Portal Authority

 

Remember those stories, where the author asks us to take a leap of faith with them, to suspend reality as we go through a hole, maybe a trap door in a closet, or sit in a tree house that can travel through time to get the main characters (and through them the reader) to a magical place where there are dragons and elves or princes and princesses, or other flights of fancy?

You know the stories like:Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, The Magic Tree House series, The Chronicles of Narniaprobably come to mind.

Due to the scattershot workings of my mind, I was recently thinking about the Port Authority Bus Terminal in New York City. My thoughts turned to going to our camp reunions in the days before I had a license or a car and I thought of how I would get there. I thought the similarity of the words port/portal  was apropos as that bus terminal was our trap door in a closet, our Magic Tree House to the special worlds of trees and grass, lakes and rivers, mountains and valleys…outside the city.

City kids of a certain age, those of us who grew up in Gotham before Guiliani& Bloomberg cleaned it up, will tremble a bit at the thought of this portal, our trap door to travel to the leafier confines outside the five boroughs. ThePort Authority?Dun DunDun.Holy shit! Talk about a crucible, a labyrinth. Man that place made even street-wise kids put their wallets in their front pockets. It was a metal and concrete behemoth just west of Times Square, I don’t know how many stories high, a hulking mass of bus fumes, street walking hookers, con men, homeless vets, punks, litter and the suburban rubes who had to travel in and out of the city every day to the greener pastures of Upstate New York, New Jersey, Pennsylvania and beyond!

 

Oh to be one of those rubes, gulp. We were warned, by our peers, street smart guys from the neighborhood, wizened adults and of course our parents about taking the bus from Port Authority.

Don’t ask anyone questions! These people sense fear.

Act like you know exactly where you’re going!

Do NOT trust anyone. Most people are on the make.

Are you sure you can’t get a ride?

 

The thought of heading into the Port Authority to exit the Big Apple could make your knees knock. Before the first trip, there was a genuinefear that if you engaged in a conversation with the wrong dude, you might never be found again. The possibility of getting gutted by a knife in the bathroom seemed like something that I should protect against, as if someone might drag me into the bathroom by force because there was NO WAY I would use a public restroom in the subway, let alone the Port Authority. Stories circulated in our neighborhood of people who went to Port Authority and didn’t come out the same person, urban legends like…Johnny T took some acid he bought at the Port Authority and now look at him? His mom breaks out into tears every time she sees him. Last I heard he thought he was a can opener, he’s living on the streets in Hells Kitchen…he’s practically homeless.

From our neighborhood, there were many reasons a young adult, a teenagermight have to go through the Port Authority.  Most often it was my trips to camp reunions or I might be visiting a girlfriend or maybe a group of us would organize a camping trip up to Harriman State Park. If I couldn’t get a ride(man it was nice to have friends with cars) Port Authority was the last option. Eventually, a necessary evil, one that might be worth the risk if those special places outside the city were really calling you.

From our neighborhood you’d take the F train, switch to the A at Jay Street and then exit the A at 42^nd Street. From there you wind up meandering the dank, graffiti-covered tunnels, reading the billboards, following the signs, keeping up with the crowds, to emerge “inside” the Port Authority Bus Terminal.

And here it comes…

Spare some change?

Pssst, Sense, Sense, Sensimillion?

Thai Stick?

As I walk, the advice of friends echoing in my head…Keep walking. Don’t make eye contact and whatever you do, don’t ask anyone a question! Act like you know where you’re going. As a last resort, if you’re not sure , your head is starting to spin, find a suburbanite, look for Regular-Joe Commuter, they are there…and grab onto them like a life preserver.

It’s an interesting performance, to act like you know where you’re going when the maze seems limitless and fraught with danger.  You hear the voices and there’s the fear that a decision of yours might result in you losing your wallet, getting stabbed, or even worse….To act cocky while we have no clue, that’s the city-kid recipe for survival… That’s how we make it through life…

I always chuckle and think that I should get a piece of cheese at the end after successfully wending my way up the twists and turns of the subway and Port Authority tunnels, considering the subway’s reputation for rats and all.

