and I had separate seats so we said our goodbyes to the group for now.  The opponent that day was the Cincinnati Bearcats and they were a weak team.  Penn State on the other hand was rolling and had a 4-0 record…ranking fifth in the country.  They had beaten their opponents by a combined score of 144-52 in those games.  The fans expected a rout.  We entered into the stadium.  I had never seen so many people in one place before…over 84,000 fans.  The stadium rocked.  There was a nervous energy in the crowd since the game remained close…too close.  We approached half time and my friend said, “Let’s Go”.  What do you mean, are we leaving?  No, he informed me that they allow you out at halftime to go back to your tailgate.  I had been at Drexel three years, but I had finally arrived at college!

We reconnected with the crew back at the cars.  There was hardly any conversation as we concentrated on maximizing our alcohol intake…I believe a funnel was involved.  Half time flew and it was time to head back.  My cute co-ed gave me a kiss…that’s for good luck she said.  Hmm, I was REALLY rooting for Penn State now.  We made it to our seats just in time for the second half kickoff.  I see my friend had done this before.  The game remained close.  In the second half, Cincinnati came from behind and scored 10 points to lead 17-14.  The crowd was stunned…you could hear the proverbial pin drop.  The Bearcats led the game with only minutes remaining in the 4th quarter.  Penn State’s undefeated season was on the line.  On their final drive they pushed their way over the goal line to score a touchdown.  It was now 21-17.  The game was not over yet.  Cincinnati would have one last chance.  The crowd knew this and was apprehensive…seemingly holding their collective breathes.  Penn State’s defense, led by senior linebacker Shane Conlan, had to stop them one last time.  They were up to the task.  Cincinnati was unable to gain a single yard.  Conlan himself would block the ensuing punt.  It resulted in a safety and sealed the victory.  The fans erupted…they could finally exhale.  Penn State went on to win 23 -17.  I couldn’t wait to see my co-ed.

I was told earlier in the day, “Win or lose we drink our booze”.  True, but I was about to witness it is much more fun when they win.  That evening we hopped from bar to bar immersed in a sea of drunken blue fans.  Later on we would run into Shane Conlan.  You couldn’t miss him among the crowd.  Certain athletes have a presence, an intense look that is always in their eyes…especially linebackers.  It is almost like they are looking threw you to find the guy with the ball.  One of the gang knew him so I had a chance to briefly chat.  I congratulated him on a great game.  I told him he reminded me of ex-Penn State linebacker and former Steelers great Jack Ham.  He said he gets that a lot.  Oh well, I thought it was my own unique insight.  I wished him good luck for the rest of the season.  I said I looked forward to seeing him get chosen in the first round of the NFL Draft.  He laughed, “Don’t jinx me!”  The conquering hero was soon off and I returned to my co-ed.

In 1988 I would see that linebacker look again.  After college, on cold winter days, we would play basketball in our old high school’s gym.  I wasn’t any good, but hey, they needed a fifth guy to play.  The team we faced that day was made up of current high school’ers…and one of them dominated play.  It was not long into the game I saw it in his eyes, that same look I had seen a few years before at Penn State.  I was informed that it was Valley Stream Central’s All-Star football player, Stephen Boyd.  Ironically, in 1992, I would see him play for Boston College against Penn State.  It would be at the same Beaver Stadium I saw Shane Conlan play six years earlier.  Boyd would go on to play linebacker in the NFL for seven years with the Detroit Lions, and was selected to two Pro Bowls.  The eyes don’t lie.

Penn State had survived that game and went on to win the 1986 National Championship beating Miami and Long Island’s own Vinny Testarverde.  Shane Conlan dominated the game.  He picked off Testaverde twice and returned the second one to the 5-yard line to set up the game-winning touchdown.  A few short months later he was drafted in the first round of the NFL draft, 8^th overall.  He would go on to win NFL Rookie of the Year.

I was right, I saw it in his eyes...and I didn’t even jinx him.

I Got A Name, I Got A Number

I Got A Name, I Got A Number

For the last two years I have been playing on a second hockey team.  Hey, why not, I’m not getting any younger.  Just recently we received our new jerseys.  As I was handed my customary #26 and I was asked why that number.  I said Patrick Flatley wore that number for Islanders.  Flatley had become a favorite player of mine and I would run into him several times over the years.  I had a chance to catch up with him recently, the night the Islanders added his name to their Hall of Fame.  He and I chatted about the first time we met.

The story about wearing number 26 actually begins in high school.  My girlfriend at the time was a huge Islander fan and her favorite player was Butch Goring.  She was surprised I did not have one so she prodded me to pick.  I was a right-handed shot and played right wing so I narrowed it down to that.  The right-handed right wings at the time were Mike Bossy, Duane Sutter and Bobby Nystrom.  Bossy was an elite scorer, and I wasn’t…next!  Sutter was nicknamed “Dog”.  Ah, that would be a great choice except a friend already tagged him as his favorite.  So by default, Bobby Nystrom was my choice.  As Nystrom’s career was coming to an end, I needed a new favorite player.  One I could follow from the start of his NHL career.  But how would I choose?

