The Birds & the Bees and the Fairies

Well the puberty talk popped its little head up again. You know that’s a little funny.

On a recent Saturday morning I am laying in bed reading. Kira, my wife, walks in with my oldest son Nicholas in tow. “Nick needs a little help with something. Go ahead Nick, ask your father, it’s okay.” I have an inkling what it’s about, Kira has been trying to get me to talk to Nick about the birds and the bees. Nick looks out the window, he shuffles his feet, eventually, he looks at me. “I don’t know. Dad will make fun of me.” I assure him, “Nicholas. If this is a sensitive topic, I will treat you with respect. You can ask me anything. I promise I won’t joke around.” Nick concentrates on his slippers. I still don’t know what the topic is, so I prompt my wife, as she sits on the side of the bed. “What does this concern? Is it something that happened at school?” “No, Nicholas has some questions about puberty, about how his body is going to change.” After some coaxing, Nick asks his question. “Dad, where does pubic hair come from?” How to answer this? We’ll come back to this later..

Usually my boys will ask these questions at the most inopportune time, causing me to spit my pea soup out in front of the waitress. So far, our efforts in the Spinner household to teach our boys about puberty and sex have been a series of feints, deflections and awkward non-sequiturs. Sitting in the living room I’ll hear Kira say, “Go ask your father, that’s his department.” My pat response has been, “Your mother is a nurse, she knows about stuff like that.” Usually, if I’m pinned down, I make jokes.

The boys are just as uncomfortable, I suppose the parents are supposed to be the mature ones right?  I call the conversations Nick and I have had, The “You Know” Tennis Match. We’ll be watching “2 ½ Men” and Charlie Sheen will make a joke about sleeping with women and Nicholas will laugh. I’ll pause the TV and ask, trying to figure out how much he knows.

“Nick, why did you laugh? Why is that funny?”
“Oh, you know Dad.”
“Nick I know why it’s funny but why do you think that’s funny?”
“Oh, you know. He’s talking about sex and stuff.”
“What does that mean Nick? Sex?”
“Dad, you know.”
“I’m not sure what you know is the point. And I want to be there for you if you have any questions about this stuff. So what does it mean? Sex?”
“Daaaaad, You know.”
“Just talk to me Nick.”
“You know, hugging and kissing and stuff.”
“Yes I do know. But it’s the and stuff I want to know if you know.”
“Yes DAD I know. Can we leave it alone?”
“Sure we can. But know that you can always ask me anything.”

Truth is, I am as relieved as Nick when these conversations end. I want to be the understanding father who my kids can come to and talk about anything. There’s also a part of me that doesn’t want to be that father. My father and I never talked about that stuff. Shouldn’t it be a little uncomfortable to talk to your dad about boners and pubic hair? Parenting is interesting because we want to take all of the good things our parents did with us and we want to tweak the things that maybe we see could have been improved upon. I grew up in a Catholic neighborhood in the 70’s, my father and I never talked about that stuff. And I think I turned out okay? I’m just not sure where I stand on this sex talk thing. I’m sure I’m probably dropping the ball. I act like I am there for my boys, I say all the right things, but at this point, in terms of the bird and the bees talk, I’ve been pretty slippery.

I avoid it because my friends and I learned it on the streets. Shouldn’t Nick learn about puberty like I did? Johnny Palladino, who started shaving for his Confirmation, pulled me and my buddy Tweety into the bathroom of my boyhood home. “Pssst, check this out!” Johnny Boy pulls his skivvies down revealing his adolescent starter kit. Now isn’t that better than some brochure from the school counselor? Or worse, something to be learned from his father?

I remember exactly where I was when I learned what the “F” word really meant. We were in 5th grade and my friends and I were on our walk to school. A few doors down from my house, we stopped in front of Mrs. Brody’s house. The Brody’s had this really cool climbing tree that the branches hung over the sidewalk. We used to hide in the tree at night and drop rubber bats, tied on fishing line, down on unsuspecting pedestrians. And it was under this tree that, with the help of my friends, I connected the dots on the sex act. My buddy Tweety was there again, explaining the science of it he says, “I’m telling you Spinner, look at how they are shaped! They go together, like this.” The evidence was overwhelming; I knew he was right. Then I had to gather myself for the walk to school. What a scene, me in my Catholic schoolboy uniform, thinking about my mom and dad doing it. Ugh! At least how many times? And my teachers! Ewww! Do I want to deprive Nick of these memories?

Of course you want your kids to have a healthy respect for the opposite sex and you want them to protect themselves etc…I’ve been taking an impromptu poll as I have been writing this piece and my friend’s stories are all similar to mine. Their responses, eerily the same. We recently visited an old Wall Street crony of mine, Steve Boyle. In discussing this topic over a few beers Steve said he had recently embarrassed his 7th grade daughter with a discussion of first base, second base. It sounded a lot like mine and Nick's verbal tennis game.  I asked Steve how he learned of the birds and the bees growing up in Verona, NJ... “My father and I would never talk about that stuff. He didn’t help me with that at all.” And Steve's been happily married for longer than I have.

I know the old method is not foolproof. We all made some mistakes along the way. I know I bumbled and fumbled my way through puberty but didn’t we all? I remember in 8th grade, the scuttlebutt was that Kevin J and Debbie V were “doing it.” Whispering in the hallway between classes someone told me that “Kevin had a condom in school!” I wondered, sitting there in my next class, if Kevin had to wear the condom all day long. And if so, would that be uncomfortable. So, maybe I could have used some help. Not sure how much help though. And should it have come from my dad?

My worry today is how much information is too much? Nick still believes in Santa Clause, do I want to take him to a birthing unit? Is it my responsibility to connect the dots for him? Nick believes babies come from hugging and kissing. Should I leave it at that for now? Do I want him to associate ME with this crashing of his innocence party? My fear is that I am going to give him a description of the actual act and of placentas and fluids and C-sections and he’s always going to connect that to me. I can’t have that. It’s too much pressure! His images of this should be more like mine. Don’t you agree?

When our dogs are humping on the front lawn as the yellow school bus pulls up in the morning, the windows are filled with laughing elementary school children. The dogs are both fixed by the way. In the Spinner house, the euphemism we use is the dogs are “dancing.” Nick says to me recently, “Dad, you know even Lenny the bus driver laughs when our dogs do that on the front lawn. And I know it’s not dancing.” So despite my avoidance and my ham-handed efforts to help him, he is learning something. I’m just not sure what.