Mind is racing as you go…Follow the signs, we’re cool, we know what we’re doing. Find the right bus company…damn, look at all the choices. Why didn’t somebody tell me the name of the bus company? Hey this isn’t so bad, seems like quite a few normal people around. She’s kind of cute. But hey, I’m going to visit my girlfriend. 
Where’s the bus company that serves…Rockland County? He’s clearly a father, a business man, he’s not going to rob me, I could ask him…

“Excuse me, do you know…

And of course it works out. There are plenty of helpful people around. Mr. Commuter is someone’s father, smiles at your anxiety and gives you foolproof directions.  If he’s going to the same bus as you, might even say, “I’m heading that way, bus is in 11 minutes, buy your ticket and you can follow me.”

Once on the bus, we double-check, “Excuse me, is this the bus to Spring Valley and Nanuet?” 

Whew, made it, now just relax, open my book and watch the scenery. 

The bus gets more and more crowded. Try to make myself intrusive, large, so nobody sits next to me. Veteran commuters come in, stow their briefcases and duffel bags overhead, put their headphones on (Walkman headphones not earbuds) open their books, most nod off to sleep.  When the bus is just about full, we begin to drive. Big noises, squeaking brakes, lurching buses, horns beeping, traffic…exiting the Port Authority on the bus, is similar to getting into the Port Authority…twists and turns and dark tunnels. Eventually some of the ramps are outdoors, we can orient ourselves…there’s the West Side Highway over there, Empire State Building...It seemed that most buses, no matter where I was heading, would take the Lincoln Tunnel and then head West, North or South after that.  After many stops at various odd places for bus stops, hotels, smaller bus terminals…I would be excited to exit the bus, finally into the welcoming embrace of a friend…

Coming back…After a two or three day breather, a scrubbing off of the city grime  if you will, with Fresh Air, sunshine, greenery, we had to get back on the same bus, and reverse the trip. Ugh, what a sad trip that always was, watching my girlfriend get smaller and smaller in the bus window as I prepare to retrace my steps, to reenter the city through the same maze was a shock to the system. I love the city, always have but it was at those moments of reentry, after being cleansed of the city’s grit, that New York seemed so much dirtier, the litter, the graffiti, the rats, were depressing. The city felt even dirtier than before being juxtaposed with the places I had left. Those were the rare moments when I could see why someone would say, “How do you live in the city?”  But it was always a fleeting thought, after the initial shock to the system, instinct and survival mode would take over.

Once you made the trip once, the turns, the bus companies that service each area, the windows where you buy your tickets became familiar. The labyrinth becomes less intimidating every time you cruise through Port Authority like a crafty veteran. Head down, hold your belongings close, get your ticket, follow the crowd to your bus, grab a seat and open your book, you’re home free, so to speak. Enjoy the ride. And like many things that once seemed so scary, not so much anymore. I’m still thankful that I have a car, and I don’t think I’ve been inside the Port Authority since Reagan was in the White House. Happy Trails.

 

 

A Breath of Fresh Air

Fate is a powerful thing. Especially when you have the wherewithal to recognize fateful moments as they are occurring. On the Middlebury Town Green a few years ago, during the ceremonial lighting of our town’s Christmas Tree, Kira and I made the acquaintance of one Heather Roy. Heather was sitting with our neighbors, the Jorgensens, and we were introduced. We exchanged pleasantries and most of our attention was on her Newfoundland puppy.

Bending down to tousle the pup I asked, “What’s his name?”
“Leo,” Heather replied.
I looked sorrowfully at the dog and said,  “Oh that’s a horrible name. How could you do that to that dog? He’s going to live the rest of his life as Leo?”
“I know….”

As we walked away, Kira, my wife, scolded me, “You know sometimes people don’t get your sense of humor.”  “She thought it was funny. Come on, she knew I was kidding.”
That night, Heather reached out to me on Facebook. We chatted a bit and I reminded her of my comment about her dog’s name. I mentioned that Kira thought she might have been insulted, I can be sensitive like that. I blamed it on the Brooklyn wise-ass in me.  She assured me that she had a thick skin and a biting wit herself.

