I’ve often heard myself described as fearful of change.
I’ll never forget my first day of high school, and the yearning I felt to not be there and return to my grammar school (which was really no picnic, but it was home for eight years). I stayed home for college when a good many of my contemporaries shook the dust off this crummy little town for the debauched mania of living away from home.
Were it not for a horrific break-up with my girlfriend I would’ve held my part-time high school job (in a public library) for 20 years. As it stands, I worked there for seven years, left after the breakup, and followed it (after she left of course) with my current stint of nine years and counting. When I (finally) began my professional career I stayed five years at my first job, and I’ve been in my current position for more than eight (an eternity in today’s job climate).
I’ve mentioned this before, but my first girlfriend once harangued me about quitting a part-time job my mother arranged for me after only one day, only to retreat back to the safe confines of the library. “Are you planning to stay there forever?” she asked with an air of disgust. Define forever….
Outwardly, I’m not very nostalgic. I’ve worked very hard on a caustic persona that is heavy on the blunt trauma of “telling like it is.” I suppose on the days when I’m being burned in effigy by my friends they say I’m too sarcastic, too biting and a bit of a know-it-all. I get that.
However, there’s another side that I let creep out every so often – one that reeks of nostalgia and sentiment, and everything I suppress during my everyday life. It usually rises to the fore in moments of significance – moments of extreme joy or sadness, or separation. I hate expressing myself verbally in these moments because I’m afraid of what I might say, so I tend to use the written word instead.
I’ve written much this year of how I have been inundated with memories of an earlier time, when life started to get “interesting.” Writing about those days has been very cathartic, and helped me regain my focus on the present.
I’ve always felt a very strong connection to my past, and it’s been increasingly important for me to keep close the people who have been with me 10-20-30 years. Staying in touch, even if the face of not actually seeing them, has become a paramount consideration. Beyond their good company they are a tangible connection to my youth and our shared experiences make the past real.
Some people are better than others at staying in touch, and that’s cool, but I don’t think anyone would argue the merits of clinging to those who know us the longest. There is a subset of folks out there who would probably call me a total hypocrite if they read this because I bailed on a close group of friends from college for reasons too long to go into here, but let me just acknowledge that fact were I to be “google-stalked” by any one of them.
This may sound nuts but I spend a lot of time “in my past,” going over it, analyzing it, wondering how things might be different if I turned right instead of left. They aren’t recriminations or regrets, only musings. And yes, I do consider people out there in the world who I no longer communicate with.
I certainly don’t find fault with people who find it easy to shake loose the bonds of their roots, to live in other places, to meet an array of new people. That takes courage and I respect it. But for me, everything I always needed could be found within a 30-mile radius of the hospital where I was born.
I wonder what that says about me. Does it imply I’m a coward? Or, does it simply mean my desires are simple – that my happiness is rooted somewhat in embracing my past, and the long-standing relationships woven throughout the tapestry of my life?
What I do know is that I’ve felt a contented spirit throughout most of my life. I certainly ponder “what if’s,” but I’ve never had this gnawing feeling that something was inherently missing. Sure, I may’ve felt something was missing when I wanted to start dating and the girls weren’t knocking down my door, but that’s not what I mean.
Familiar surroundings have always comforted me, and familiar people, even more so. I’m at a time in my life that traditionally, for males, is the “mid-life crisis” point. Sometimes, I do feel I may not have accomplished as much as I should have, but I think that has more to do with a lack of motivation than anything else, and not a feeling that I “missed the boat.”
So what if I spent 20 years in a library? On its face, that sounds kind of sad. It’s not as though I didn’t do anything else. I grew up (sort of), got married, established myself professionally, but that tie in my life has evolved into something so profound that its eventual end disturbs me greatly.
I often see my life through the lens of my time at the library. It’s the one constant in a sea of change. There was a time when I stayed there to hide from the world, but to limit its scope to that one end hardly tells the story. I’ve written pages and pages about my time there but my (obtuse) point is to address how my past and present intersect there.
At times I bemoan the fact that I’m almost 40 - that time has gone by in the blink of an eye – that, in my mind, I feel no more an adult than I did when I was 22. Most of the time, I feel an overwhelming sense of comfort from my time there and it’s emblematic of how I’ve lived my life. Not everyone may agree – I know one or two people who would strongly disagree – but it’s worked for me over the years, and I doubt I’ll ever change.
