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.

Budding Star

Budding Star

Recently, our hockey team has had games scheduled at rinks we have not played at before.  While this is no big deal, finding a bar we like afterwards is.  Our players tend to be creatures of habit, going to the same bars on the regular rink routes.  The other night, we found ourselves at a different rink…and a different bar.  Not knowing how clean their beer taps were, or even the last time a pint was poured from them…I ordered a bottle of Bud.  The others were shocked this beer connoisseur ordered such a common man’s brew.  But there was a time when that was all I would drink.

As a teen, I dabbled in different flavored froth.  The summer before college, I finally bed down with Budweiser.  Hey, drinking age was 19 back then, so don’t look at me like that.  Once I arrived at college, I needed to feed my Budweiser fix.  The local beer distributor had cold cases of Bud for $9.99.  That’s around 40 cents a can….what a bargain!  My friend and I would go on beer runs for our entire floor.  His car would be consumed in cases, but the Bud ones would wind up at my door.  When we went out, I needed to find a place that yielded Bud.  Our local campus bar, the Jailhouse, fielded much lesser fare.  The upperclassmen pointed me towards a local pub, Doc Watson’s.  Bud on tap, $3 a pitcher.  It was clean, crisp and cold.  The beer would hardly settle into my mug before a refill was necessary.  Also, we would attend sporting events at Veterans Stadium…when we could score free tickets.  Vendors served 16-ounce cans of Bud for $2.50.  Many a morning after I would wake with a pocket full of quarters from the change.  Dividing them by two would let me know how many I consumed the night before.

But even at that, a college kids budget is limited.  There would be a lot of free beer from keg parties, and it was less than Bud quality.  I proclaimed that Budweiser was so much better, and the others said you probably couldn’t even tell the difference.  That brings me to Meister Brau.  In early 1984, this upstart company from Chicago started with commercials offering a taste test against the giant…Budweiser.  To promote this, they took it on the road.  What better place to go than to college and Drexel was among the chosen.   It was only a few years earlier Drexel had appeared in Playboy Magazine’s top 10 beer drinking colleges…ranking #3.  They stated that on any given night our undergrads could raise the Schuylkill River several inches.  I would assume that is why Meister Brau came a knocking.   By the end of my freshman year, I had developed a reputation as a Bud drinker.  Those who did not know me by name simply referred to me as Bud Man.  There was no doubt that I would be selected as a taste tester.

In life there are always the haters.  As much as most of the students wanted me to succeed…there were those that wanted me to eat, umm, drink my words.  As the day approached I never altered my Bud intake, however, now I referred to it as training.  It was a Friday evening in April when the Meister Brau crew arrived.  A stage was assembled and the crowd began to gather.  To a chorus of cheers I approached.  The buxom beer bimbo blindfolded me.  It was time.  Beer was poured into Cup A and Cup B.  The brands were concealed from the crowd so I could not be coerced.

It was at this moment I realized I never actually had a Meister Brau.  What if it DID taste just like Budweiser…I had no reference.  With all the bravado and beer consumption, I never thought of taking a practice run at the taste test.  Oh well, too late now.  I was handed Cup A.  The contest was over.  This was Budweiser.  That familiar taste hit the palette like a returning friend.  I was going to get cocky and pass on Cup B, but thought better of it.  A swig from the second cup and the competition wasn’t even close.  The blindfold was removed, the brands revealed…Bud Man was victorious.

I would learn my success would also be my failure.  Since I DID tell the difference, this taste test would not be among those featured on the commercial.  I had never thought of that.

Maybe I should have thrown the competition…

Minute Men

Minute Men

As previously mentioned, the 68^th Anniversary of D-Day was this week.  However another battle from World Was II also took place, except it was two years earlier in 1942.  Without it’s outcome, the United States may never have gotten to the point of being able to pull off D-Day.  It was a naval and air battle for a tiny island in the Pacific.  Had the Japanese been able to accomplish their mission, the destruction of our ships, there would have been nothing standing between them and California.  There are always individual battles within a battle itself.  It was four minutes during the Battle of Midway Island that changed the course of history.