Fast forward to the summer. Heather’s family was hosting a Fresh Air Fund boy, Mekhi, who was  living on St. John’s place a short bike ride from where I grew up. Heather recalling my Brooklyn roots, reached out, “You have to meet our Fresh Air Fund kid, he’s from Brooklyn.”  I knew all about the Fresh Air Fund from my city days and from my days as a camp counselor. I thought, Hmmm, what about us hosting a city kid at our place in “the country?” Not only was Heather hosting but she’s the coordinator for our area. I knew I had to get my wife and boys on board…

At our town beach on Lake Quassapaug, on Mekhi’s first day in Middlebury, Heather introduces us. We chat for a bit about his neighborhood, about his school and the good pizzerias near his house…then he flits off to play basketball. I continued to talk to Heather about Fresh Air Fund. I knew it was something I wanted to be involved with. Eventually she says, “I’m having a barbeque at my house for all of the host families, you guys should come by.”

Sitting with Kira, side-by-side in our beach chairs, I broach the subject of the BBQ at Heather’s “Heather’s hosting a barbeque for the Fresh Air Fund families tonight at her house. She said we should stop by.” Kira is unsure, “That might be weird, we’ll be attending but everyone else there will be hosting a kid.”
“I know, Heather said it would be cool. We won’t have to cook dinner! I bet the food’ll be good.”  Eventually, she caved.  My plan was working.

The barbeque was a success, my boys had a blast playing Manhunt with a mix of local kids and our new visitors. I spent some time chatting up the city kids about their experiences with the Fresh Air Fund and was even more convinced that we should host a child. In the car on the way home…my boys took up the cry…”We should host a kid. We should do this next summer. It will be fun. Come on? Can we do it? “
Kira balked,  “I don’t know, it’s just going to be more work for me. More cooking, more cleaning, more laundry.”

So that was her objection? Easy to parry that, “Honey, I hear what you are saying but I’m a teacher, I’m home all summer. I think we should do this.”  She continued to deflect, the boys pestered, eventually, we let it lie. Sporadically,  throughout that summer, the boys and I applied pressure, reminding Kira that we should become a host family.

As we progressed into the cold months of another New England winter, I kept stoking the “hosting” fire, selling Kira on the benefits, I would bring it up when we were in the car so she was captive. Eventually, Kira relented, “Alright. But this is on YOU.” At some point we had to fill out paper work and submit to a background check. Yes we passed.  In the Spinner household, Friday night is Pizza Night, those Brooklyn-Catholic roots have some staying power. Rather than just fill out the paper work, I invited Heather and her family over to enjoy pizza night/happy hour with the Spinners and our neighbors the Jorgensens, who were also contemplating hosting a boy.  Usually an energetic host, Kira’s arms were still folded, her mantra of, This is on you holding firm. I shopped for the beer and wine, I cleaned the house and coordinated picking up the pizza.

As our guests arrive, Kira softens, she moves into hostess mode. After dinner, we sit in the living room, a roaring fire and some cold winter lagers in our hands and Heather begins to pepper us with questions for the required paperwork. I’m thinking, This is happening. After a night of laughs, good food and drink, our guests leave and we clean-up. The boys begin to ask questions:
“So, are we going to get one?” As if the Fresh Air Fund boy is a commodity.
“How old will he be?”
I give them as much info as I can…“We requested a boy from Brooklyn who is about 10 who likes sports, is comfortable around dogs and knows how to swim.”

With visions of an ABC After School Movie Special running in my head, the Fresh Air Fund was placed on the back burner. During the spring months…we would get the occasional email about the Fresh Air Fund and it would move to the front burner. More questions from the boys. What will he be like? What if he’s not fun? What if he doesn’t like it here? What if we don’t like him? Summer’s approaching and I begin to plan out our week: hiking, biking, boating, trips to the town beach, a Red Sox game, a tour of ESPN, trips to a Rhode Island beach? Still from the Ice Queen I was getting, This is on You.  I was surprised. I really thought she would be whole-heartedly behind it, especially as summer approached.
Finally we are connected to Chris Robinson. The name sounds literary to me, like something out of a Mark Twain novel. Tom Sawyer, Huck Finn, Joe Harper and Chris Robinson heading down to the swimming hole to swing off the rope swing. Or is it because it’s close to Winnie the Pooh’s friend, Christopher Robin that I’m thinking literary character? I just know that this is our guy.