We’ve all seen what happens when kids get too much info from their parents. The guys will know this. Weren’t we all lucky enough to date a girl who said, “My Mom and I are best friends. We tell each other everything.” Every guy can tell you, if you hear that while sipping margaritas you are in my friend. Kids and parents should be close, but best friends? Eating Mexican food at Panchito’s in the Village, I had this girl tell me that her mom took her for her diaphragm when she was 15. "Check please!"

I do know, as I am avoiding this talk, that I have to do something. I have sought help. Recently I went to a friend, Lee Hubbard, the Health teacher at my school. Lee teaches classrooms full of 8th graders about hormones and menstrual cycles. She hands out mimeographed pictures of the male and female genitalia, to 8th graders! She is the parent I want to be. Lee is accessible, patient, intelligent and mature; all with 25 giggling, squirming students in her class. Right now, I just want to do it with ONE. So one lunch period recently I stopped by the Health room, “Lee, Nick is asking questions, stuff comes up when we are watching TV. How much should I tell him? And when?” Lee told me this joke…Mom is in the kitchen with little Johnny, explaining to him in detail about sex, about where babies really come from. Johnny stares wide eyed during his mother’s lengthy, graphic lecture. When she is finished she asks, “Do you have any questions Johnny?” To which, Johnny says, “No Mom, that’s all very interesting. I was just asking because Brendan next door said he came from Ireland. I was just wondering where I came from?”

After the joke, Lee gave me some really good advice. She said to fish around to find out what Nick knows and then give him the additional information that you think he will need. This way you won’t give him more than he can handle.

Armed with Lee’s advice, let’s go back to my bedroom. Remember Nick had just asked me, “Dad where does pubic hair come from?” I put my book to the side, I sit up in bed to give this some thought. I am so proud of Nick for feeling comfortable enough to finally talk to me about it. I can feel Kira’s eyes watching me. Eventually I think of the perfect way to explain it. I suppress a smile, “Nick, you know how there’s a tooth fairy? And you put your teeth under your pillow and the tooth fairy comes at night and gives you money for your teeth? There’s also a Pubic Hair Fairy. And when you are asleep, this big hairy guy comes around and sprinkles pubic hair on you while you are sleeping.” Nick and I thought it was hysterical, Kira, not so much.

Caught by the Catcher

Sometimes we choose the books we read; sometimes the books choose us. We’ve all had serendipitous reader moments when you are reading and thinking, what are the chances I would be reading this book at this very time in my life? Did something align in the cosmos to place this book in my hand at the very time that I am dealing with this situation? Relationship break ups? New child on the way? Family health issues? Moving to a new home? Happy stuff and tough stuff, it doesn’t matter, sometimes we find solace in printed words on bleached white pages. An author’s words, written days, years, decades or centuries ago, provide healing, answers, a chance to feel less alone.


That’s the way it was for me, and many readers apparently, when I read J.D. Salinger’s The Catcher in the Rye. At a time when I was maneuvering from the shallow end of the pool, under the rope, down the slippery slope toward the adult end of the pool, I found Holden Caulfield. Scared and exhilarated at the same time, Holden and I were kindred spirits. I could hear my voice in his.

Sophomore year at John Dewey High School, 1979, I sign up for Generation Gap with Mr. Levy. Mr. Levy was part linebacker, part motivational speaker. He had meaty hands, an adam’s apple the size of a real apple and a booming voice that would wake any snoozing teen. We had multiple deans to handle discipline at Dewey and Levy was one of them; he was scary but smart. He was the kind of guy you don’t want to let down. Early spring in Brooklyn, the air is warm and full of blossoms, hormones are coursing and high schoolers are acting goofy. It’s Friday, our English class has just finished The Adventures of Tom Sawyer (also one of my favs) and Levy goes into the closet and takes out a stack of paperbacks. I recognize the maroon rectangles, stamped with JDHS on the binding from our school hallways. He passes out our next book, The Catcher in the Rye printed in yellow on the cover. A few students groan as Mr. Levy gives us an assignment for the weekend.

No need to have assigned anything; I crack the book on the F train on the way home. I had my homework finished before I reached the Church Ave stop, 50 minutes away. Back home on East 4th, I toss my books on my bed, grab a snack and head outside. I play roller hockey with my buddies for a few hours, and then we knock off for dinner.

After dinner, my sister Julie says to me, “I am staying at Sandra’s tonight if you want to use my room you can.” Julie, 15 months younger than me, is the lone female of the Spinner siblings so she had her own bedroom. My brothers, and I shared a room, three boys, one bedroom. It wasn’t too bad sharing a room but Jeff and Jerry were significantly younger so if I wanted to stay up and read or listen to music, my sis knew her room would be a nice option. I always appreciated that.

After curfew, I came in, watched Fantasy Island with my parents for a bit and then went into Julie’s room. It always took a few minutes to remove the pillows and stuffed animals, my sister loved frogs. After setting up the bed, I tune the stereo to WNEW 102.7, to hear Carol Miller playing the latest rock. And I picked up The Catcher in the Rye. I continued to be intrigued by Holden.  He talked like me. He used words like crap, and his sentences ended with and all.   Like this, when we find out he's leaving school...“I forgot to tell you about that. They kicked me out. I wasn’t supposed to come back after Christmas vacation on account of I was flunking four subjects and not applying myself and all.” He had opinions and theories about everything. Holden, clinging to his childhood and hurtling to adulthood at the same time: rebellious, content, confused, angry, happy, sad. A lot like someone else I knew.

I loved reading Holden, talking to me as he picks apart the hypocrisy in the advertisement for Pencey Prep, “You probably heard of it. You’ve probably seen the ads, anyway. They advertise in about a thousand magazines, always showing some hot-shot guy on a horse jumping over a fence. Like as if all you ever did at Pencey was play polo all the time. I never even once saw a horse anywhere near the place.” Salinger had me, I had never read anything like it.

This wicked-smart underachiever was figuring out the world. He had some answers and he was confused about a lot of things. He was cocky and immature all at the same time. He categorized people, just like we all were doing. I remember thinking, he’s funny and all but where would Holden fit in with my friends? Would I even hang out with him? I loved when he talked about his suitemate in the early scenes. Salinger is opening up a world of prep schools, rep ties and Park Avenue but it seems eerily similar to my world, boys finding their way. Thirty years later, I don’t even have to return to the book to know that Holden toyed with his suitemate, the ever annoying Ackley. Ackley was 18 and a senior, picking his zits and hovering around the room, never knowing when to leave.  Holden was 16 and a sophomore but Caulfield insisted on calling him Ackley Kid, just to needle him! He’s doing it on purpose! How freaking funny is that?