It was February of 1984 and the Islanders introduced their two draft picks to the media.  They were joining the team after playing in the Olympics.  1983 1^st round draft choice, Pat LaFontaine and lesser known 1982 1^st round draft choice, Patrick Flatley.  I decided one of these players would become my favorite, but whom?  I liked LaFontaine.  He was a US player and represented his country well at the Olympics.  The 1984 US Team did not have the success of the 1980 miracle team, but the buzz was still there 4 years later.  LaFontaine was a superstar, the best player on any team he played for…we would have nothing in common.  Patrick Flatley played for the Canadian Olympic team.  He was a slow-footed, rugged right wing that loved to dig the puck out of the corner…I could relate with that.

I recalled two years earlier when Patrick Flatley was drafted.  The Islanders were in the midst of winning their 4 Stanley Cups so no one paid attention to the NHL draft.  Well, one person did.  It was not the first time I had heard the name Flatley either.  Being a WWII buff, I was reading a book on the U.S.S. Enterprise…so famous a ship Gene Roddenberry would use the name.  The air group commander was James Flatley.  He would become a war hero, a leading naval aviation tactician, and in 1980 a ship would be named in his honor…FFG-21 U.S.S. Flatley.  James Flatley also flew the stubby little Grumman fighters, which had become my favorite plane.  So, being aboard the most famous ship, being it’s first air commander and a hero, flying the Grumman Wildcat…hmm, the name Flatley would stick in my head.

1n 1982, when Patrick Flatley was drafted, he was playing for the University of Wisconsin Badgers.  I did not know much about their hockey team but I had followed the Badger football team for a few years now.  Why Wisconsin you might ask?  Well, in high school I was in the band…don’t worry, that will be a blog for another day.  In 10^th grade I was handed a piece of sheet music, it was our high school’s fight song, Onward Central.  But wait, the name was hand written on the top and something was crossed out underneath.  Apparently we borrowed the Badgers fight song, On Wisconsin, and called it our own.  The song became so entrenched in my mind from playing it repeatedly it only seemed natural to root for the University of Wisconsin.  I can still hum the tune to this day.

Hmmm…he played at Wisconsin, his last name was the same as that of a World War II hero and my style of play was similar to his.  Seems like this decision was already made for me…so Patrick Flatley it was.

It was the summer of 1990 and I was playing pick up ice hockey in Long Beach.  The games were late and when I got home, I would just leave my equipment in the trunk.  Mistake.  One of the days following, I went to retrieve something from my car.  I noticed the lock on the trunk was broken.  Not thinking much about it, I popped the trunk from inside the car.  As I went back, I looked in…it was empty.  Everything was gone.  My heart sank.  I did not have a full time job yet, how was I to pay to replace all that equipment.  It was then I learned about Homeowner’s Insurance.  Everything would be ok.  It was only a month later I received the compensation check.

The check cleared the week after and I was off to Syosset Sports to replace my stolen equipment.  This was the Islanders Pro shop.  It didn’t matter if prices were higher, my budget was already dictated.  I arrived about an hour before closing.  The proprietor stated I could take my time…I had informed him of my mission.  As closing time came, he was good to his word.  He locked the front door to the shop and allowed me to scour for equipment.  Entrenched deep in the shin guard isle, I could only hear the owner welcome in a visitor from the back door.  “Hey Flats.”  The new arrival asked for a skate sharpening and said he would be right back.  Flats?  It couldn’t be.  I weaved my way back to the counter and inquired, was that Patrick Flatley?  Indeed it was.  I mentioned to the shopkeep he was my favorite player.  He offered to introduce me when he returned.

Flatley returned, bagel in hand.  I find it ironic now since he went into the bagel business after retiring from hockey.  We shook hands and I mentioned my story of the stolen equipment.  He offered his input on my purchases.  As we worked our way through the store, I inquired about his right knee and his surgery a few years earlier.  I told him I had injured the same knee and had my ACL repaired also.  We compared scars as if were Quint and Hooper.  Flatley said, “Wow, they really filleted your knee” My surgery had been earlier than his, so it was a little more evasive.  We talked about rehab and everything we did to get back on the ice.  He then asked what number I wore…and I sheepishly said, “26”, knowing it was his.  He joked that that number didn’t bring him any luck since he switched from number 8.  It was shortly after that change he blew out his knee.  Soon I was done picking out my equipment and Flatley’s skates were ready.  He asked me my name as he was leaving.  I said it should be easy to remember, you have a Mike Walsh playing for the Islanders right now.  He offered a compliment that I looked similar to my namesake.  I kidded back….”Thanks, that Mike Walsh is going bald.”  And with that, Flats was on his way.

It would be two years later in 1992 when I would run into Patrick Flatley again.  It was the Islanders Fantasy camp, funny enough run by Bobby Nystrom.  It was the last day, and he would be one of the pros for that session.  I got a chance to play on a line with Flats…he even set me up for a goal…no easy feat.  Flatley had his season cut short the year before on a vicious slash by Kjell Samuelsson.  It resulted in a badly broken thumb.  Between shifts Flats told me he was still angry at the cheap shot and he showed me the scar.  It went from the top of his finger all the way down to his wrist.