About a week before Chris is to take the bus from Port Authority, with the 37 other city kids coming to our area of Connecticut, I reach out and chat with his grandmother, Delka. She gives me information about Chris, explains that he has done Fresh Air Fund before, out in the Hamptons the previous summer (gulp how can we compete with that?) and that he likes dogs etc…I get a little family history, Chris’s mother passed away a few years before at an early age. The word she keeps working into our conversation is, sweet. “Chris is a really sweet boy. You guys will really like Chris. We will miss him around here, he’s such a sweet kid. In school, he won an award, he was student of the month for his whole district!”

Then the day: The bus leaves Port Authority on a Monday morning and will be to our neck of the woods a few hours later. The boys craft a sign of welcome with some artwork about the upcoming week on it, The Spinners Welcome Chris Robinson! There’s a picture of Fenway Park, a Red Sox B, the ESPN logo…We put together a little care package: Sour Patch Kids, M&M’s,  a Nerf Football and of course a book. I chose My Side of the Mountain, I thought it was appropriate. If you don’t know it, it’s a classic survival story about a city kid who runs away to the Catskill Mountains and survives on his own.  We are early to the pick-up spot, (a Jim Spinner rarity so it shows how excited I am )a McDonald’s parking lot off of I84 in Waterbury. Some of the other host families are milling about in the parking lot. Nervous, I ask questions of the more experienced host families.  I make small talk with the Millers who I know from our town, this is their first year hosting too. Eventually, we sit in our car with the air conditioning on getting text updates on the progress of the bus—they left the city at 11, they just passed Danbury, they passed exit 15….and then the bus pulls in.

For many of the kids and host families, it’s a reunion, there are shrieks of joy and welcome. For others, there’s the shy introductions, the anxious hand shake, the overly welcoming voice. One by one boys and girls  emerge from the air conditioned bus, with each one we are excited… Is this him? Is that Chris? It’s painfully slow and I’m feeling bad for the kids who have been on the bus for hours.  We can see into the bus, through the tinted windows, Chris is one of the last boys off the bus. As the Fresh Air Fund administrator calls out the Spinner name,  I notice that he’s wearing jeans and a pretty heavy jacket, and he’s pulling the jacket up over much of his face.  We approach each other, go through the friendly handshake, formally, I look Chris in the eye, “Chris, I’m Mr. Spinner, this is my wife Kira, this is Nicholas, Brian & Charlie…we are SO HAPPY you will be joining our family for this week…” Hand shakes all around, nice to meet you, nice to meet you…We get into the SUV, and all of the cars leave the parking lot.

As we drive toward Middlebury, I am glancing in the rear view mirror, Chris is still hiding inside his jacket. I play the Brooklyn card, “Where do you go to school Chris?” “IS 88” I know the school so I talk about where it is and we chat about the neighborhood…Chris continues to keep his jacket over his mouth and I’m thinking, I hope he’s not too scared. I hope he’s not really weird. What if he acts like this all week? Kira will kill me, after all, this is on me.

I needn’t have worried. The boys give Chris his care package and as we’re heading west on I84, the car fills with conversation, with questions, with possibilities for the coming week. We tried to do a mix of special activities and give Christopher a little taste of everyday life in Middlebury. We offered Chris his own bedroom, thinking he might like that because he shares a room with his siblings at home. Chris said he would prefer to sleep on the floor in Brian & Charlie’s room. We moved a mattress in there, below the bunk beds, in front of the Xbox, and that’s where it remained for the whole week. The first night, we took Chris to Rich’s Farm for some special ice cream.

Chris brings out the best in my boys…they easily share their toys, their rooms and they are on their best behavior for pretty much the whole week. It was heart-warming on so many levels. Kira and I treat Chris as one of the family, giving him chores to do just like the other Spinner boys. My boys do their jobs with a little less grousing, which is nice.