I read the book in one night; the first time that happened, besides Where the Wild Things Are. I don’t know what time I finished…2:30? 3:00? I just know I couldn’t put it down, I read until my eyes were burning. I couldn’t wait to get to school Monday morning to discuss the book.

Class on Monday, surrounded by other sophomores; was my first experience with what felt like literary analysis. In our class discussions with Mr. Levy I was on point; I knew the book, and the characters. I could see the many symbols; like Holden clinging to his childhood, typified in his relationship with Phoebe, his little sister. A whole new reading world opened up, like removing the training wheels on my bike. And Mr. Levy validated my feedback, he was impressed. Years later, when I was in his dean’s office for burning Dolores Sigelakis's picture of her boyfriend (that's a story for another time)  he said, “Spinner, what are you doing? You’re a smart guy. You should know better.” He looked me in the eye with a little disappointment and sent me on my way, didn't even punish me!

At the end of the book, I was echoing Holden when he said, “What really knocks me out is a book that, when you’re all done reading it, you wish the author that wrote it was a terrific friend of yours and you could call him up on the phone whenever you felt like it.” When I was 16, I wanted to call J. D. Salinger and thank him. I wanted to tell him that I was glad that he wrote Catcher and that it helped me through some tough times. I envisioned, in my 16 year old egotism, that I could be the one to pull him out of his self-imposed seclusion. I would take the bus from Port Authority, kind of Holden-like I suppose, and zip up to New Hampshire. I’d just hang around the post office or the General Store until I bumped into old Jerome David Salinger. And I’d look him in the eye and tell him how much his book meant to me and all.

Rest in Peace J.D. Salinger.

Tell me about the books that moved you, the books that spoke to you, the books that changed your life…

One in Eight Million

Preface: In the early 90’s, I was browsing in a bookstore along the Maine coast. I always like to read books with local flavor when I am visiting a new place. The owner of the store recommended what appeared to be a home-made book. It was 75 pages long, with a plain brown wrapper for a cover. The book was titled "One in a Million." It was an elegy from a son to a father. Dad was a family man who lived his entire life fishing and farming in this small Maine town. And except for the son writing this book, about a fairly uninspiring life, I would have never heard of the father. I always thought that was pretty cool. As many of my readers know, (cool to think that I have readers) my father, Jimmy Spinner Sr. passed when I was a senior in college. He lived his entire life in Brooklyn, leaving his impact on his family and friends. I know this will feel like hero worship, so I should dispense with the fact that I know that my pops had his demons. I am sure I could do an essay about that too. There were reasons he died at 46. But that’s not what this is about.
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It was the end of the greatest Christmas break of my life.  I am sitting next to my father in our Caprice Classic station wagon as he drives me to the airport to catch a People’s Express flight back to Buffalo. I begin to replay the vacation in my mind. Glancing at Jimmy Spinner Sr. in his ever present flannel shirt, wavy brown hair and sad grey eyes I smile. It all began a few weeks before as we left this very same airport terminal at the end of December, 1981…

I had a late final at the end of my first semester. The dorms were silent and depressing as most people had already gone home. Coming off the plane, in a more innocent time of lax security, I spy my dad in his red and black hunting jacket. I give him a hug, which was always awkward for my dad but I never let that stop me. I picked up the hugging habit at summer camp and to this day I need that closeness. We walked together through the old terminal my dad looking out of place amid the business travelers as he slouched to put on his knit longshoreman’s cap. Sitting in traffic on the BQE, we talk about school, the family and the Jets. Eventually my father says, “I got you a job down the shop. You’ll be going to work with me in the morning.” Most college kids would have bitched about the grind of the semester, about all-nighters and final exams. I didn’t even think about not having a vacation. My response, “Cool.”

I didn’t have to ask what time we would be leaving in the morning. You could set your watch by my father for the years he worked at ExhibitGroupNY. Our morning school routines timed to his coffee cup clanks, the starting of the family car to warm it up…That first morning I decide to take a shower, I know Dad scoffs at that idea, You’re just going to get dirty again he’s thinking. I don’t really have work clothes so I put on my Herman Survivors, a flannel shirt and a pair of Levi's. We’re off. I climb into the back seat and sit on my hands to warm them up. I knew the front seat was reserved for Sammy Yannonne, the father of one of my boyhood friends. Some years before, Sammy had lost his job. My father knew Sammy was handy, so he got him a job as a carpenter. Over the years they became friends; going on fishing trips and out for beers every payday. I loved watching the interplay between them. These were men who called a car or boat “she” as in, “She’s running good lately.” To this day if I do that I sound like a tool. Most of their communication was semi-verbal, a series of grunts and groans, kind of like whales. Morning Jim. Morning Sam.

That morning, like every morning, we weave our way through the Brooklyn streets toward the waterfront, stopping at a deli for a cup of coffee and a corn muffin. Real food, for real men, no foofy café lattes. Looking back now I am sure Sam and my dad were excited to have me tag along. Must have been a nice break to their routine to have this 19 year old kid, full of energy, bouncing off the back seat, taking it all in. As a non-driver, I was duly impressed with the trust they had in each other. We’d get to a stop sign at 36th Street and 6th Avenue and my father would look left and Sammy right. Sammy’d say, “tsgoodthisway.” And my father would go, wouldn’t double-check, he'd just go. I thought that was so cool.

Arriving at the “parking lot,” we bump our way past trucks and loading docks until we park right up against the fence. Getting out of the car I see white caps and the Statue of Liberty. The canyons of Wall Street are visible across the harbor but a continent away from this rough and tumble place. ExhibitGroupNY was in a block-long  factory on 44th Street just North of 1st Avenue. Those of you who drove the Gowanus back in the 80’s might recall the “Whale Fuel Oil” advertisement on the smokestack. That was my father’s workplace. A place where the cobblestones are for working and shipping not walking and shopping. It’s freaking cold. We park in the same spot every day, far from the front door. We were supposed to be in by 8 and that’s what time we’d get there. There was a punch clock with punch cards. If we were a few minutes late, someone would have punched us in. The guys looking out for each other. You see, union guys get paid in ¼ hour increments; so at 8:08, you lost the first quarter hour. The guys always assumed my old man and Sammy would be in, I never remember him taking a sick day, well until…again, that's a different story for a another time.

My father was the foreman of the carpenters. The most important part of his job was designing wooden cases to ship exhibits. At ExhibitGroupNY they built exhibits for conventions like the car or boat show. The guys would build the exhibits in the warehouse; shiny-aluminum and plexiglass-temporary structures designed to impress. Exhibits would be built in such a way that you could take them apart in big pieces. These pieces would be put into “my dad’s” wooden crates and shipped to the host city, St. Louis for instance. The goal was to make it easy to put the exhibits together at the convention site.