It’s always been so hard for me to let go of the familiar, especially when more often than not that object or person is a force for good in my life. I’ve been pleasantly surprised over the years at how certain changes haven’t been as horrific as I anticipated, and the most growth I experienced usually came from traumatic change, but all I’m saying is continuity, longevity and familiarity has never bred contempt for me.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Thursday, October 09, 2008
The Greatest Stevie Song Ever?
To those of you receiving this blog via e-mail this is a You Tube clip.
Wednesday, October 08, 2008
Road Rage 1979
I was talking with my classmates about road rage a while back. I've never really had anything serious happen except getting the finger once in a blue moon, but it made me think about the worst incident I ever experienced (still very tame by today's standards). I was nine years old and my parents were driving me to a little league game.
Let me set the stage. Thanks to his background as a school disciplinarian, my Dad knew how to inspire fear (hence the lack of any significant teenage rebellion on my part). All he had to do was look at me and I'd wet myself. My Mom, on the other hand, was quiet, reserved and often played beauty to his beast.
We were driving down a one-lane road en route to the game. We were obviously too slow for the person behind us because he drove around my Dad, cutting him off in the process. Now my Dad was pissed, but he didn't lose it. What he did not see, but which I did from the back seat, was my mother flipping off the other motorist. Then the guy flipped us off and sent my Dad into a rage. He had no idea my Mom did it first.
He sped up like a madman to catch this guy and turned into the ball field lot (where we were going anyway.) The other guy got out of his car and, from what I remember, he was a twenty-something, white trash-looking skell with a pretty vacant expression. My father launched into an expletive-laden tirade that shook the car – but he didn't get out. He cursed this guy into next week and the skell just stood there. I was waiting for him to pull out a gun and just shoot my Dad so he'd shut up.
When Dad was done the skell walked away and drove off. My father turned to my mother, still fuming, and was going on about how that guy cut him off, then had the nerve to give him the finger. My mother said nothing. He turned to me, and I was like Roger Rabbit, flat as a board, and glued to the seat with an expression of sheer terror. He said, "Are you OK? I'm sorry I got so mad."
All I could muster was, "Mom gave that guy the finger!!"
Let me set the stage. Thanks to his background as a school disciplinarian, my Dad knew how to inspire fear (hence the lack of any significant teenage rebellion on my part). All he had to do was look at me and I'd wet myself. My Mom, on the other hand, was quiet, reserved and often played beauty to his beast.
We were driving down a one-lane road en route to the game. We were obviously too slow for the person behind us because he drove around my Dad, cutting him off in the process. Now my Dad was pissed, but he didn't lose it. What he did not see, but which I did from the back seat, was my mother flipping off the other motorist. Then the guy flipped us off and sent my Dad into a rage. He had no idea my Mom did it first.
He sped up like a madman to catch this guy and turned into the ball field lot (where we were going anyway.) The other guy got out of his car and, from what I remember, he was a twenty-something, white trash-looking skell with a pretty vacant expression. My father launched into an expletive-laden tirade that shook the car – but he didn't get out. He cursed this guy into next week and the skell just stood there. I was waiting for him to pull out a gun and just shoot my Dad so he'd shut up.
When Dad was done the skell walked away and drove off. My father turned to my mother, still fuming, and was going on about how that guy cut him off, then had the nerve to give him the finger. My mother said nothing. He turned to me, and I was like Roger Rabbit, flat as a board, and glued to the seat with an expression of sheer terror. He said, "Are you OK? I'm sorry I got so mad."
All I could muster was, "Mom gave that guy the finger!!"
Monday, October 06, 2008
Mentors
About eight years ago, a beloved teacher of mine was killed in an auto accident. The news hit me like a ton of bricks. Beyond the normal grief one feels at such a moment I was immediately struck by what this man had meant to me during our time together. Put simply, he was one of several individuals in my life I consider a mentor.
Only two weeks prior to his death, I stopped working at the Catholic diocesan newspaper that would intensely cover this story. However, my former editors generously allowed me the opportunity to pay tribute to him. In the article, I made the assertion that we often encounter people in our lives that help us take the next step. That, for me, is the definition of a mentor – a person who gives us that gentle push to the next level, whatever that level represents.