By the time D-Day came along, the tide of the war had already turned in favor of the Allies.  Most felt we were going to win, it was just a matter of when.  The Battle of Midway however was only 6 short months removed from Pearl Harbor.  We were an isolationist country not prepared for war…and it showed.  The fighting men’s spirit was there, it was the fighting equipment that was not.  One thing we had going for us, we would not allow ourselves to get caught with our pants down again.  Countless hours were spent trying to break the Japanese secret code…and it paid off.  At Midway, the Japanese had hoped to lure our ships out to sink them.  What they did not know is that we would already be there, waiting for them.  Even though, it would be a near impossible task for the American fleet.  The Japanese had more ships, more planes and more men.  They also had better ships, better planes and more experienced men.  What they did not have was OUR men.  Men who performed in a way many of us will never know…or can even imagine.

We knew the Japanese ships were coming and that helped us find them first.  Our planes were launched to attack their ships even though they were still a few hundred miles away.  It would be like finding a needle in a haystack…and the needle would be moving.  The attack planes of the era carried either bombs or torpedoes.  The ones with the bombs come in high, the ones with torpedoes come in low…sort of a one-two combo punch.  A hit ‘em high, hit ‘em low strategy that needed to be carefully coordinated.  This did not happen.  Two things were about to occur that ordinary men might never do.  Or maybe these men were just ordinary, and that is what made them heroes.

The torpedo planes arrived at the Japanese fleet first, the low attack.  They looked above them for the bomber planes to coordinate…but to no avail.   The commander pressed on their attack anyway, knowing they would be sitting ducks without them.  It is easy to stop a one-two combo punch when there is no two.  None of planes would get close enough to get a hit.  Of the 47 torpedo planes that attacked, 44 of them never returned.

Meanwhile, the separated bomber planes arrived, or at least they thought they did.  They wound up off course.  What they found was empty ocean where they assumed the Japanese fleet would be.  They did happen to see one enemy ship on the horizon.  But one ship alone in the vast ocean?  Not likely.  It had to be heading to join the rest of the fleet and the planes would follow.  There was only one problem, they were now running low on fuel.  Most of the planes were near the halfway mark, the point of no return.   The commander, well aware that this ship may not lead them to the fleet AND even if it did, they might not have enough gas to get home…decided it was worth the risk to follow.  The risk would pay off.

These two occurrences will forever be intertwined…both commanders continuing on with their mission, seemingly facing certain death.  The torpedo bombers drew all of the Japanese fleets attention and resources.  Moments later, when the bomber planes arrived well above the enemy fleet, there was nothing there to stop them.  In a way, the one-two punch had worked, just not the way it was designed to.  It was never meant to sacrifice one group over the other.  In the next 4 minutes the bomber planes would sink three Japanese Aircraft Carriers.  It effectively ended the Japanese dominance in the Pacific.

Take some time to think of all the things you can do in four minutes.  You can listen to your favorite pop song…you can run a mile if you are really, really fast…you can serve a double minor penalty in hockey…or you can get 18% of the world if you are listening to 1010 WINS news.

Then think of what they did…

Here We Go Round

Here We Go Round

As some of you may know, yesterday marked the 68^th anniversary of D-Day, the landing of Allied troops in Normandy, France against Germany’s fortress Europe.  The term D-Day is one that is given to a military timing of an invasion or mission… much like the term “T-1” would be to a rocket launch.  There were many D-Days in World War II.  History, however, has forever tied it to this singular battle.

If you flipped through the TV channels yesterday you may have come across it.  Passing AMC or TMC, you might have caught movies like The Longest Day or Saving Private Ryan.  The Military Channel would have shown you actual footage.  These offerings covered the brave battle and sacrifice of our soldiers.  What I am going to talk about is more for the History Channel’s Modern Marvels.  After D-Day was a success, then what?  Rarely is it covered how you support and supply an army, even across the smallest stretches of the English Channel.  There was no Chunnel.  What the Allied engineers showed they could do in a time of need was amazing.  They not only had to come up WITH the idea, but they would have to design it and implement it…and it HAD to work.