A few days into the routine, I notice there are only three people in the company who have their own parking spot. I see Tony’s Cadillac parked right in front; seems about right, he’s the big boss. There’s a placard on the wall with Tony’s name on it. To the right, an identical placard reserves a spot for Tony B, foreman of the electricians. Finally, to the right of Tony B’s spot it says Jim Spinner but someone else’s car is parked there. I warehouse this info for the right time. I wait until Sammy’s not in the car and I ask, “That’s pretty cool dad, you have your own parking spot! Out of all the guys in the company, only three guys get their own spot.” I get no response. “And someone else is parking in your spot.We gotta park all the way by the fence. Whose car is it? Why don’t you say something?” My father must have been chuckling, leading me right where he wanted me to go, “That’s not an 8 o’clock spot.” “What do you mean by that Dad? That’s your spot.” “I mean, those spots are for people who get in early, the guys who open the shop at 6:30 when it’s really cold, like Joe Brown, that’s Joe’s spot. Those spots against the fence, those are 8 o’clock spots.”

Throughout the month I kept picking up tid-bits about my dad. As I watched him play poker with his buddies at lunch or saw him in action during the work day, I could see he was an integral part of the Exhibitgroup hierarchy. Already prone to hero worship, he was my father, I am still impressed with what I learned. One day I was working on the loading dock, riding the back of the forklift with Lou and Louis. This father and son team from Sunset Park were in charge of getting the large wooden crates with the exhibits in them, onto and off the trucks. Big Lou hid bottles of rum among the crates around the warehouse, so the two were usually half soused by 11 o’clock. Thursday was payday, and these were the days before direct deposit so one of the girls from the office delivered our paychecks. At the end of my second week, Diane, this cute little Italian girl from Bensonhurst uses my name as she hands me my paycheck, “And for Jim Spinner Junior.” I smile and put the envelope in my pocket. As she walks away, Louis turns to me and says, “Yo, your father is Jim Spinner?” When I say yes, father and son look at each other and the son says, “The fuck you working on the loading dock for?”  
“I don’t know, it’s a good job.”
“Bullshit, you should be working with the other carpenters or in the office with the shirts and skirts.”

As I said, Thursday was Payday. Every payday Dad, Sammy and I would go to Ulmer’s, a neighborhood bar. We’d each put up a 20 and sit at the bar and talk. Those were some of the best beers I've ever had. Both Sam and my father were Schaefer drinkers. In 1981, I was a Bud drinker. The entire month Sam, Mary Quinn the bartender, and my father busted my chops, telling me I couldn’t tell the difference. Sammy really loved to rag on me, “Snot-nosed college kid, doesn’t know Budweiser from Schaefer. I bet you you can’t tell the difference. Turn around and let Mary pour you one.” They’d make me turn around and Mary’d pour a few beers. I would have to pick the Budweiser. In the entire month I never got it wrong. In the way of working class dads, I could see my father was proud of that.

I continued to fly under the radar at ExhibitGroup as most people did not know me. I loved to overhear conversations about my father, to find out that my dad was respected, that he was important, especially to Tony, the owner. Now you have to remember, this was the beginning of the go-go 80's. One night dad and I are in the living room at home and I ask him, “You know Louie and Lou say I shouldn’t be working on the loading dock, that you should have gotten me a better job with you, or in the office.” My father thought about it for a second and said, “You’re making good money on the loading dock?” “YEH, really good!” “You know what happens I get you a job in the office? You start to make real money, you won’t want to go back to college. Don’t worry, you graduate, Tony’ll give you a sales job in the office, if you still want it.”

My last week there, my last payday at Ulmer’s, I begin to make the case for my dad to ask for a raise. I cite evidence about how much Tony really needs him, how much the company needs him, how everyone respects him.
“You should ask Tony for a raise.”
“Why do I need a raise?”
“Because it’s like more money.”
“What do I need more money for Butch?”
“You know, more money! It’s a good thing dad!”
With a few beers in him my dad is willing to open up, to get emotional, “Why do I need more money? I have a wife who loves me, a job that I like, the respect of my peers and my children. I have a house and a boat. What do I need more money for. I’ve got peace of mind.”

That whole month's vacation my father was teaching me life lessons. I am most proud of the fact that I went to work willingly, subconcsiously maybe I knew I wouldn't have many more vacations with him. I chose the title in a nod to the fact that my dad was a New Yorker so he was One in 8 Million.

You Say You Want a Resolution

It’s that time of year again! If I ever felt like Sisyphus, the tragic Greek figure destined to roll the stone up the hill just to have it roll back down, it should be around New Year’s. The truth is, I’m the eternal optimist, I am a Met and Jet fan you know. Every year I turn over a new leaf, or leaves, and every year I think, this is the year some things will change!

Right around this time, we’ll be confronted with our friends who say, “I don’t do resolutions.” Don’t you hate these guys? So confident, so definitive, so self assured. When I hear, “I don’t do resolutions” I think, you bastard, who do you think you are? I contemplate what could make a person say “I don’t do resolutions.” Any of the choices make me hate Joe Noresolution. First, this person is happy with himself just the way he is. Imagine that! How come they aren’t guilt ridden and insecure like the rest of us? What did your parents do to you Joe? Second, Mr. Noresolution doesn’t care or is non-reflective in his personality. Ugh, that might be worse than the first choice. This Joe is more than likely a neanderthal, an obnoxious dolt who is just not smart enough to figure out that he’s a jackass and that he is in desperate need of change. I left Brooklyn to get away from guys like this. (Not necessarily named Joe) The third Joe thinks he’s perfect or close to it. This Joe is also deserving of our contempt and I would advise him to be careful or bone up on his Greek mythology. The gods will smite you for hubris.