By the second night, it feels like one long sleep-over, it really couldn’t be going any better. Chris is a great kid and meshes nicely with my boys. It’s intriguing to watch my boys seeing our lives through a different lens. I could see my boys looking at Kira and I (who were also on our best behavior mind you) and thinking, my parents are actually pretty cool, maybe. That Tuesday, we headed up to ESPN headquarters in Bristol, my friend Tom Hennessy hooked us up with a tour of the facilities. That was the highlight of the week. We got some history and a behind the scenes look at how things are done at the world’s leader in sports broadcasting.  By the end of that second night, I’m sitting on the couch reading, I’ve got a ballgame on in the background, the boys are upstairs having a blast when they all come clumpity clump  down the stairs until they are standing in front of me. I know I’m being ambushed for a favor.
”Dad? We were thinking we really want Chris to come back next year.”
“Yeh Dad, he fits right in with us, things are going great, let’s have Chris come back again next year.”
I put the paper to the side and let out a heavy sigh, “Listen fellas, I know it’s going great but it’s only been two days. It’s a long week. As far as I’m concerned Chris, actually all of you, are still on probation. Let’s see how the rest of the week plays out, we don’t have to make that decision right now.”   My boys, knowing my sense of humor, look for Chris’s reaction, kid doesn’t miss a beat, “Oh, Mr. Spinner, you’re just messing with us.”

Every night, we go through the routine, teeth brushing, pj’s on, last trip to the bathroom and I still give my boys a hug and kiss good night. Of course, Chris gets a good night hug and kiss too. I head back down to the living room. I can hear the boys horsing around, talking and laughing, and a bit later, Brian comes down to get a drink of water and he says to me, “Dad, Chris just said to us that he feels like he’s a part of the family.” Hah, it’s all working according to plan heh heh heh….

Sometimes there are happy endings. The one fly in the ointment, the one thing I didn’t think about was, we’d have to give Chris back to his own loving family. The final two days or so, the inevitable good-bye is hovering there for all of us. By Saturday and Sunday, we begin talking about Chris’s leaving, “Don’t worry, he lives in Brooklyn, we go to the city all the time, we’ll visit. Hey, we’ll take him to Grimaldi’s Pizza….” but there’s that little lump in the throat. Monday, after a thoroughly amazing week, we drive Chris back to the McDonald’s parking lot. My wife, after all the arm-folding, and all the deflections, is a blubbering mess.  When we get back home we’re both wandering aimlessly around the house and Kira says,  “Why did you make me do this? I don’t like to feel this way, I hate you for making me do this. I miss him so much.”  Gloating with self-satisfaction, secure in the knowledge that for ONCE, things turned out exactly as planned, I resist the urge to say, I told you so, because after all, This was on me:-}
P.S. If you want to contact our local Fresh Air Fund Rep, let me know:-)

The Game of Love

In the preface to The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, Twain says, in speaking to the reader about why he wrote the book, “…for part of my plan has been to try to pleasantly remind adults of what they once were themselves, and of how they felt and thought and talked, and what queer enterprises they sometimes engaged in.”  If I can use a quote from one of America’s iconic literary figures to say, “That’s my goal for this piece as I/we take a stroll down memory lane in something I call, “The Game of Love.” 

I wasn’t always smooth with the ladies. I know that’s hard to believe. But I always liked them, at times I pined for them, I was always aware of girls in my universe. Early on, playing imaginary games of baseball as I pitch a Spaldeen off the wood steps of 434 East 4th Street, I’m wondering if Rose Yannonne is watching from her second floor porch across the street?  Is she impressed with these amazing catches I’m making? In the early grades at school I was a bit of a class clown, my antics designed to make my friends laugh and I suppose, to entertain the girls; depending on the grade, it might be one girl in particular. Thinking of those crushes, those relationships, that feeling of longing is still there, the desire for acceptance, for someone’s seal of approval is still strong.  
And now? I’m a married father of three boys and that game is over for me. And I miss it. It’s funny, my wife worries about my three boys entering the dating universe, she’s worried one of them will fall really hard for a girl and then get his heart broken. But isn’t that all part of the game? How else do love songs mean so much? You can’t listen to Elton John’s, “Your Song” without thinking about….that’s what the game is all about isn’t it? Perhaps Kira’s worried that they won’t do well with the ladies? I suppose she’s worried that they will do well?  I laugh, I’m envious. Isn’t that all part of the process? You often hear people bemoan the dating scene, they look back on it as a burden, something that produced pain and anxiety. I never saw it that way, dating was fun, those early courtships priceless.  They don’t call it the game of love for nothing. I loved playing it, pretty much all of the time.  Even those initial awkward years…