Thanksgivings for me were always a large event, filled with family, food and football.  It would last all day.  After my matriarchal Grandmother passed, the individual families spent that day separate.  And when my parents passed, it was just Christina and I.  We would spend the early part of that day with her Mom and Dad.  In 2003, Christina’s friend and her parents graciously invited us to join them afterwards at their Thanksgiving dinner.  It was a relatively large gathering of family and friends set in a lovely rustic home.  It became a tradition for the next few years.  What I enjoyed about it was the way the several tables were set up.  The guests were split from their partners and placed near others they may not know.  This prompted conversation over cliques.  I appreciated that the room was filled with intellectuals…stupid people give me a rash.  Now don’t get me wrong, I am not always referring to book smart…because some of the most brilliant people I know are idiots.  Anyway, I had just sat down next to an older gentleman.  I had remembered him from the year before.  He was a professor at a local college and he was nearing retirement.  I listened in on the conversation.  He was talking about history and how some of his students didn’t know some of the basics he felt they should.  He tested our table with the same question he offered his class, “Does anyone know what a Mulberry is?”  Finding my opening, I quickly answered, “It has to do with D-Day”.  Thinking he stumped everyone he quickly retorted, “No, it has to do with…Wait…did you say D-Day?”  Well, I was right…of course I was.  He did not know my history buff background.  Christina, looking over from the next table, knew I would be…she lives in a World War II museum with me.

The Mulberry was the Modern Marvel of its day. In the movies and documentaries of the landings, you may have seen the small boats drop ashore and the soldiers attack.  However, once the beach was taken and secured there was no need to rush to land in that fashion.  Also, how do you get supplies, ammunition, tanks, trucks, etc to these men in an efficient and timely manner?  If you have ever been to a beach…you’ll notice no boats tend to dock there…something about the waves.  They head to the bay side where the marinas are.  Now the Allies didn’t have that option and they had much larger ships that needed to dock.  A port was necessary.  But instead of trying to invade a port heavily defended by the Germans, the Allies decided to build a makeshift one of their own.  That is where the Mulberry comes in.  They were created to provide the port facilities necessary to offload the thousands of men and vehicles, and tons of supplies necessary to sustain the invasion at Normandy.  The Mulberry Harbor, as it came to be known, was actually two artificial harbors, which were towed across the English Channel and put together off the coast of the invasion site.  Only three days after the landings the construction began. Unfortunately one of these harbors would be destroyed by a storm just 10 days later.  Luckily, the second one survived.  What was originally designed to last only 3 months was in operation for 10, until it was no longer needed.  Even today visitors can still clearly see some of the Mulberry structural elements of the one named Port Winston…after Winston Churchill.  Some historians say the D-Day landings won the battle, but it was the Mulberry that helped win the war.  Countries, commanders, soldiers and yes, even politicians, came together in an event on such a grand scale that we might never see again. 

Last night, I absorbed as much as I could on the television about the D-Day invasion.  It would sadden me what I would see later on the news…especially on the D-Day anniversary.  A Tea Party candidate won the Senate election for the State of Indiana over the 36-year Republican incumbent.  He was asked about his defeated opponents objection to being Bi-Partisan.  I was hoping to hear how he wanted to work together, something this country has not seen in several years.  Instead, the new Senator proudly proclaimed that he IS Bi-Partisan…as long as the other side comes to HIS parties point of view.

Forget about the Mulberry, the way Congress is now, they probably couldn’t get sand to those troops on the beach.  Each side points a finger at the other…and it is only getting worse.  I have no answer. Not only the politicians, but also the people seem to be set in their ways.  We should all just watch C-Span instead of Fox and CNN.  A direct feed from the floor of Congress never lies.

I look back at how history might have been altered if a Congress like this one were in charge during World War II.

All I can say is, it’s a good thing I like Wiener Schnitzel.

Night Cap

Night Cap

It was Saturday night, October 25, 1986.  John, Steve, Chris and I, Mike…such nice simple names of the 60’s offspring.  Today the story would begin with… Jason, Logan, Noah and Tyler… but anyway…

Our friend’s band was playing and we were off to the Empire Rock Club.  It was daylight savings and we looked forward to an extra hour of partying.  It was also Game 6 of the 1986 World Series.  Even though I was not a Met fan, I came to represent all that was New York to the local college kids.  The Mets were down 3 games to 2 to the hated Red Sox.  I thought, well, if the Mets lose, I wouldn’t want to watch…if they win, Game 7 would be the one to catch.  So I decided to join my friends and see the show.