There are people out there who “don’t do resolutions” and I am paralyzed by all the stuff I have to work on. I am consumed with thoughts of how can I become a better: father, husband, teacher, friend, son? New Year’s makes me think, this is my chance to wipe the slate clean, to start over. How can we not resolve to do something? Wouldn’t it be like giving up? Inviting complacency? Shouldn’t we all continue to strive to be better? Isn’t that what our country was founded on? This is the land of fresh starts, that’s what it says on the tablet the Statue of Liberty is holding. Bet you didn’t know that. We are the land of Jamestown and Pilgrims, Ellis Island and immigration? No resolutions? How un-American Joe! I always make resolutions, and my list looks eerily similar every year. Occasionally, I keep a resolution, usually my success rate is not so high. And next year, I’ll make a new list of resolves, I should just recycle the list from this year. This is what Jim Sisyphus, I mean Spinner, is working on this year…

Be a more patient father. I vow to stop yelling. Invariably, New Year’s Day rolls around, and my fresh promises are already in danger…if it’s a typical New Year’s Day I might have had a few cocktails the night before; my boys will be annoying each other about some inane topic like, “Yeh Nick, when we were in the car on the way home from the Adirondacks this summer, you said that you liked Derek Jeter.” “No I did not, I’m a Red Sox fan. Why would I say that?” “I don’t know but you did.” “Did not.” “Did too.” “Did not.” At which point I will calmly counsel from the couch, “Be nice to each other. Let’s get along.” As their conversation heats up and repeats itself over and over and over, their volume increases. After calmly telling my boys to “just get along” 17 times…I lose my temper, bolt upstairs, newspaper in hand and scream at my boys, of course I see the irony when I scream, “STOP YELLING! JUST STOP! HE DOESN’T LIKE DEREK JETER! AND WHAT DO YOU CARE WHAT THEY THINK? WHAT IF YOU DID SAY THAT???? WHO CARES? IS IT THAT IMPORTANT?!!!!!!!” January 1st, I return to the couch, red faced, wiping spittle from my lips…Now you see why my success rate is not so high.

Many of us resolve to cut down on our vices, whatever these might be. If you are like my wife and I, you rationalize, you agree to cut down. We decide that it might be impossible to go cold turkey on our palliatives. Our rationale is, if we cut out our vices entirely, life won't be tolerable. Sadly, my wife says, “Sometimes my morning coffee is the best part of my day.” Doesn’t say much for me I know. My boys already recognize what happens if Kira doesn’t have her morning coffee. As soon as that person’s head starts to spin they say, “Dad, Mom needs her coffee.” But this is about my vices. Coffee is not my beverage of choice, I am a tea drinker, my father was a tea drinker, most of the guys I hang out with drink tea. And I am not giving up my tea. I enjoy an ice cold tea once in a while. I do realize it would be healthier if I drank less tea. Every year I resolve to decrease my tea intake, and I have. Once you have kids, you have to drink less tea. I do see the benefits of drinking less tea; more productive the next day, more patient with my kids, healthier, do more writing…but like my wife, I can’t see cutting tea out of my life altogether. Life is a grind sometimes, as my former principal used to say, “Life is too long to be miserable.” A cold tea makes life more fun, it's relaxing. Often times I have a few teas and I laugh a lot with my friends. Don’t tell my wife, but sometimes a cold tea…

One of the many things I respected about my father was I rarely heard him swear. Apparently the swearing gene skips a generation. Regrettably I have a mouth like a drunken sailor. I do have the ability to clean it up though. I have been teaching for 13 years, and have been swear free within the confines of the school building. At least there’s nothing in my file anyway. I am equal parts Irish, Italian, Polish and German. Don’t know about that mix but I need help in this %$#@in’ department. Because I respected the hell out my dad, every year I resolve to clean up my language, to no avail. Recently, I hit rock bottom. My buddy Ian and his oldest son Ryan treated Nick and I to a Jet game for Nick’s 11th birthday. Two dads with their first born sons in the Meadowlands.  We had a great day, tailgaiting in the parking lot, whooping it up with other Jet fans, hot chocolate and hot dogs. On this most recent Sunday, the Jets have the Falcons on the ropes, all they need is a few first downs to run out the clock and win the game. With each missed field goal and each Jet mishap, every green-draped fan could feel the victory slipping away. It’s a performance we’ve seen before. It’s third down, late in the 4th quarter and the next play could ice the game. And 40 some odd years of Jet fan frustration erupts. I scream out to the Jets rookie quarterback, from the upper deck mind you, “Come on Sanchez make a *&%in’ play.” Both boys turn to me, mouths agape. Embarrassed doesn’t begin to describe how I felt. Luckily, Nicholas broke the tension with, “Dad, you have to put a quarter in the swear jar.” Every year I resolve to cut down on my swearing. We’ll try again this, um, year.

For years I resolved to become a morning person. Jealously, I noticed over the years that a lot of ultra-successful people, in all walks of life, seem to get up well before the crack of dawn. These type-A people all seem to run six miles, do a kickboxing class, write the next chapter of their novel, then shower and go to work. Why is it that all I can manage to do before every work day is hit the snooze bar three times? I am supposed to be in work at 7:14 and a few times a week that’s enough of a challenge!

Ah, but the resolution list, like our country’s Constitution, is amendable, it’s fluid. Sometimes we have successes. This blog, which I have been doing for one full year (And Ray Lynch said I wouldn't stick with it) was a result of last year’s resolution…pretty cool right? If you have been enjoying it, please keep reading. Maybe you could sign on to become a “Follower?” Or recommend it to some friends? I digress. Sometimes we accept ourselves for who we are. About 4 years ago I was reading a book about various writers and their writing lives. While a lot of writers did seem to get up early, I was relieved to see that there was some variety in these "writerly" routines. I read about writers who read the newspaper or their favorite author first, then write. I read about writers who only write in certain rooms. There were even some writers who do their best work after 10 o’clock at night! That was all I needed to hear. “Become a morning person” disappeared from my resolution list forever. This was step one, after years of fighting it, of accepting who I am. Maybe someday I will get to “I don’t do resolutions?”

Happy New Year! And let’s hear your resolutions.

A Nice Jewish Goy

One of my former students posted a clip from Southpark on Facebook. It was called, “A Jew on Christmas.” Knowing the show, I figured it would be stupid or crude and moved on. I paused to think about Jason. A recent graduate of Brown, Jay was in the first class I ever taught. I thought again of the South Park clip and realized, Jay’s Jewish. Intrigued, I scrolled back to watch the clip. As expected, it was about a lonely Jewish boy surrounded by all of his Christian friends. There was a series of jokes about dradles and not playing reindeer games. Some of it was funny, some of it made me cringe.

I thought about Jason growing up as the only Jewish kid in his group of friends in Woodbury, CT. I know Jason and his friends, they’re nice kids. I know he had a very happy childhood. I also think there had to be the occasional slip, the “Oh I didn’t mean anything by that Jason” comments. And outside Jason’s group of friends, the comments might not have been so benign. I thought if any of Jason’s gentile friends posted that clip, people might get mad. I thought about this age of political correctness and my own Jewish friends who might post something like that. Dave Gordon and Steve Stemmer came to mind, guys I joke around with all the time about our “differences.” I thought of my other Jewish friends who would never post something like that, who would have been insulted by the clip. Which response is better? Isn’t it hard to judge with humor? The Irish and the Jews have been making fun of ourselves for years. And when we are poking fun at some of our stereotypical behavior, if it’s meant in fun, if it’s not mean-spirited, is it okay?