Luckily, this time, I had nothing to compare it to.

Leave It To Beaver

Leave It To Beaver

Drexel University was known for its “Study Hard, Party Harder” motto.  One of the premium party places was right on campus.  Even though its locale was perfect for its own students, it also attracted other college patrons.  As Drexel expanded, the land became more valuable for academics.  Despite the students’ protest, the building would be torn down.  It was a sad day when Drexel closed the campus bar…the legendary Cavanaugh’s would be no more.

 They took the bar!

The whole f’ing bar!

Christ. This is ridiculous.

What are we going to do?

Road trip.

In Philadelphia there were a cadre of college campuses for a road trip.  With no recent kiln explosions occurring, we would have to choose our best available options.  What better destination for a testosterone tank load of teens than Beaver College.

Now for those of you who may be more highbrow than I, Beaver has long been used to refer to the area between a female’s femurs.  It is an older term, maybe not as applicable today due to the preponderance of plucking and waxing.  However, it is still a very viable keyword on the Internet.  When prospective students attempted to obtain information on Beaver College…lets’ just say that was the last thing they found.  Eventually it became so bad that the college’s site would be blocked for its name.  It reminds me of when we had our house built.  Christina was new to the Internet and needed to retrieve information on sink fixtures.  She simply typed in “Blackman Plumbing” in Google and hit enter.  Christina grew up a little that day.  Anyway, the name Beaver College became such an issue that in 2001 then-president Bette Landman noted, "Beaver College too often elicits ridicule in the form of derogatory remarks pertaining to the vulgar reference to the female anatomy”.  Soon after, the college was renamed.  This decision resulted in Beaver College being included as a question in Trivial Pursuit: What Pennsylvania institution changed its name to Arcadia University in 2001, after web filters began blocking its old moniker?  I think I got a piece for that one.

It was the fall of my junior year.  Ten of us piled into two cars, and of course one of them was mine.  I only had a vague idea of Beaver College’s location, but that was enough to make me the lead car.  Not surprisingly we got lost, but I knew we had to be close.  We stopped at a Howard Johnson’s to grab some grub and relieve our suds.  We took over a few booths and “Flo” the waitress came to take our order.  Figuring she probably was IN the first graduating class at Beaver we inquired as to its location.  She responded, “Is this some sort of joke?” I instantly thought she was offended by the slang meaning of the name and I assured her we were sincere.  She sarcastically turned and pointed, “Just look out the window”.  Well, I said I thought we were close.

Filled with food and emptied of beer, our cars rolled onto campus.  Our own Drexel was located directly in the city so we were placed among the rectangle blocks.  Beaver, however, had trees and winding roads to navigate.  Upon arrival, our MO was to acquire a little memento of our journey.  We stumbled across a beautifully built building.  Adorned on her side was a majestic purple banner proclaiming “Art Gallery”.  We had to have it.  The freshman filed out.  They quickly removed the brand new banner in such a manner it seemed they had done this a thousand times before.  Perhaps they had.  I popped the trunk and they filled it with our bounty.  Now it was time to find the, ummm, Beaver in Beaver College.

As we headed up the road we were cast in the shadow of a castle like structure.  Looks like a party…and we were about to crash it.  One of our group knew someone who knew someone at Beaver, so we would use this as our in.  As we approached the entrance we noticed it was a “Black and White” party.  Not the tie and tails type, the one where you have to wear only those two colors.  Didn’t matter, not like any of us were wearing anything black or white anyway.  We entered to a fancy affair.  We immediately stuck out like a soar thumb for many reasons…but the best one being that we were ten off campus guys who arrived on a mostly female campus.  Jackpot!

We decided to divide and conquer.  The guys at this gathering seemed like extras from Revenge of the Nerds.  Competition would be light.  A few of the freshman found some severely soused skirts.  Flirting led to flashing.  And if you know ANYTHING about guys, they would give up their Mothers to eyeball some boobs.  And one of them did.  In a moment of bravado one of them bragged about the banner.  Her flesh was quickly covered and the dames dispersed.  It was then one of them informed us of our folly, “This party is to celebrate the new banner for the art gallery.”  Ooops!  We attended a party for the same banner that we had stolen! If I was in your shoes, I'd be…Leaving, what a good idea.  We had to get word to all it was time to go, and fast.  I told the foolish freshmen to slip out the back.  Two of the other freshmen and myself would round up the rest.  Everyone was to exit wherever they could, we would rally back at the cars. 