We would take my car.  It was relatively new, barely two years old and by far the most reliable.  As we arrived at my parking spot, Chris pointed something out.  “Dude, what happened to your hubcaps”?  As I came around to the passenger side, sure enough…they were gone!  They only took two?  We must have just missed them.  Our approach scared them off.  I hoped they were in earshot, because the threats were loud and long.  Once I wore myself out, we were on our way.

The headliners that night were the Hooters, a local group of musicians that would eventually have their 15 minutes of fame.  But the band we really came to see would open for them.   After an hour-long set, and a few encores, our friend’s band finished.  The DJ then came on to make an announcement.  Since we did have the extra hour, they were going to delay the show to turn on the TV’s over the stage.  To a chorus of cheers, he informed us the Mets were losing and wouldn’t it be wonderful to see New York go down in flames.  Philly always had an inferiority complex to New York, especially in sports, and its ugly head was in full rear.  First my hubcaps and now this.  I didn’t want to watch this game in the first place and now it seemed I had no choice.

One out to go and I stood alone…waiting to see Gary Carter flail at an 0-2 pitch in the dirt to end the World Series.  Usually on an 0-2 count you throw a waste pitch…one so bad there is no way the batter could hit it…and just maybe he will swing at it.  However, this Boston pitcher decided to be a hero.  Instead, he tried to fire a fastball down the middle of the plate past a fastball hitter.  Bad idea.  Everyone will remember Bill Buckner.  I will remember that pitch were it all began to fall apart for the Red Sox.  The Mets won to force Game 7 and the Hooters took the stage.  They rocked the house until closing time.  As we left, with a Mets victory in hand and hearing two great bands, even my MIA hubcaps couldn’t bring me down.  We arrived home and settled back into the dorm…where more beer and music continued.

The following morning Steve, my roommate, awoke before I…but it was time I should get up anyway…it was almost noon.  Steve opened the blinds and spotted my car below.  He asked me what side did they steal my hubcaps from.  I responded with, “Passenger side…..why????”  He informed me, “Well, they got the driver’s side!”  My hour-long expletive explosion lasted what seemed like a lifetime to the undergrads in the dorm.  I deducted we DID scare them off and they waited for me to come back to complete the set.  I was so close to catching them!  The enjoyment of the previous evening dissipated as I stewed they had returned to remove the rest.

That night Steve had a date, and I had already graciously offered my car.  I hoped the lack of hubcaps wouldn’t alter the outcome for him.  As both our night’s ended he arrived back at our room.  What was this he was toting…Hubcaps!  He told me while he was waiting for his date to descend from her dorm, he spotted a similar car as mine.  Quickly he popped off two hubcaps and threw them in my trunk.  I asked him why only two, he said that was all he had time for.  I did not question him any further, I was appreciative…at least I had two now.

The years passed and it was now 1989.  The four friends from that October night were now Drexel grads.  It was the 4^th of July and we would be heading to Steve’s Jersey shore house for our yearly reunion.  It was the start of the weekend and the four of us arrived early.  It had been a while since we were all together.

We grabbed a few brews and began to relive our Drexel days…when the hubcap night was recalled.  Steve had just left the room to get another round, and John, forever the storyteller, was talking.  John turned to Chris, ”Yeah, that was the night we stole Walsh’s other two hubcaps.”  Umm, What!?  John looked perplexed that I did not know and continued on to tell the tale.  He said, “You and Steve went up to the dorm room first when Chris and I went to 7-11.  We thought it would be funny if we took your other two hubcaps.”  Huh, What???  I was so confused.  You mean it wasn’t the original perpetrators returning?  John continued, “Don’t be pissed, you got them back from us…didn’t you?“  I informed him I did not.  It told them it was Steve who had selflessly swiped me two while he was on his date the next night.  Now John and Chris were at a loss.  They said due to my extended outburst the following morning they were afraid to return the hubcaps directly to me, so they gave them to Steve to do it.