My mind wandered to relationships I have had over the years. I could think of a lot of my friends, who happened to be Jewish, who seemed to hang out with a lot of Catholic, mostly Irish, guys. I thought of Glen Gruder, Dave Gordon, Eric Friedman and how their experiences were probably similar to Jason’s. Boys enduring the lighthearted ribbing, ignoring the occasional slight and sticking up for yourself when it’s warranted. I pondered the attraction between the Irish and the Jewish people. You could make the case that the Irish and the Jews have always been kindred spirits in their shared history of persecution, having for the longest time been second class citizens. We share an ability to laugh at life, to use our sense of humor as a tool, a weapon, a coping mechanism. Is it this shared sense of humor that brings us together?

Jason made me think of one of my best friends, a real mensch…Around 5th grade, 1974, I was living what can only be called a parochial existence. Our neighborhood was mostly Irish and Italian. I attended Immaculate Heart of Mary, the local Catholic school. Considering I grew up in New York, I didn’t really know a Jewish person until Glen Gruder and his family moved onto East 4th Street. Thus began the education of a gentile in the ways of the sons of Abraham. Glen, 8th grade at the time, hung out with the older kids on our block. He was a curiosity to my friends and I for his newness and his Jewness. Come on that’s funny. We found him intriguing, we taunted him and he gave it right back to us. We’d pull a sneak attack with snowballs and he’d track us down and pummel one of us, usually me. Over the next few years, through the gauntlet of athletics and the verbal sparring of the street we began to learn about each other and respect each other. I often think, on our block, Glen was a Jewish Jackie Robinson.

As our lifelong friendship grew, Glen dispelled some of the myths about the Jewish people and confirmed a few of the stereotypes I suppose. First, he was a great athlete, something we found hard to believe. How can he be that good at football, he’s Jewish? I remember one of our jokes at I.H.M. was, “What’s the shortest book in the library?”Answer: Great Jewish Athletes. Glen was smart, we knew he was in “SP” classes at Ditmas Junior High School. Those classes were reserved for the brightest kids. Glen was hard-working, argumentative and had a boisterous personality. To top it off his father owned his own “candy company.” This confirmed for us New York City kids, the malicious rumor that Jewish people just might control a lot of really important things.

I don’t know how to tiptoe around this one, the elephant in the room. I have to address the scuttlebutt on the streets of Brooklyn and in the hallways of our Catholic school about Jewish people being “careful with money.” Starting with Glen Gruder, I have never found this to be the case. Three years older than me, Glen carried me financially until I was old enough to get a job. While I can say that all of my Jewish friends are very successful in their careers, and I suppose that they manage their money adeptly, I have found my Jewish friends, like my Irish friends, to be very generous. Maybe I’ve just been lucky in my friendships?

As I headed to John Dewey High School, my education about all kinds of people continued. Taking the F train out of our neighborhood, suddenly we weren’t in the majority anymore. At some point the boys from Windsor Terrace met Dave Gordon. Like Jason and Glen, Gordo was the only Jewish guy in our clique. This was my first exposure to class differences. Dave came to Dewey on the bus from Mill Basin, dubbed by most Deweyites as the J.A.P bus. Of course Neil O’Callaghan, one of my older buddies had to tell me what a Jewish American Princess was. In my Enriched Algebra class I was surrounded by Allison Mann, Tina Hoffman and Stacy Rheinhardt. These girls were a lot different from the girls in my neighborhood; starting with the Izod shirts, perfectly straight teeth and Stan Smith sneakers. Dave’s father, like Mr. Gruder, started his own company. The Coffee Holding Company, a family owned business that buys, ships, roasts, packages and sells coffee. I think of his father, Mr. Gordon, driving us all home from a Sweet 16 party around 1979 or so. In the car we had Vin and Dave Tomasi, Andrew O’Callaghan, Jimmy Dario, Dave Gordon and myself. The boys and I were duly impressed with the Gordon family station wagon. Maniacally clicking the power windows and door locks I shout from the back seat, “Wow Gordo, you must be rich!” I think about how far out of the way it was for Dave’s dad to drive us all home.

1986, as a recent college graduate I was having trouble finding a job on Wall Street. The Gordons were instrumental during the search, letting me use the office equipment at Coffee Holding to do my resumes and cover letters. As my search stretched from weeks to months, Mr. Gordon could see I was getting disheartened. So one day Dave gets all serious on me and tells me that his father advised him to offer me a job. I get vechlempt just thinking about that gesture. Sterling Gordon built this company by himself. He knew I didn’t know anything about the coffee business. But Mr. Gordon was willing to take a chance on me. He was willing to bring me into the fold of his family company. I will never forget that as long as I live. The funny thing about that is the reason I didn’t take the job. I thought about it overnight and told David that I appreciated the gesture but that I valued our friendship too much. I was sure we would all work well together but the slightest chance that it wouldn’t work out and alter the friendship was not worth the risk. Dave and I are still friends.

My buddy Steve Stemmer jokes that I am an honorary Jew. When I hear that I can feel his mom, Shelley, pinching my cheeks and calling me bubeleh. I suppose my honorary status really can be traced to…sophomore year in high school. I got a job at a kosher deli just outside of my neighborhood. Simon Althaus hired me to be a bus boy, waiter, delivery boy, porter, stock boy….While I was there I learned a lot about life. I learned words like shmate (rag), landsman (someone from your country) and schmuck. I hate to say this but for the owner of the Cortelyou Deli, that was my nickname. For the two years I worked there Sy called me, “Schmuck.” To my face! If he wanted me to refill the napkins or deliver an order he’d grunt, “Schmuck, put down the shmate, we’ve got a dewivery.” It was a few years before I realized what schmuck really meant; boy was I pissed.

What an interesting place to work. Can’t you see it, an aging Jewish counterman, a black cook from Harlem and a couple of Irish/Italian kids from the neighborhood as the cast for a new sitcom? Sy was a Holocaust survivor. I only knew this because he had a faded number tattooed on his forearm. I knew enough not to ask about the tattoo, and Sy never talked about it. That faded blue number probably explained his penchant for scotch and water. Every night around 7:30 I’d make Sy a scotch and water. Some nights he’d have more than one. And like my Irish/German father, that’s when Sy would get emotional. He’d slur his words and tear up and tell me that he wanted to take me up to the family vacation house in the Catskills. In a nod to my ethnicity he’d say, “Ach, Jeemy, vee gott awl kinds up dere, Irish, Italian, Polish. Jews and Gentiles. Ach, awl dah pretty girls, you have to come spend the weekend wit my family.”