The remaining three of us would go out the front.  We did not think the topless tart had known we were with the others.  Oh, were we wrong.  As soon as we exited, there she was with security.  “Those guys were with them!”, pointing directly at us.  It seemed at that very moment the music inside stopped.  I looked back to see the entire building bursting at the seams with black and white clad students.  The crowd turned mob.  I looked to my two companions.  Now you may recall I always seem to be the smaller guy in these groups, and this was no different.  My wingmen were a baseball player drafted by the Toronto Blue Jays to play third base and a former high school quarterback from the football hotbed of Western PA.  They both looked at me with that “We can take ‘em” look.  Great… I didn’t care for these odds.  I felt I had to make a move before things got ugly.  I approached the security guard and asked him what he was going to do.  He informed me there were too many students for him to handle.  He could, or would not prevent them from doing whatever they wanted.  He said we were on our own.  Stepping up adjacent to the guard, now seemingly more sober than during her previous prostituting, was the boob girl.  She shouted at me, “Give us our banner back!”  I said if I were able to produce it, would all be forgiven.  She agreed.  I retreated back to my two friends.  They were disappointed I diffused the duel.  One of them turned to me, “You know, we could have taken those artsy fartsy wimps…unless we got tired of beating the crap out of so many of them!”  I was right, they were indeed ready to have a go at it.  At that point I knew I had made the correct call.

I returned the banner and we returned home.  In all this commotion two of our crew actually managed to successfully complete our Beaver mission.  Go figure.  This near brawl didn’t deter us from future trophy hunting at other campuses.  The gang would later grab a beautiful blue and gold wood dorm sign “Widener Court”.  It was about the size of a dorm room bed.

I know, it hung on the wall above mine until I graduated.

Wild About Harry

Wild About Harry

I was flipping through channels the other day and came across Law and Order.  I know, what a shock…it is on more than Seinfeld.  It was an older episode with Lenny Briscoe, portrayed by Jerry Orbach.  Law and Order used to be a weekly ritual for me but I never watched it much after he left the show.  He would appear in 274 episodes.

As many of you know, I used to work for the North Shore Animal League.  I was lucky enough to get the chance to meet many a celebrity that lent their name to support the orphaned animals.  I was not in Public Relations…I ran the Computer Department.  However, I happened to share the same part of the office building with PR.  This led to my staff and I being asked to assist with events, and for that we would be rewarded.  Among the opportunities I had were to go to Yankee Stadium to meet Paul O’Neill, to a recording studio to meet LeAnn Rimes and, in 2003, I had lunch with Mr. Jerry Orbach.

I had seen Mr. Orbach in person years before, not across a table, but up on the stage…and I didn’t even know it.  It was May of 1983 and many a classmate was preparing for the prom.  A close friend of mine came up with an alternate agenda.  Instead of actually attending the prom itself, we would bypass it and go out on the town.  I didn’t mind missing my prom.  I was not about to be named Prom King nor did I care to see the majority of kids hitting their only peak.  Anyway, most of my other friends would not be attending.  It was an easy sell to my girlfriend too.  She was a sophomore and would have her own prom in a few years.  Four other couples would happily join us.  We did it right too, dressed to the nines…limos and all.   Sent off by parents and pictures our limos whisked us away to our first stop, dinner at Mama Mia’s.  We dined like royalty, feeling sorry for those eating lesser fare at the prom.  After indulging, it was the show part of the proverbial “Dinner and a Show”.  It was off to Broadway!  Our choice was the play 42^nd Street.  I was not familiar with it or the actors.  However, I was taken aback by the booming baritone of the lead male character.

It wasn’t until a few years later that I found out who that actor was.  I no longer had the playbill from that night, nor the girlfriend for that matter.  Also, keep in mind too there was no IMDB, let alone the internet.  We did have televisions…I am not THAT old.  It was a Sunday evening in 1986 and my TV was still tuned to channel 2 after a football game.  Pat Summerall was right...it was “Murder, She Wrote…coming up after 60 Minutes on CBS, except for those of you on the West Coast”.  Shortly thereafter I heard the voice, THAT voice.  I turned towards the tube and there he was, Harry McGraw.  The same guy I had seen on stage three years earlier.  A quick flip through the TV guide and his identity was revealed.

Lunch was a catered in affair, held in the conference room of our new office building.  About 10 people were invited to attend and I among them.  Mr. Orbach sat across from me, his 2^nd wife Elaine to my right.  Mr. Orbach regaled us with stories of the Law and Order set.  At one point I thought he was still in Lenny Briscoe character.  I had brought with me my 20-year-old ticket stub from 42^nd Street…I didn’t save much from that “prom” night, but I still had that.  I thought Mr. Orbach would get a kick out of it and I told him the story attached with it.  He joked “What, did you find this in an old Tux?”  He went on to speak about Broadway as he handed me back the ticket.  I leaned into his wife and said quietly, “Do you think Mr. Orbach might sign this for me?”  She quickly interrupted her husband, “Jerry, why didn’t you sign it for the kid?”  A comical banter began back and forth with Mr. Orbach mumbling to her, “Well, he didn’t ask…”  Lunch was a rap and he signed my ticket.  Mr. Orbach then gave me a hardy handshake goodbye and his wife gave me a peck on the cheek.

The following year, at North Shore’s awards luncheon, I would briefly get to visit with Jerry Orbach again…before his passing in 2004.