Just at that moment in our conversation, Steve returned to the room.  Still bewildered, the three of us turned to him and inquired about the STOLEN hubcaps.  Steve said, “Oh yeah, I didn’t steal them.  I just came up with that story so I would be even for borrowing your car.”  John and Chris now burst out laughing, and almost in unison said “You mean all these years Walsh never knew we were the ones who took his other two hubcaps!” Yeah, well, apparently not.  It was Steve who created an alternate reality for me.  It also finally made sense to John and Chris why I never tried to get back at them, being that I never knew until now.  We found it amazing that no one learned of what the others had done until it all unfolded before us on that day.  We ALL had a good laugh…mostly at my expense.  But I was still stunned…in all this time I never had a clue.

The “Hubcap Story”, as it came to be known, would be forever retold in its entirety every 4^th of July down the shore. 

What I never told them is what transpired after.  Thinking Steve had stolen the hubcaps so easily, I concluded that this was the way to go to replace the rest.  The following semester I had offered the freshman on our floor $1 for each hubcap they could get me.  They came back with 24 of them!  Unknowingly, Steve and his made up story had started a hubcap crime wave in West Philadelphia.

Somewhere the Fresh Prince is smiling.

Spending The Hours - Conclusion

Spending The Hours - Conclusion

Now as the years roll on
Each time we hear our favorite song
The memories come along
Older times we're missing
Spending the hours…reminiscing

-The Little River Band

Max was now fully asleep on his back, his 4 paws protruding into the air.  I hoped his sleep would be peaceful and he was reminiscing of the good times as I was.  Winding down to a conclusion, I began to think back how summers past would conclude.  Labor Day was never a favorite.  As a kid it meant the summer was over and back to school.  As an adult, you are reminded they give you this one lousy day for a year’s worth of laborious work.  There was one thing I was always able to look forward too back then…Labor Day weekend brought with it the start of NFL season.

It was 1993 and this Labor Day weekend, like many after, would start in the Hamptons.  Saturday would be like any other day, but it would be my last one of the season.  While others looked forward to a Boardy Barn Sunday, I prepped for my departure.  This final weekend was dubbed Last Chance Labor Day…since this was your final opportunity to…well…do all the things you didn’t do all summer long…or maybe just to do them again.  My roommate, never one to pass up ANY opportunity, had taken this to heart.  It was Sunday morning and I woke up somewhere…lets just leave it at that.  After a quick shower, it was time to leave my summer behind.  Unfortunately my previous packing was residing in my room…and so was my roommate…and he was not alone.  I allowed him some time, but my window to make the game was closing.  My knocking not answered, I just gave them a head’s up…”Naked or Not, here I come!”.  I was more surprised with who he was with than they were about my boldness…didn’t see THAT coming.  Anyway…Sorry, dude…it’s the Steelers…and I had to go.

My Steelers viewing would be at Mulcahy’s.  When I returned home from college it was back to the Jets and Giants on TV every weekend.  Many a week during the 1989 season I was stuck watching a meaningless game while my team had a magical run to the playoffs.  I couldn’t sit on the sidelines another season.  I inquired around for a pub that had a satellite dish…and Mulcahy’s was that place.  Steeler fans from around the Island gathered here.  I was home.  Steeler Nation was a term not yet bantered about, but that is what I had found.  Each Sunday we would gather for the games and at the end of the season we would say our goodbyes.  We would meet again next Labor Day Weekend.

For 15 years I never missed an opening day at Mulcahy’s.  This led to me being interviewed by Steve Zipay of Newsday...got my picture in the paper and everything.  Eventually, the NFL decided to move the start of the season away from Labor Day Weekend.  In the years that followed I moved out east and opted for the NFL package.  My attendance at Mulcahy’s began to dwindle.  Last year was the first time in 22 years that I did not make a single game.

I was now fading fast on the couch.  The same couch that in only a few short months Christina, Max and I will welcome in the Steeler season…my OWN little Steeler nation.  My eyes were now closed and I wrapped up my thoughts.  I was reminded of a song that we played at our wedding.  As much as my summers past were filled with fun…and apparently lots of beer…the words still rang true.