In my experience, the people who served as mentors to me never set themselves up in that role. The glaring omission here is that of my parents. Obviously they are mentors, and so much more, but they really don’t fit the discussion here. I’m talking about people I’ve associated with over the years – friends, colleagues, teachers - people I’ve had an unequal relationship with on some level, and who taught me something important.
The relationship with my teacher was about as unequal as you can get. He was my math teacher and homeroom moderator. He was in his first year of teaching and finding his footing, just as I was as a freshman in high school. His personality was a little stiff and he often resorted to tough discipline because he was somewhat overmatched by the wise asses in my homeroom.
I was as shy and meek as could be, and was completely terrified of my new surroundings. Math was my worst subject, and would be a thorn in my side throughout my entire scholastic career. However, with this man’s help, not only did I pass Math, I attained a 91 average in the subject. He did everything within his power to help me understand the subject and, as long as I availed myself of all the resources the school had to offer, he was there for me.
Getting through that first year was a major triumph. The next year, owing to my rapport with him, I joined a weekly discussion group he hosted, and remained there for the next three years. Over that time, we became as good friends as a student and teacher could be. He was a member of a religious order so he had certain lessons he was duty bound to impart on us, but he also taught us how to be men. By the time I left him, I felt as though he provided me with the tools I needed to face the challenges ahead, not necessarily in a religious sense, but in terms of my burgeoning adulthood.
I’ve almost felt as though, in a figurative sense, he “handed me off” to other mentors over the years. It’s not like I couldn’t take care of myself – I’d like to believe I’m a fairly high functioning person, but there are always people out there who can teach us, whose life experience extends beyond ours, that can impart some wisdom to us, whether it’s of a professional or a personal nature.
These people I’m talking about have always led by their example. They haven’t sat me down like a child and said, “Today we’re going to learn how to deal with women!” or “Today we’re going to learn how to be a professional at work!”
These are always people who, for lack of a better term, have “rubbed off” on me, and provided me with a road map for navigating a certain situation based on their own experience. The advice, the wise counsel, has always been something I either explicitly sought, or was shared at some point as the relationship evolved.
The funny thing is, often I don’t recognize the relationship until it’s over, or at least my time with them is severely diminished. In several cases, I still enjoy a relationship with these people, even if we’re long past the point of seeing each other on a daily basis.
When my teacher died, I felt a tremendous need to express what this man had done for me, and luckily, I had an outlet to share it with those who knew him as well as countless others. Since then, it’s been critically important for me to give these people special recognition while we’re all still here, and I’m happy to say I’ve done that on many occasions (usually when that day-to-day relationship ceases).
Mentors are not necessarily people we aspire to emulate. They are people who share their experiences with us in the hope that we relate to them on some level. We may well make the same mistakes they did, but then who better to vent about those mistakes to? Having someone who can relate to our mishaps is equally as important, if not more so, than someone who celebrates our achievements. Often, they are one in the same.
Only two weeks prior to his death, I stopped working at the Catholic diocesan newspaper that would intensely cover this story. However, my former editors generously allowed me the opportunity to pay tribute to him. In the article, I made the assertion that we often encounter people in our lives that help us take the next step. That, for me, is the definition of a mentor – a person who gives us that gentle push to the next level, whatever that level represents.
In my experience, the people who served as mentors to me never set themselves up in that role. The glaring omission here is that of my parents. Obviously they are mentors, and so much more, but they really don’t fit the discussion here. I’m talking about people I’ve associated with over the years – friends, colleagues, teachers - people I’ve had an unequal relationship with on some level, and who taught me something important.
The relationship with my teacher was about as unequal as you can get. He was my math teacher and homeroom moderator. He was in his first year of teaching and finding his footing, just as I was as a freshman in high school. His personality was a little stiff and he often resorted to tough discipline because he was somewhat overmatched by the wise asses in my homeroom.
I was as shy and meek as could be, and was completely terrified of my new surroundings. Math was my worst subject, and would be a thorn in my side throughout my entire scholastic career. However, with this man’s help, not only did I pass Math, I attained a 91 average in the subject. He did everything within his power to help me understand the subject and, as long as I availed myself of all the resources the school had to offer, he was there for me.