He asked me if I had any more tickets for him to sign…

Trinidads

Trinidads

Yesterday was Father’s day.  Even though I am Max’s “daddy’,  that is really a story about a boy and his dog.  I thought back to my earliest memories I have in life…those of it being just my Mom and I.  She acted young and looked even younger.  Some even mistook her for my older sister.  I came from what would be considered a broken home….but in name only.  Even though it was just my Mom and I for a while, a male presence was always predominantly there.  This however, marked my first Father’s Day without any one of those figures.

My Grandfather was an immigrant from Hungary.  He carried the old world work ethic.  I did not know much about his work life before I was born.  I found it ironic that recently I discovered his old LIRR pass, back when they put your picture on it.  As I knew him, he was a headwaiter at a fine restaurant on Long Island.  My Mom and I would pick him up after work and he would usually sneak me out a tortoni.  Even though my Mom and I lived in a separate apartment in Rosedale, we spent most of our time at my Grandparent’s house.  When I turned 4, so I could go to Kindergarten in Valley Stream, we moved in.  It was shortly thereafter I remember the only time he ever disciplined me.  To this day I am still lazy about untying my shoes.  My wife yells at me, my Mom yelled at me and my Grandfather yelled at me…mostly because he could not tolerate the laziness.  As a kid, I had a tendency to literally ‘kick off my shoes”.  One day in my room, I kicked off the first shoe no problem.  The second however held on for the ride a bit too long.  I launched it through the top pain of the bedroom window.  The sound of breaking glass brought my Grandfather in.  He looked at me sitting on the bed in socks, and a shoe residing between the screen and shattered glass.  It was obvious what had happened…I got a belt to go with my shoe.  It would be the last time I kicked off my shoes.  At age 8, my Mom remarried.  We moved only 4 houses away so my Grandfather would still be a big part of my life.  Much like myself, he was a dog lover too.  And being he brought home true doggie bags from the restaurant, our dogs really loved him back.  I swore they could tell when he left his house to come over after work.  They would be waiting at the door for his arrival.  My Grandmother passed away when I was 10.  It was the only time I would see my Grandfather cry.  It was his first wife, but my Grandmother had been married before.  It would seem our family tree was fruit bearing…and that fruit was Divorce.  He carried on because my Mom was the other girl in his life, and she was his only child.  He eventually retired, begrudgingly, in his mid 70’s.  He would come by more often, and that certainly made the dogs happy.  Fritzy, the dachshund, was his favorite.  My Great Uncle (and Godfather), my Grandfather’s brother, had gotten Fritzy’s brother from the same litter, Barron…so there was even more of a connection.  When Fritzy passed, his love turned to our other dog Cricket.  Cricket and my Grandfather both seemed to miss Fritzy and they spent a lot of time together.  It was on one of their walks in the winter of 1984 that my grandfather would hit his head, slipping on the ice.  He lay unconscious until he was found…and Cricket never left his side.  My grandfather would survive the surgery but never regained consciousness.  He passed in February of 1984.

My Mom remarried when I was 8.  She had dated a few men beforehand.  She would always introduce me to make sure they knew it was a package deal.  My Step-Dad and Mom started dating when I was around 6, so it gave me time to get to know him.  He had several kids from his previous marriages, but he treated me as if I was his own.  There were about 4-5 years when it seemed I was the only child in his life.  I was certainly spoiled during those days…and I have albums of pictures as proof.  My Step-Dad was into sports, so he helped me get involved.  It was he who led me to become a Steelers fan.  One of the first games we watched together was Super Bowl X.  Lets just say there was money involved…and he told me we needed the Steelers to win.  The Steelers went on to victory that day and I have been rooting for them ever since.  Things were good, but it was not the “white picket” fence life that it appeared to be.  Eventually it would all change anyway.  Not “bad” things per say, just a blog for a different day.  I had always called him by his first name, even after he married my Mom.  It wasn’t until my brother was born when I was 9 that I started to call him Dad.  He deserved it for many reasons, but mostly I thought it would be less confusing for the newborn.  A few years later, he approached about adopting me.  I was told it was my choice.  I had never felt the need to make it official, so I did not give it much thought before.  I was in Junior High at the time…and I realized something.  In class we sat alphabetically.  As a W, I sat in the row by the window, usually one of the last seats…something I really preffered.  If I were adopted, I would be an M.  That would place me right smack dab in the middle of the room, with the fearful potential of being placed directly in front of the teacher.  I would have to pass.  I explained my sole reason to him for not wanting to be adopted.  He chuckled and my Mom just shook her head.  Remember, this is the same kid who a few short years later would choose where to go to college based on being able to watch the Steelers.  In my 30’s both my Step-Dad and my Mom’s health would decline.  My Mom, even though she was 14 years his junior, would pass first.  My Step-Dad had been in and out of the hospital for a few years already at this point.  2 months later he went in for the last time.  Not having my Mom sitting by his side, I don’t think he had the strength to carry on.  He passed February of 2003.