Look around me
I can see my life before me
Running rings around the way it used to be

-Crosby, Stills and Nash

Spending The Hours - Part V

Spending The Hours - Part V

You wish you had a motor boat
To pose around the harbour bar
And when the sun goes off to bed
You hook it up behind the car

-Squeeze

Max followed me into the house.  I turned on the TV to find the Yankees were still playing.  I had forgotten they were on the west coast.  Max hopped onto the couch and curled up in his familiar spot.  The Yankees were always a big part of my summers.  As addressed in a previous blog, I no longer have my season tickets.  This reminisce would not be of going to the games, but of when they played weekdays during those past summer afternoons.  After the All Star break those days would be Wednesdays…and we took this opportunity to play hooky from work.  It was not to go to the Stadium, but to have a Boat Day.

My friend lived on a canal and his beautiful 30 foot Sea Ray would be our vessel.  Weekends were family time, but the weekdays were his.  Wednesdays would work on so many levels.  Not only would we have the Yankee game to look forward to, but also boaters were scarcer during the week.  He would have me scour the schedule for those 1:00pm games and our plans would be set.  Also, as mentioned before, he would rely on me over the local weatherman.  If I said we were good to go, we were.  Our makeshift crew would all have assigned tasks before arriving for our 10am departure.  Beer, ice, sandwiches, etc.  We packed the coffin-sized cooler as our captain prepared for launch.  As we pushed off the dock you could hear the first beer being opened.  Of course I could hear it, I was the one holding it!  But where to go?  Zach’s Bay, Kismet, Freeport…all perfect choices.  However this day, our destination would be Ocean Bay Park.

It was about an hour or so trip on Captain’s Pleasure.  Speeding along our thoughts were of all those poor suckers stuck at work…nice guys we are huh?  As we approached our destination the tie ropes where prepared.  We would dock by Flynn’s, Ocean Bay Park's most popular bar.  After the boat was secured, an auxiliary cooler was filled and off to the beach we went.  The water was crystal clear and the people far and few.  This was not like the old days when I had to take 2 buses just to get to an overcrowded Jones Beach.  We had room for paddleball and tossing the football in the surf.  It was almost like our own private paradise.  When the beer ran out we knew it was time to head back towards the boat.  Our first stop would be The Fire Island Hotel.  This was a little oasis in the middle of the island.  It contained a main building of rooms, rows of bungalows and a pool with a bar.  We stopped to have a beer and catch part of the Yankee game, but mostly to use the pool to wash away the day’s sand.  After an inning or two it was time to head to Flynn’s.  We would catch the rest of the Yankee game there and indulge ourselves in fresh fish.  The Yankees win….THEEEEE Yankees win (In all my stories the Yankees win) and we were off to the Schooner just up the road.  This bar opened up right to the bay with its own private beach and live music started at 4.  We would stay for a set or two and then head back to the boat…for there was still beer on the boat!

As we headed home we would zip into one of the canals.  My friend knew every bar in these water mazes and the people that were in them.  Boaters seem to have this connection that I will never understand.  As sunset drew close it was time to head home.  I give our captain credit, while at the helm he always drank in moderation.  But as we docked back at his house, he would proudly proclaim that finally he could REALLY drink.  We would wind down with a BBQ.  Good friends and good food looking back at our busy day.  One of those times we had settled around a large bucket sized citronella candle that was placed on the deck.  Each, for our own reason, got up…another beer, bathroom…etc.  And that was when it happened.  The candle, for lack of a better explanation, exploded.  Molten wax was strewn everywhere.  We counted our blessings that something had gotten us all to move only moments before.  Seems our Guardian Angels took that particular Boat Day with us.

I looked over at Max.  I was reminded that only recently Christina, Max and I had escaped a similar scare.  We were sitting at a fire pit at one of the wineries.  A loud pop and flames shot out like an erupting volcano.  Had we been on the other side of the fire pit we would not have escaped its fury.  As I thought of this, even though I am not a big believer, I just looked up and said thank you anyway.

As time wore on these day trips began to diminish.  Jobs changed and kids came…leaving less vacation and free time available.  Our Wednesday’s would eventually become like Skynyrd’s Tuesdays…

Gone with the wind.