Getting through that first year was a major triumph. The next year, owing to my rapport with him, I joined a weekly discussion group he hosted, and remained there for the next three years. Over that time, we became as good friends as a student and teacher could be. He was a member of a religious order so he had certain lessons he was duty bound to impart on us, but he also taught us how to be men. By the time I left him, I felt as though he provided me with the tools I needed to face the challenges ahead, not necessarily in a religious sense, but in terms of my burgeoning adulthood.
I’ve almost felt as though, in a figurative sense, he “handed me off” to other mentors over the years. It’s not like I couldn’t take care of myself – I’d like to believe I’m a fairly high functioning person, but there are always people out there who can teach us, whose life experience extends beyond ours, that can impart some wisdom to us, whether it’s of a professional or a personal nature.
These people I’m talking about have always led by their example. They haven’t sat me down like a child and said, “Today we’re going to learn how to deal with women!” or “Today we’re going to learn how to be a professional at work!”
These are always people who, for lack of a better term, have “rubbed off” on me, and provided me with a road map for navigating a certain situation based on their own experience. The advice, the wise counsel, has always been something I either explicitly sought, or was shared at some point as the relationship evolved.
The funny thing is, often I don’t recognize the relationship until it’s over, or at least my time with them is severely diminished. In several cases, I still enjoy a relationship with these people, even if we’re long past the point of seeing each other on a daily basis.
When my teacher died, I felt a tremendous need to express what this man had done for me, and luckily, I had an outlet to share it with those who knew him as well as countless others. Since then, it’s been critically important for me to give these people special recognition while we’re all still here, and I’m happy to say I’ve done that on many occasions (usually when that day-to-day relationship ceases).
Mentors are not necessarily people we aspire to emulate. They are people who share their experiences with us in the hope that we relate to them on some level. We may well make the same mistakes they did, but then who better to vent about those mistakes to? Having someone who can relate to our mishaps is equally as important, if not more so, than someone who celebrates our achievements. Often, they are one in the same.
Wednesday, October 01, 2008
Middle Relief Ruined Baseball: A Rant
There are probably friends of mine reading this post who may feel I have no right to comment on the state of baseball these days since I don’t follow the game as ardently as I did in my youth. I grew up with a fanatical devotion to the sport, owing in large part to my Dad’s influence, a man who lived and died with the Brooklyn Dodgers (and still does).
For various reasons I slipped away from baseball in my mid-teens. I returned much later as a much more passive fan, one who only finds time to watch during the playoffs and World Series (and only then if the match ups interest me). I follow the game mainly through reading the paper and online recaps. My love for baseball is rooted more in its’ past than in its’ present.
I grew up in the late 70s and early 80s and my baseball experience was one of burgeoning free agency, yet there was still a large contingent of players who played for only one team throughout their careers. Hitting 50 home runs was a major feat, and there were a number of pitchers on their way to 300 victories.
Perhaps most importantly, pitchers often went the distance and threw nine innings if they had their stuff. Closers were guys like Goose Gossage and Rollie Fingers, who came in as early as the 7th inning. You knew when these guys took the mound the game was over. There was no such thing as a “pitch count,” and certainly no formal concept of “middle relief.”
In the really old days, a reliever was someone who didn’t have the stuff to be a starter and basically threw nothing but junk. Slowly, beginning in the late 50s, the concept of relief pitching took hold with guys like Hoyt Wilhelm and Elroy Face. Still, relievers as a whole did not get a whole lot of love from the baseball establishment. However, in the 70s, men like Fingers and Gossage (and Rawley Eastwick, Mike Marshall, Kent Tekulve to name a few) became stars in that capacity and it became a viable, respected role.
In the mid-80s baseball and I parted ways. I had little interest in the game for many years, but I got sucked back when my hometown team, the New York Mets, reasserted themselves in the late 90s. My interest was piqued, but I soon learned that much had changed.
We all know great pitching trumps great hitting every time. It seems that since the golden age of pitching in the late 60s, the baseball establishment has been systematically eroding the dominance of good pitching in favor of the flashier and more exciting concept of good hitting. Lowering the mound was the first of many stabs the leagues took at watering down pitching.