Lastly, but firstly, was my biological Dad.  He and my Mom split before I was 2, so I never remember him being around.  He would however occasionally visit, and that usually led to a commotion.  Substance addiction will do that.  I remember when I was around 6, he came by and whisked me off on his motorcycle.  We traveled to a neighborhood I did not know and of course where did we wind up…a bar.  It was some 25 years later, while trailing a group of girls I had just met, that I would wind up unknowingly in that same bar.  That night I got to use a line not many people can, “Hey, I haven’t been in this bar since I was 6 years old”.  Eventually my Mom would have to divorce my Dad so she could remarry.  He would still come around every now and then…and my Step-Dad would always welcome him in.  After my Mom and Step-Dad passed, it seemed he wanted to get closer.  He did not want to lose his last link to the past.  My Dad had been sober for over 15 years at this point, so it was easier to interact over the next several years.  In late 2010 he was diagnosed with stomach cancer.  Shortly after his diagnosis, my Dad and my Aunt, his sister, came to the house for New Years Day.  It was the first time I had seen my Aunt in almost 30 years.  She took one look around the house and just marveled.  She shared with me my Dad was also into the World War II planes when he was younger, just as I was.  How did I get this from him even though he didn’t raise me?  I never knew this fact since my Dad was never one to share.  He always steered the conversation towards me.  He felt I was the only thing that he had done right in his life.  I would find out at his funeral how much he bragged about me.  His friend’s that I never met approached me like they had known me my whole life.  One of them handed me an envelope, he said he was to give this to me after my Dad died.  Seems Dad had junked his old car to buy me a Terry Bradshaw rookie card…I guess he really was listening.  Dad fought the cancer for over a year.  He passed in February of 2012.

Each one of these men would have a long lasting effect on me in their own way…without even knowing.  I became a dog lover, a Steeler fan and a World War II buff.

One of Christina’s friends recently suggested that I started writing this blog because of the passing of my Dad.  This will only add to that fodder.  This may be the reason, it may be A reason, it may have nothing to do with it at all.  I have no idea.  I am an enigma to myself.  There are lots of thoughts in this head of mine.  And those thoughts could have led me to do or be many things…but one thing I will never be is a Father.  It was never a conscious decision on my part and I don’t believe it was 

subconsciously based on my past.

It just seems the passage of time has made the choice for me.

The South Shall Rise Again

The South Shall Rise Again

A few years back my cousin and his girlfriend visited me from Germany.  I was not quite the cook I am today, so when it came time for food we looked to go out.  They both said they wanted something “American”.  And what is more American than barbecue.  Even though that night we had some fine fare, the best barbecue still resides in the South.  And once a year they bring that barbecue to us…The Big Apple BBQ Block Party.  It’s a meat lover's dream and a vegan’s nightmare.

Every year I eagerly await the website posting of the FastPass.  This allows the holder and a friend quicker access.  You prepay for $100 worth of food.  The pass is punched as your purchase.  The purveyors of pork set up shop along the outskirts of the park.  Their giant smokers and grills bellow smoke well above the skyline.  The FastPass few can access them along the sidewalk while the others have to fend from the street.  The FastPass is a must have.

Christina and I arrived early, and with a plan.  With chairs and a cooler we would stake out a parcel of parkland near the FastPass entrance.  This would allow us even quicker access in and out.  To maximize our time we would start with one of the most popular places.   We would avoid a long wait by lining up well before the 11am starting gun.  Bob Gibson’s was our #1 choice.  From Decatur, Alabama, his pulled pork sandwich stands alone.  Each year I can’t believe it is that good, and each year it is.  Several of his own sauces are served but it is the Championship Red we would slather on.  It also came with no finer a coleslaw.  After our first food, where next?

We would then pay a visit to Ed Mitchell from Raleigh, North Carolina.  His whole hog sandwich had been a winner over Bobby Flay in a throwdown... and I was sure everyone there had seen the episode.  Different than pulled pork, he finely chops up the meat and adds a blend of his own spices.  I knew we would face a long line, but our original hunger would be satisfied.  Ed Mitchell also did a smoked turkey so it would be a two-plated reward for the wait.

We planned for a break after sampling the big two.  We would need to relax and recoup our hunger.  Jim n Nick’s from Birmingham, Alabama would be next.  I discovered this little gem my first year, and surprisingly hardly any one else has.  I would have easy access to their smoked sausage.  It had fantastic flavor and was covered in a spicy red sauce.  To step it up even further, it was served with a cheddar cheese/jalapeno side.  We will need a beverage or two for that one.

Did anyone say “what about ribs?”  Don’t worry, I didn’t forget.  Two years ago I wanted to hit 17^th Street BBQ and the famous grill master Mike Mills from Illinois.  I had seen his ribs on the Food Channel and they were ranked among the best.  The line was long…there’s a surprise.  Somehow I got into a shorter line and was served rather quickly…I never gave it much thought.  The ribs were soft, smoky and the meat fell right off the bone.  Kudos to the Food Channel…they nailed it.  But it wasn’t until the following year I figured out what happened.  It seems the Checkered Pig from Virginia, a lesser known rib place, set up shop right next to 17^th Street BBQ.  It was THEIR ribs I had.  No wonder the line was short, I got on the wrong one!  Well, no big deal…I really loved the ribs I had.  But now I was more determined than ever to taste the intended.  After waiting on the long...and correct...line I finally obtained my ribs.  Guess what, I liked the other ones better.  17^th Street BBQ was not all it was cracked up to be.  SO this year, now that I got it all straightened out, the plan was to pass on 17^th Street BBQ.  It would be the Checkered Pig’s ribs we would have today…let the others wait.