Every day at the deli I was allowed a sandwich, soup and a soda. For the first three months I ate roast beef or corned beef. One afternoon the restaurant is empty, Sy and I are sitting at the back table and he says “Schmuck, why is it that all you eat is roast beef? Why don’t you try sompteeng else? Pastrami? Chopped liver? How 'bout I make you a nice tongue sandwich?” My answer to that was, “Sy, I’m not tasting anything that might taste me back.” Sy thought that was hysterical. He turns to Henry, “Henry, did you hear what the Schmuck said?” What a pair those two were.

It’s funny that Stemmer would dub me an honorary jew. I mean with all of the really close friends I have, who happen to light the menorah; at times in the gentile world I feel like an ambassador. When the jokes start flying in the locker room, “Did you hear the one about the priest, the minister, and the rabbi?” I always feel like an interloper. If the jokes are harmless, I laugh and say nothing. If they are mean spirited, if I can tell the person telling the joke really dislikes the people he is making fun of my response is usually different.

I recall a few years ago we were talking current events with my 8th grade history class and I mentioned the fact that this world leader was Jewish. I distinctly heard a handful of snickers in the room. So I jump in, “Why is that funny? I mention that this guy is Jewish and you laugh?” I get indignant, as I should, I get protective. A discussion ensues, and one of my students, sensing my anger asks, “Why Mr. Spinner are you Jewish?” I hesitate, I don’t know how to answer that. Should it matter? I want to say yes, but that would be lying but lying to make a point. In trying to answer my students I want to say, “I am not Jewish but I have many Jewish friends.” And how lame does that sound?

I feel bad for my students at these times, sequestered in their Connecticut world, snickering about somebody being Jewish. I know that before I met Gruder and Gordo, Sy and Stemmer, Kaplan and Woody that I was the snickerer. And the teacher in me recognizes that I was a product of my seclusion, that through exposure to all kinds of people I have benefited. Well, considering this is Hannukah, and thinking of how my life has been enriched by my Jewish friends, I’d have to say, I couldn’t have asked for a better gift.

A Veteran's Day Salute

At the Woodbury Middle School, we recently held a day in recognition of our veterans. My colleague, Scott Parkhouse, a veteran himself, arranged the day with the local VFW. A group of veterans, of multiple generations, came to speak to our 8th graders. Our kids were unbelievably respectful as we listened to the personal stories of D-Day survivors, guys who were deployed to the rice-paddies of Vietnam and today’s National Guardsman.

Early in the morning, as we were setting up the presentations in Scott’s empty classroom, our principal came on the loudspeaker to recite the pledge. “I pledge allegiance, to the flag, of the United States of America…” To be standing there, in a Connecticut classroom, with my hand on my heart, surrounded by generations of men who had shouldered the burden of freedom for the world is a memory I will never forget.

My mind raced throughout the day as we heard people’s living history while surrounded by the trappings of a history classroom. Men in camouflage, standing in front of posters of the signers of our Declaration of Independence seemed particularly fitting.

I sat in the back while Sergeant Wilfred Cabana regaled our students with stories of Normandy Beach and German 88’s. All eyes were on the gravelly voiced octogenarian, in his full dress uniform, as he talked about the medals and citations he had received. Some stories, a lot of the stories the boys wanted to hear, he would not tell. He seemed to particularly enjoy telling us about the kindness of the people of the French countryside. His memory of an evening when a pair of mud-caked GI's were offered a hot bath in a wine cask by a scared French farmer and his young daughter made the Sergeant emotional every time he told the story.

I have four history sections so I listened to the same stories multiple times, and my mind began to wander. The history buff in me, with these Connecticut vets in front of me also thought of another Connecticut Yankee, Israel Putnam. Putnam, whose statue graces the grounds of our state house, has been credited with the phrase, “Don’t fire until you see the whites of their eyes.” A grisly veteran of many battles, Putnam knew the inaccurate nature of the American musket. He also knew for the Continentals to repel the Redcoat charges at Bunker Hill, the colonists would have to wait until those bayonets were gleaming, until they could hear the grunts of their adversaries heading up the hill, before firing.

Putnam’s story has always resonated in Connecticut as he literally left his plow in the field and grabbed his musket. According to the web site Connecticut Society for the Sons of the American Revolution, “The intelligence of the recent battles at Lexington and Concord roused the whole country in April of the following year. Putnam was employed in ploughing a field of Indian corn when the news reached him. He was swift to act. Leaving the cattle and plough in the furrow, not stopping to change his clothes, he mounted a fleet horse and was soon well on his way to Cambridge, which he reached at sunrise the next morning, and his gallant steed galloped into Concord later the same day. At the same time that George Washington was appointed commander-in-chief, Putnam was made brigadier-general and given command of the army-center at Cambridge.”

I continued to watch the eager eyes of my students and I thought of how we had recently discussed Nathan Hale, another forerunner to these Connecticut vets. Most of you know the story of Nathan Hale, barely in his twenties when George Washington asked him to spy on the British in New York City. After getting caught and tried for treason, as we were still British Colonies then, Hale was sentenced to be hung. All Connecticut students can recite his famous words, “I regret that I have but one life to give for my country.”

A Yale graduate in the 1770’s, Nathan Hale became a teacher in New London, CT. But the cause of Liberty had a strong pull on the young school master. Nathan put down his books and his chalk to fight the greatest military power in the world at that time, the British empire. In a hasty farewell address to his students as he was leaving for Boston, Hale said, “Let us march immediately and never lay down our arms until we obtain our independence.”

Nathan Hale, not only was one of the first to mention our fight for independence, but also was at the vanguard for women’s rights. The Connecticut Society for SAR website also has an excellent biographical sketch of Nathan Hale. The site mentions that Hale went so far as to volunteer to teach the young women of the town on his own time. I bet there were a few cute ones I suppose. “And, in the arrangement of the Union School at New London, it was determined that between the hours of five and seven in the morning, he should teach a class of “twenty young ladies” in the studies which occupied their brothers at a later hour.”

How much has our country changed since 1774, when Nathan Hale was forced to teach these young ladies well before the sun rose? And now today, after years of struggling, we see everyone over the age of 18 has the right to vote. Everyone who would like to, participating in our democracy, and if they choose, serving in the military.

Our military looks a lot different than it did in 1776. President Obama’s words recently at the memorial services for the victims of the massacre at Fort Hood, Texas, seem to resonate. “They are man and woman; white, black and brown; of all faiths and all stations — all Americans, serving together to protect our people, while giving others half a world away the chance to lead a better life.”