Expansion has watered down the pool of available talent, and players who may never have made it past the minors now enjoy long careers at the major league level (especially pitchers).
For some reason that has not been adequately explained to me starting pitchers are now only expected to pitch 5-6 innings at most, and never expected to go beyond the almighty pitch count set for them. And they get 5-6 days rest to boot! Instead of four good starters (back in my day), today you have maybe one ace, two solid starters and three wildly unpredictable guys who can throw a no-hitter one day and be shelled the next start.
And don’t get me started about hitting. Balls (and players) have been juiced to the point of criminality. For my money, steroids have ruined the last 10-15 years of baseball and every hitting record attained by a steroid user is a tainted one. In the 60s Jim Bouton and his contemporaries used “greenies” to stay in the game after a night of carousing. As he put it, those were performance enablers, not performance enhancers.
The prevailing wisdom is that fans want to see home runs, and lots of them. I’d rather watch a pitcher’s duel than a slugfest.
My Dad and I love to watch old ballgames. For him, it’s a chance to revisit his youth and the players he grew up with. For me, it’s an opportunity to see the game as it was before it was sullied with all the changes of the present day.
I’ve seen Tom Seaver pitch ten innings to win a World Series game. I’ve seen Sandy Koufax pitch on two days rest and still blow guys away with his fastball. I’ve seen Bob Gibson bring the heat with as much ferocity in inning nine as he did in inning one. All these games occurred before I was born, but I saw them. I saw Roger Craig pitch 10 innings during a game in 1959. Craig was no superstar either! What the hell happened?
The Mets’ recent elimination from playoff contention is a perfect example of how bad pitching can destroy a team that, by all rights, should make the postseason every year. For the second time in three years, inconsistent starter Oliver Perez gave his team everything someone of his middling talent possibly could in a do or die situation. He eventually faltered, but the offense kept the team in the game.
To be fair, the Mets lost their closer Billy Wagner earlier in the month, and that is a devastating blow for any team. However, these middle relievers blew many games before Wagner even took the ball, so I often wonder what’s the point of having a great closer when your middle relievers lose the lead the starter has worked so hard to protect??
During Sunday’s game craptacular relievers Scott Schoenweis and Luis Ayala gave up back to back home runs and the Mets lost the game 4-2. I’m not saying the offense doesn’t deserve some blame either, as the Mets faced a guy who they’ve eaten for breakfast on several occasions, so what the hell, guys?
This game for me is the perfect illustration of how the concept of middle relief (along with the others I mentioned) has ruined the game. It’s not just a problem for the Mets, but every major league team that is forced to keep a stable of junkball pitchers who can’t start, can’t close, and most importantly, can’t hold the lead!
I know things will never go back to the way they used to be, and that’s tragic. I would rather watch Roberto Clemente face down Jim Palmer for nine innings during a game that occurred thirty years ago because that’s worth watching – not four guys with no stuff getting shelled.
Even if someone like Palmer wasn’t on his A game Earl Weaver wouldn’t necessarily yank him because he knew there was a good chance he’d regain his footing. Pitchers like Palmer weren’t rattled so easily, and if they gave up a run or two they still might very well win the game.
I envy my Dad for the era he grew up in, and I’m glad enough of those games survive so I can share it with him.
(For those of you receiving this blog as an e-mail be sure to check the site for some youtube clips of real pitchers!)
For various reasons I slipped away from baseball in my mid-teens. I returned much later as a much more passive fan, one who only finds time to watch during the playoffs and World Series (and only then if the match ups interest me). I follow the game mainly through reading the paper and online recaps. My love for baseball is rooted more in its’ past than in its’ present.
I grew up in the late 70s and early 80s and my baseball experience was one of burgeoning free agency, yet there was still a large contingent of players who played for only one team throughout their careers. Hitting 50 home runs was a major feat, and there were a number of pitchers on their way to 300 victories.
Perhaps most importantly, pitchers often went the distance and threw nine innings if they had their stuff. Closers were guys like Goose Gossage and Rollie Fingers, who came in as early as the 7th inning. You knew when these guys took the mound the game was over. There was no such thing as a “pitch count,” and certainly no formal concept of “middle relief.”