With all this pig I can hear the blue haired Wendy’s lady yelling, “Where’s the Beef?  The beef would come from The Salt Lick.  Their Austin, TX restaurant ranked #5 on the Travel Channel for food destinations…among all, not just BBQ.  Equal to Bob Gibson and Ed Mitchell in popularity, it would once again be a long line.  But at this point I would be filled to the brim, a wait would do me good.  Their beef brisket is as tender as butter.  Such a wonderful flavor a sauce is not needed.   It would be a wonderful way to end the day.

This was a good plan indeed.

It was 10:30.  Christina and I settled into Bob Gibson’s line…about 15 deep.  It looked like our wait would be short.  I love it when a plan comes together!  The line curved back past their grill so I could watch them prepare.  I drooled like Max waiting for a Milkbone.  The bell rang 11 and the servers served.  But what was this?  Why aren’t we moving?  People started passing us with plates from other places.  I worked my way to the front to find the issue.  It seems the first man in the FastPass line ordered 50 pulled pork sandwiches.  He was going to ruin my plan.  We would never be able to fit everything in.  Apparently Redneck Bill, the name I now had given him, arrived with several tins and seemed intent on feeding his entire family…for the year.  The slow moving street side speedily served while the FastPass holders were ground to a halt.  The crowd got antsy to say the least.  I thought to myself, how will Redneck Bill eat all those without any teeth?  He easily went through his $100 FastPass card and had to compensate with cash.  He unpocketed several crumbled up bills.  I shouted. “Make sure that is not Confederate money!” Redneck Bill, who probably couldn’t count to 10, now had to count out 300 dollars…and the wait continued.  I wondered how much moonshine he had to sell to obtain such a bounty.  Maybe he was an extra on Swamp People.  Finally filled, our southern fried friend passed…tins pilled eye high.  I think it took every ounce of Christina’s good Christian heart not to trip him…he’s lucky he went by on her side.

Almost an hour passed before we arrived at the register.  My plan was shattered.  We placed our order, our hunger levels peeked.  But we would have to wait again.

They ran out of the first cooked servings of pulled pork.

Nuts

Nuts

As June is now upon us, our house becomes a summertime destination for our friends.  Christina and I are reminded that some of our guests have children with Peanut allergies.  When they arrive, our place is devoid of this legume lothario.  I am fortunate enough not to have this affliction.  But this is a story of my own Peanut “reaction”.

It was a Sunday night nearing the end of my junior year in college.  I was returning to the dorms after a date of dinner and drinks.  That evening though was the final note on relationship refrain.  Unfortunately it had been like a George Thorogood song…it got you rockin’ but after a while you realized it was just the same 3 chords over and over again.  It was not going anywhere.  Feeling down that a chapter was closing, I arrived to a pleasant surprise of a parking spot adjacent to my building.  Parking was a premium on the streets of Philly, especially on Sunday nights when students returned to campus.

I exited my car, now sporting all four hubcaps, and appreciated my consolation prize.  As I began to walk away, my car was hit with what I would describe as hail.  It was dark, but the stars were out and the moon almost full…so this was not Mother Nature.  I was far enough away from the closest tree, so acorns could not be the culprit.  As I looked around the car to see what it could be, it happened again.  This time I found the foe…PEANUTS!  This was no random act.  Only a few days earlier, as I was getting into my car, my roommate noticed a smashed apple on the hood.  I was livid!  I went into a tirade.  My friend just stood back and took note of how pissed off I was.  My vehicle was located below the dorm room windows.  I looked up and challenged them all to have enough balls to do this when I was there.  No takers, but I could almost hear them mumble, “What is Walsh bitchin’ about now”.

This time it was night.  I looked up at a quiet 15-story building and the streetlight dimmed my vision of the higher floors.  I was able to conclude this attack originated more than half way up.  I could not stay parked under this pee of Peanuts.  I pulled away in my car, forcibly removed.  Almost ½ an hour later I came upon another spot, blocks away.  I was going to find those responsible.

Steaming all the way back to the dorm, I arrived and found the resident assistant in charge.  I told him my parable of the Peanuts.  With my assumption of floors, we began our surveillance.  The even number floors were the guy floors…so we left the female floors alone.  We noticed my previous parking place was still abandoned below…perhaps due to the preponderance of Peanut shells about.  We peered out the lobby’s window on the 10^th floor…waiting for an unwitting participant to park.  Finally someone had arrived…but the Peanuts did not.  I was pissed.  Either the Peanut perpetrator had retired for the evening or I must have been singled out.  I was fuming he eluded my wrath.  The RA said there was nothing more he could do that night.  He brought me to his office to write up the incident, which was difficult to do without expletives.