My first crush, somewhere in first or second grade, was a girl named Susan. This “relationship” was very important to me. I say to ME because looking back now, I’m sure she was unaware of my attentions.  We went to our neighborhood catholic school, Immaculate Heart of Mary, on Fort Hamilton Parkway in Windsor Terrace.  You can picture it, hundreds of uniformed girls and boys cuing into this 4 story, tan, brick, rectangle of a school every day. Our neighborhood in the mid-70’s, still felt like it had one foot in the 50’s…the girls wore maroon plaid skirts, a white blouse and a vest. The boys went to school every day in our white shirts, navy blue ties, navy blue pants, black belt and shoes. Out of all the girls in our class, in the first grade, identical in their uniforms, I quickly picked Susan. I don’t know what it was about Susan but thinking of her now I can still remember what it felt like to pine for her. Maybe it was her brains, she was a good student; I mean she wore horn-rimmed glasses! Could have been her pert nose, little-girl cuteness that had me head-over-heels? Sadly, after three years of having Susan on my radar, of noticing her in the classroom, and showing off for her in the school yard, she moved to Long Island or New Jersey.  Her house was right across from our church, on East 4th Street, and for years, I thought about her every time I walked down that block.  Isn’t it odd that I still remember this and I’m 51? Or maybe it’s not? I joked, at our rehearsal dinner the night before Kira and I were to get married, that if Susan walked through those French doors (a girl I hadn’t seen since 3rd grade) all bets were off.  

Of course, there were other girls I liked along the way.  Around 6th grade, when we headed out into our fenced in, rectangular schoolyard on Caton Avenue for recess, the boys usually flipped baseball cards or we played a game of tag that we called Fence. The girls usually jumped rope or played hopscotch? Winter of 6th grade, we are heading outside for recess, to burn off that early adolescent energy. I am guessing at who was the first, as it’s 35 years ago, but I know that some of the cute girls in our class, Kathy Kavanaugh, Caroline Desimone, Donna Tracey had red hats. These were your basic knit hat that you roll up on itself. In order to get their attention, a few of the boys began stealing the girls’ hats to make them run after us. This was fun for us, breathless and running away, the girls squealing in excitement…the early stages of courtship; I am pretty sure it was fun for the girls too. Timmy Boyle or Mark Bowen, maybe Matty Milbauer nicknamed these red-hatted girls the Red Hat Magoolies. And on successive days that winter, the boys “tortured” the Red Hat Magoolies. It was the highlight of our day, it’s what got me excited to go to school. The best part was, the number of girls wearing these non-descript red hats kept increasing. First there were three girls with red hats; then four, five, six...  I can imagine the conversations around the dinner tables in our neighborhood. “Why do you need a red hat Jean Ann?  We just bought you a winter hat that matches your jacket?” How would a 6th grade girl explain that to her parents? “Um, you see, I really want the red hat because Caroline Desimone and Kathy Kavanaugh have red hats and the boys steal their hats and make them run after them. You see Mom? Other girls are getting red hats and now the boys steal their hats too.  So I really need a red hat.”  

As much as I enjoyed the contest, the adventure, the adrenaline rush of the chase, my first “real” girlfriend was thrust upon me, pretty much. As we entered 8th grade, my buddies and I were suddenly “cool.” At least we thought we wereJ  We started misbehaving (more) in school and a few of us started nosing around the girls more seriously. Right around this time, we were free to roam the neighborhood, away from the watchful eye of the moms and nosy neighbors on our block. Large groups of adolescents, boys and girls, started to gather in East 5th Street Park or maybe one of the local school yards, like P.S. 130. You can see now, that it was puberty, hormones, driving our activity.  As my friends were starting to pair off with girls, I stayed on the bench pretty much. I was too scared, clueless or not interested enough to make a move. The one girl I really liked in 8th grade was Carolyn Leaver. But for the most part, I didn’t really know what to do, if she was to become my girlfriend. In retrospect, I liked the idea of a girlfriend more than I liked the real-life, girlfriend. Suddenly, I had no choice. With John Tracey and Jimmy Quinlan, two of my closest friends, paired up with girls (and making out like their ship was going down every chance they got) my fate was sealed. I flew under the radar initially but eventually, they started to put pressure on me. This was the time of Spin-the-Bottle games whenever we could find an empty basement or if one of the girls we hung out with was babysitting.  If only Mr. and Mrs. Munoz knew what we were doing in their house while Sandra was babysitting her little brother Eddie…