Listening to our president tell the stories of all 13 of the victims, it was the story of Amy Krueger that stood out for me. How similar her situation was to Israel Putnam, Nathan Hale or the waves of veterans who have put down plow and pen, hammer and firehose, to take up arms to protect freedoms around the world.

Amy Krueger, who joined the military after 9/11, as many before her had done in the wake of Pearl Harbor. Whose mother, Janet Krueger told this 20 year old from Keil, Wisconsin, “You know you can’t take on Osama Bin Laden all by yourself.” Only to hear her daughter, full of the bravado of the American soldier say, “Watch me.”

Baseball Dreams

“Hey Dad, wanna have a catch?” I have a Pavlovian response to these words. I can’t say no and I don’t think my boys have realized this yet. Not only do I hear their simple plea but through the decades I hear my own. I think of all the times, and all the ways I accosted my dad. Usually he was just returning from a hard day of banging nails and squaring boards. Physically spent, Jim Spinner Sr. would park the family wagon on East 4th Street and slouch toward the front porch, drained by another work day. I can’t imagine what his thoughts were as he was greeted by me, the Energizer Bunny of children…“Hey Dad, wanna have a catch?” “Not right now Butch, maybe later.”

I am a glass is half full kind of guy but the times my dad said yes, the times that we smacked that leather back and forth are so vivid in my mind I know it’s not as many times as I would have liked. Of course, if I was anything like my boys, maybe I was insatiable? Maybe my timing was off? Too eager, I probably should have waited until he actually got out of the car? Maybe during his after dinner cigarette on the porch would have had better results? What I think now, as a father, is how can you say no? This I am sure is connected to the fatalist in me. My father passed when I was in college and that peppers all the things I do, or don’t do, with my boys.

Now don’t get me wrong he was a great father, he coached my teams, he took me to ball games, he taught me things, about our national pastime. Taught me how to keep score. Taught me how to “bribe the ush” if we bought upper deck seats and we wanted to move down. Taught me that a pitcher will waste a pitch if he’s ahead in the count. Now when I watch the game with my boys I pass on the same knowledge to them. “No way Lester throws Guerrero a strike here. He’s a bad ball hitter, you really gotta waste one here. He’ll throw him a nasty curve low and away and Guerrero’ll whiff.” And when it happens my boys give that wide-eyed, Dad how did you know look. My dad taught me, that’s how I know.

I have an old cassette tape of my dad and I on the phone. It’s a one sided conversation. I was in 407 Fargo Quad, SUNY Buffalo, futzing around with a tape recorder. I was working on a class project when I made my Sunday night call home. For some odd reason, I never turned the tape recorder off; so I captured my end of the conversation…“Hey Padre, what’s up?” Many of you would recognize the conversation because as soon as we run out of things to say there’s a pause and I say, “Mets look good.” It must be 1984 because we are talking about Darling, Gooden and Fernandez as young pitchers. But the rhythm of the conversation is what strikes me. At first listen you might hear a desire for closeness but an unwillingness to delve into anything of substance. Dad and I seem to stay on the surface, with, baseball. But those of you trained in guyspeak would hear something different. The perceptive ear would recognize that’s not surface, that’s us, that’s tribal. I know Woody Allen or Billy Crystal has done this conversation in a movie with subtitles below it but...”Mets look good.” Really means, I miss you Dad, it would be nice to sit on the porch and watch the game with a few Schaefers. “Yeh, if the pitching holds up.” Means, I hear you and it would be really nice to grab a pair of tickets and head over to Shea.

"American Heritage" magazine deals with American history and a few years ago they conducted a poll. “If you could travel back in time to any moment in American history, where would you go?” Number one on the list was to travel with the Lewis Clark expedition. There were a lot of cool answers like Walk on the Moon with Neil Armstrong or On the dunes at Kitty Hawk with the Wright Brothers. The history teacher in me might say Philadelphia for the drafting of the Declaration of Independence. On a more personal level…

It would be my own Field of Dreams, one of the greatest baseball movies of all time by the way. One of the few movies guys will admit makes them cry. As I am traveling back in time, I can hear James Earl Jones’s deep voice as I enter Prospect Park at Park Circle, walking across the park towards the Eastern Parkway side…”The one constant through all the years, Ray, has been baseball. America has rolled by like an army of steamrollers. It has been erased like a blackboard, rebuilt and erased again. But baseball has marked the time. This field, this game: it's a part of our past, Ray. It reminds of us of all that once was good and it could be again. Oh... people will come Ray. People will most definitely come.” I travel back through the years, past Three Devils Hill, past the band shell, as I travel the trees are changing, people's fashions change, the automobiles are getting bigger, shinier...

When I emerge on the other side of Prospect Park, it’s 1955 and the Dodgers are still in Brooklyn. I walk along Eastern Parkway and head east toward Ebbett’s Field. Closer to the ballpark, I follow the crowd, all in Dodger blue. I smell stale beer and peanuts. Engulfed in the pre-game bustle I am struck when the ballpark emerges organically, like Fenway, from the surrounding neighborhood. Trying to buy a ticket for the game I meet a 17 year old with a James Dean haircut; a wiry kid with blue jeans, a white t-shirt and a pack of smokes rolled in the sleeve. He spies me, “Wanna catch the game?” “You bet I do!” “Follow me.” His movements are familiar to me, the hair, the slouchy gait, the gray eyes. He’s only 17 years old, but I recognize my dad, Jim Spinner Sr. before life beat him down.

We sneak into the game, and root for Dem Bums, Brooklyn’s beloved team. It’s a game for the ages and I know the details from the stories my dad told me…Pee Wee Reese at short, Jackie Robinson at second, Carl Furillo (could throw a strike to home plate with his back against the right field fence)  in right, Duke Snider in center, Johnny Podres on the mound. I smile at the Abe Stark sign in right field, “Hit this sign Win a Suit." In the end, the Dodgers beat the hated Yankees. Brooklyn goes crazy. Leaving the ballpark cars are honking, people are hanging out of apartment house windows banging pots and pans, strangers are dancing in the streets, dad and I are caught up in the mayhem. Together we cross Prospect Park. And as we near Bartel Pritchard Square prepared to go to our respective boyhood homes, my Dad turns to me and says, “Hey kid, see you in a couple of years and we’ll have a catch.”

I know it’s a bit hokey but it’s my Field of Dreams and on the opening night of the World Series I thought it would be appropriate. I'm going to have a catch with my boys. Play Ball!