Frustrated my foe had escaped apprehension I stormed off to my room.  Blood pressure a’boilin’ I wanted to relay my recent adventure to my roommate.  As I approached I could hear our TV…good he was still awake.  I opened the door angrily and spotted him on the couch.  As I turned the corner, before I could begin to reveal my evening, he just turned to me with a one-word offering…

Peanut?

Buc Me

Buc Me

The other day I spoke about playing hockey…well, mostly drinking, but it started with hockey.  I thought back at the path that led me to that new bar the other night…and how I wound up playing with this hockey team oh so long ago.

I lived at home after college for around a year.  Adjusting back to living under someone’s roof was not easy.  I was working part time looking for something more permanent.  From Friday to Monday I would disappear to various friends apartments, as I needed to escape.  There was a reason I went AWAY to college.  During the week I would play open hockey down at Long Beach Ice Arena.  The times were late, usually after midnight.  We would have a few beers in the parking lot after and then go grab a bite to eat…at whatever place we could find open.  I would get home as the birds began chirping.  This put me on vampire hours.  It allowed me to avoid the other occupants in the house.  As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t keep this up forever.

Soon I obtained a full time job and promptly moved out.  I was gone from the house, but also gone was the late night hockey.  To play at a reasonable hour I would have to join a team.  I had read about the NNHA hockey league.  It was an adult league that played in cities throughout the country…and lucky for me, also Long Island.  The league had tryouts.  We were not professionals so everyone would make it.  It was just a matter of making sure you were placed on a team commensurate with your talent.

The tryout was in a few weeks.  I had not played in a while so I sucked it up for a late night skate.  It was about halfway through the pick up game that it happened.  The puck squirted down ice towards the net.  I chased the puck as the goalie came out to poke it away from me.  We arrived at the same time.  My right knee…yes the bad knee…collided with his.  I flipped over the goalie.  I was helped off the ice…right knee bent and skate off the ice.  I was attempting to prepare for the tryout, and now it seemed I might miss it altogether.

The days that followed were filled with ice packs.  The swelling went down, but the knee was still stiff.  The night before the tryout, my roommate and I were relaxing, and I was going to call it an early night.  I had not skated in three weeks and thought it best to take it easy on the knee.  Then we got a call from a friend whose train just got home from the city.  I did not want to go out, but after a little convincing, off we went to the Railroad Inn.  It was around 11ish when we arrived and my friend was already fried.  Happy we joined, the first few rounds were on him.  As he began to fade, my roommate and I hit our stride.  Even as the bar cleared out, we were well involved in a two-man video game.  The quarters and drinks continued to disappear.  It was now 5am…and even the Railroad Inn has to close sometimes.  We woke our friend, now asleep at the bar, and walked home.  Tryouts where at 10am.

Asleep at 5:30.  Awake at 8:30.  The vodka barely had time to settle.  A quick cold shower did little to help.  A piece of toast in hand and I was off to Bryan Trottier’s skating academy in Port Washington.  I had looked up the address the previous night on a map…no, not Google or Yahoo…Rand McNally.  Only one thing I didn’t know, the town had TWO Seaview Blvds.  I arrived on time but I found myself in a residential neighborhood.  I couldn’t imagine an ice rink would be among the mansions.  I luckily located a local and inquired about the rink.  I was told I wanted the OTHER Seaview clear across town.  Great.

I arrived at the rink late, tired and probably over the legal limit.  Skaters were already warming up on the ice as I scrambled to check in.  I skated a few laps around the rink…and guess what, no pain in my knee!  Maybe it was the anxiety of the tryout or the stress of rushing to the rink…but more likely it was the vodka still coursing through my veins.  The knee held up…even though I barely did.  I could only imagine the team that would wind up selecting me.  A few days later I received a call from the league.  I was selected by the Buccaneers.  The league was a stickler for uniform uniforms.  The NFL’s Buccaneers first came to mind and I thought where the hell am I going to get a bright orange hockey pants.   Luckily I would soon find out the team’s main color was blue.  The league itself was expensive enough but I would also have to buy home and away jerseys…around $100 a piece. 

The first game was scheduled for the 20 game season.  October 21^st, 1990 at that same Port Washington rink.  I showed up early, and sober…I did not want a repeat performance.  My teammates had not yet arrived.  I came across the captain of the other team.  I asked him about the Bucs, and he just chuckled.  “Good luck, they were 1-17-2 last season…they probably won’t even have a team after this year.”  Great, and I just invested all this money for the team’s jerseys.  I didn’t want to have to buy new ones the following year.  In warm ups my new team looked much better than their previous record.  We wound up tying 2-2 that game.  I didn’t figure in the scoring, but the knee held up in its first real test.  I later found out this was a revamped Bucs team.  Many of the previous players had not returned.  We would go 6-10-2 my first year.  It would be the Bucs only losing season in the next 12 years.

This year the team celebrates its 25-year anniversary, and for me it will be my 23^rd year playing with them.  The core of the team still remains.  I would eventually have to buy new jerseys, but only because they no longer fit…

And I didn’t get any taller.