Now the wild card in all of this was my sister Julie. Julie, 15 months younger than me, was in 7th grade while I was in 8th. As a guy, and a budding adolescent, it’s really good to have a sister one grade below you. Those 7th grade girls thought my friends and I were actually cool, go figure. And the girls were aggressive.  I didn’t have to do anything. That fear of failure, thankfully, hardly weighed into it for me. One day, my sister came home from school, and she actually seemed pleased when she  said, “Jayne thinks you’re cute.”  Stuffing a Yankee Doodle in my mouth as I raced out the door to play roller hockey, I placed that with the other information that wasn’t about the Mets. I could kind of recall who she was, which wasn’t a good sign.  The one girl in my sister’s class I liked, was Cathy, who awkwardly enough lived on the same block as Jayne. Now Jayne was very nice and all, and had all of the qualities prized by the superficial young male, but I couldn’t say I was particularly interested in Jayne, or Cathy for that matter. That romantic chemistry thing is very funny. 

Winter of 8th grade, my sister’s friends and my friends are hanging out. Once my friends, specifically John Tracey and Jimmy Quinlan, got wind of the fact that Jayne liked me, the full-court press was on.  What made matters worse, at least according to them, was that John and Jimmy were already making their way around some of the proverbial “bases” with their girls and I was still in the batter’s box.

Quinlan: “Don’t you like her? You’re in. Your sister says you’re in. What are you waiting for?” 
Me: “Uh, I don’t know, I’m not really sure that I like Jayne, I mean she’s nice and all but…”
John: “Have you ever even kissed a girl Spinner?”
Me: (Now I had no choice but to tell the truth here because I spent almost every minute with John and Jimmy, they already knew the answer) “No.” 
Quinlan: “So go with Jane. This is your chance to kiss a girl. Unless you’re scared?”
Me: “Well……I don’t really know what to do.” With your close friends, you can admit this stuff. And my boys were actually tender, understanding, they coached me…
John: “You can just let her lead, she’s probably kissed a few guys already (not really a selling point) so let her take the lead.”
Quinlan: “You just kind of stick your tongue in there and wiggle it around a little bit.  I bet she knows what she’s doing so just follow along. It’s easy.”
How could I go wrong with expert advice like that? 
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Hide & Seek

Hanging around. We did a lot of that in those days. For the most part we spent time in people’s basements, on street corners, in the park. What to do? Some couples would pair off in a secluded spot and make out. Some would lean against a parked car, in front of everyone, and wrestle each other. I was a little too self-conscious to do that. At some point, my sister’s friends, and my friends, are hanging on my front porch.  We’re busting chops, kidding around when someone says, “We should play Hide & Seek!” This seems odd to me, I’m thinking, why would we play this kid’s game? I mean we’re teenagers now. A little slow on the uptake, Quinlan and Tracey pull me into the hallway of my house: “We’re not really playing Hide & Seek, you are going to run and hide with Jayne. Tweety’s going to go with Risa, I’m going with Cathy and then we’ll get to make-out.” Gulp, what do I do now? My knees are knocking, my palms are sweaty and Jimmy and John can see that... “Just let her lead Spinner, you’ll be fine.”  

We gather on my front steps, a place where I’ve played so many real games of Hide & Seek, but now our game is a ruse to allow us to be alone with our “girlfiends.” The irony, the symbolism of the moment does not escape me. Someone is chosen as “It” and begins to count, “1, 2, 3…” we scatter. Jayne and I run across the street, up the alley between two houses and hide in the hedges on the left side. We are in close quarters, out of breath, on top of each other. Jayne has been chasing me for about three weeks now, letting everyone know that she digs me. I’ve been flitting around her, like a drunken butterfly and now finally, I’ll be forced to land. We giggle, suppressed laughter, I glance up the alley, it’s instinct, I continue playing the game. I’m listening to the counting, “22, 23, 24” and I realize I can’t put it off any longer, if I come out of this without kissing Jayne, I’m done for. My first kiss is happening. We move closer together. I can still see her denim jacket, the feathered black hair, the expectant smile. We look awkwardly at each other, we move towards each other and then we go for it. I tilt my head to the right, she tilts hers to the left, and just like my buddies said, she leads. There’s a lot of tongue waggling, I’m not sure what to do. In and out? Around? Up and down? I am overwhelmed by the taste of Bubble Yum bubble gum. We kiss for a little while. I’m thinking, I’m not sure what the big deal is. We stop. I look up the alley to see if anyone is coming. A brief respite and I think, alright, I can do this. We look at each other, shrug and then go for it again. Then, I think, I kissed a girl! I’m all proud of myself for passing this milestone. Eventually, we come out. I suggest, acting like I know what I’m doing, “Next time, maybe you should take your gum out.”  What a jerk right? Of course I would act cocky rather than admit I had no clue. 