In the really old days, a reliever was someone who didn’t have the stuff to be a starter and basically threw nothing but junk. Slowly, beginning in the late 50s, the concept of relief pitching took hold with guys like Hoyt Wilhelm and Elroy Face. Still, relievers as a whole did not get a whole lot of love from the baseball establishment. However, in the 70s, men like Fingers and Gossage (and Rawley Eastwick, Mike Marshall, Kent Tekulve to name a few) became stars in that capacity and it became a viable, respected role.
In the mid-80s baseball and I parted ways. I had little interest in the game for many years, but I got sucked back when my hometown team, the New York Mets, reasserted themselves in the late 90s. My interest was piqued, but I soon learned that much had changed.
We all know great pitching trumps great hitting every time. It seems that since the golden age of pitching in the late 60s, the baseball establishment has been systematically eroding the dominance of good pitching in favor of the flashier and more exciting concept of good hitting. Lowering the mound was the first of many stabs the leagues took at watering down pitching.
Expansion has watered down the pool of available talent, and players who may never have made it past the minors now enjoy long careers at the major league level (especially pitchers).
For some reason that has not been adequately explained to me starting pitchers are now only expected to pitch 5-6 innings at most, and never expected to go beyond the almighty pitch count set for them. And they get 5-6 days rest to boot! Instead of four good starters (back in my day), today you have maybe one ace, two solid starters and three wildly unpredictable guys who can throw a no-hitter one day and be shelled the next start.
And don’t get me started about hitting. Balls (and players) have been juiced to the point of criminality. For my money, steroids have ruined the last 10-15 years of baseball and every hitting record attained by a steroid user is a tainted one. In the 60s Jim Bouton and his contemporaries used “greenies” to stay in the game after a night of carousing. As he put it, those were performance enablers, not performance enhancers.
The prevailing wisdom is that fans want to see home runs, and lots of them. I’d rather watch a pitcher’s duel than a slugfest.
My Dad and I love to watch old ballgames. For him, it’s a chance to revisit his youth and the players he grew up with. For me, it’s an opportunity to see the game as it was before it was sullied with all the changes of the present day.
I’ve seen Tom Seaver pitch ten innings to win a World Series game. I’ve seen Sandy Koufax pitch on two days rest and still blow guys away with his fastball. I’ve seen Bob Gibson bring the heat with as much ferocity in inning nine as he did in inning one. All these games occurred before I was born, but I saw them. I saw Roger Craig pitch 10 innings during a game in 1959. Craig was no superstar either! What the hell happened?
The Mets’ recent elimination from playoff contention is a perfect example of how bad pitching can destroy a team that, by all rights, should make the postseason every year. For the second time in three years, inconsistent starter Oliver Perez gave his team everything someone of his middling talent possibly could in a do or die situation. He eventually faltered, but the offense kept the team in the game.
To be fair, the Mets lost their closer Billy Wagner earlier in the month, and that is a devastating blow for any team. However, these middle relievers blew many games before Wagner even took the ball, so I often wonder what’s the point of having a great closer when your middle relievers lose the lead the starter has worked so hard to protect??
During Sunday’s game craptacular relievers Scott Schoenweis and Luis Ayala gave up back to back home runs and the Mets lost the game 4-2. I’m not saying the offense doesn’t deserve some blame either, as the Mets faced a guy who they’ve eaten for breakfast on several occasions, so what the hell, guys?
This game for me is the perfect illustration of how the concept of middle relief (along with the others I mentioned) has ruined the game. It’s not just a problem for the Mets, but every major league team that is forced to keep a stable of junkball pitchers who can’t start, can’t close, and most importantly, can’t hold the lead!
I know things will never go back to the way they used to be, and that’s tragic. I would rather watch Roberto Clemente face down Jim Palmer for nine innings during a game that occurred thirty years ago because that’s worth watching – not four guys with no stuff getting shelled.
Even if someone like Palmer wasn’t on his A game Earl Weaver wouldn’t necessarily yank him because he knew there was a good chance he’d regain his footing. Pitchers like Palmer weren’t rattled so easily, and if they gave up a run or two they still might very well win the game.
I envy my Dad for the era he grew up in, and I’m glad enough of those games survive so I can share it with him.
(For those of you receiving this blog as an e-mail be sure to check the site for some youtube clips of real pitchers!)
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