The game ends, night is falling, dinner is coming and the girls have a long walk home.  Jimmy Quinlan and I decide to walk the girls home. As we are walking the streets of our neighborhood, there’s awkward silence. Like a nervous parrot, I begin filling the space with questions. “Do you have brothers and sisters? Where does your family go on vacation? How do you get along with your parents?” The others begin to chime in, Cathy talks. Jimmy pipes in. We meander through our neighborhood. We pass our school and I’m wondering how we’ll react to each other the next time we see each other at school. Are we now boyfriend and girlfriend?  Eventually, we get to their block. We say good-bye. None of us risks a kiss because the girls’ parents might be watching. 
As Jimmy and I begin the trek back towards our neck of the woods, Jimmy looks back, makes sure the girls are gone, then he gives me a verbal biff off the head. “What are you doing asking her all those stupid questions? Nobody wants to talk about that stuff!” Jimmy could always make you feel totally uncool. 
“What do you mean? I’m trying to get to know her.” 
“How many brothers and sisters do you have? Where do you go on vacation? What kind of questions are those?” 
“Why wouldn’t I ask about her brothers and sisters? I wanted to know where she goes on vacation? Maybe it’s near where we go and then we’d have something in common.” 
“No, that’s just not cool. That’s not the kind of stuff girls want to talk about.”  
Oh crap I’m thinking, I really have no idea what I’m doing…………………………………………………………………….

And that’s a lesson on cool from Jimmy I did not learn, I did not cotton to.  Throughout my dating life, with each new girl, friend, I continued to ask about her family, where she grew up, what kinds of books she reads, favorite movies… If you looked at the women I’ve dated, and personally I thought I always picked higher off the tree than I deserved, somehow I did okay for myself.   I’ve been lucky enough to somehow convince some very nice girls to spend some quality time with me. Luckily for me I didn’t follow Jimmy’s advice on how to be cool.  I would think among my friends I have a reputation for having a “decent rap.” But I never considered it a rap, or I never considered “using lines.”  Sure I’d try to make a girl laugh but my real goal, in high school, college, at work, in a bar even, and it all started in 8th grade, was to get to know the girl.

And I think in the end, that made a world of difference for those relationships. Maybe it was because I treated it like a game, like a competition, that made it fun? Because we actually got to know each other, some of those friendships still exist, independent of the initial romance. What do we like about the game? The uncertainty? The flirtation? The give-and-take?  The planning? The response? The analysis of what she said? And then what I said? Those, If you go out with a girl on Saturday night, don’t call too soon, maybe Wednesday kind of rules were fun. Love as a game of strategy. We started with passing notes. Some point we went to email. Now kids are texting and instagram but in the end it’s all fun, I think. 

And now I no longer play the game. Well that’s not true, I suppose I play the Game of Love with only one person, my wife Kira. I do still find myself flirting occasionally, Kira says I like the attention. I guess I’ll agree with that.  People talk of past relationships as “baggage” with a negative connotation but I don’t see it that way. I think of our experiences in the Game, prior to meeting each other as our history, there are layers to each of us, going back over past relationships, courtships, break-ups, good behaviors, bad behaviors that make us who we are today, as a boyfriend, girlfriend, husband, wife. I know that some people, while in a relationship, really don’t want to hear about past boyfriends and girlfriends. I’ve never been like that because it’s a window into the person you are with now. 
As I said in the beginning, my goal was to remind you of your experiences as you began playing the Game of Love. I certainly hope I succeeded. Let’s hear about a few…