Mullin Matters

Chris Mullin was recently inducted into the Basketball Hall of Fame. Like it was the Oscars, I watched (and taped) the coverage of the red carpet entrances and the induction ceremony. I changed my Facebook picture to a pic of Chris in his St. John’s uniform, a skinny white kid with a full head of 80’s feathered hair. My son Brian asked, “Dad is that you when you were younger?” I got a kick out of that. “No, Brian, that’s Chris Mullin. Does he look like me?” Yeh, a little bit when you were younger.” That just confirmed for me, why Mullin’s induction was so emotional. My wife could see the glazed look in my eyes, “Did you know him?” How do I answer that? Did I know Chris Mullin? It seems cliché but I feel like I know him. And it’s lame to say, “Well, not really. But I could have.” For guys like me, that is to say Catholic school guys from Brooklyn, The Bronx, Queens, maybe even Staten Island, Chris was ours, he was one of us. During his induction ceremony he said, “This is a long way from Flatbush Avenue but Brooklyn is definitely in the house tonight.” That made me laugh, and it made me proud.

Mullin went to St. Thomas Aquinas out in the Flatlands section of Brooklyn while I was attending Immaculate Heart of Mary in Windsor Terrace. Every morning, Christ the same mornings for 8 years, Chris and I donned our white shirt, blue pants, navy tie with the school insignia as we shouldered our books to head off to school. Guys like us know Chris’s upbringing, because it was like ours. When I see images of his father, mother, and brothers I can see the Mullin family dinner table because it was a lot like ours, red faces, bad food, lots of laughs, sports talk and maybe a few arguments. He played the same street games we played like: stickball, Johnny on the Pony and Scully. I know Mully and his friends spent some time, like us, down Breezy Point during the summer. I know he went to Brennan and Carr's. And when he wasn’t playing ball he hung out with his friends at Kings Plaza. At the end of the night, he probably had a few pints at Nana Daly’s or the Jolly Bull too.

Chris and I graduated from high school in 1981, Chris from Xaverian (where my brother Jeff went) and me from John Dewey. Chris was on our radar early on but once he decided to attend St. John’s University in Queens, his legend grew. Mullin was heavily recruited, he could have chosen Indiana, UCLA, Duke….but he chose to stay close to home. As he likes to say, “I just went 12 miles down the Belt Parkway.” This meant something to us. At a time when white flight was real, when the threat of urban decay was scaring a lot of families to Long Island and New Jersey, the Mullins, like the Spinners, the O'Callaghans and the Savinos, stayed in Brooklyn. 1981 was also a time when not only were white people fleeing the city, on our tv's it felt like there were no white guys playing hoops. It seemed to be common knowledge that black guys were just better, naturally, at basketball. We all kind of believed it, we were disappointed but you had to look at the evidence. And along comes Chris Mullin. (And of course Larry Bird but this piece isn’t about Bird, he’s not from Brooklyn)

Chris was an underdog, a Catholic school gym rat, like Jackie Ryan from our neighborhood, who made it to the big time. We rooted for him for a lot of reasons. Christ, if he could be that good at something then maybe we could be too? When he was good, it gave us hope. The kid could flat out play the game. How much fun was it to watch him? Man could he shoot, but he also had a good eye for the court, could handle the ball and was unflappable under pressure, just like we all aspired to be. How many times did we watch Georgetown, the vaunted Georgetown team with Patrick Ewing, David Wingate, Reggie Williams (damn those guys were good and scary) throw their hornets nest of a press at St. John’s. And Mullin would slowly, he was slow, using ball fakes and feints, putting the ball behind his back, between the legs just “handle it.”

Freshman year at SUNY Buffalo, my buddy Ian, Eric Friedman and I brought our Brooklyn accents and our love of the Redmen, they’ll always be the Redmen to me, to Fargo Quad. And our circle of friends: Lynchy, Conroy, Dunleavy, the descentants of Brooklyn Irish who had moved to Long Island, joined us on the Mullin/St. John’s bandwagon. I remember once in the early 80’s we took a road trip from Buffalo to watch St. John’s take on Syracuse and Pearl Washington in the Carrier Dome. We were a spot of red in a sea of orange. That didn’t stop our full-throated cheering as testosterone and Brooklyn pride took over. The game is tied down the stretch, St. John’s has the ball and Mullin is fouled, big mistake. With 30,000 screaming SU fans doing all they can to distract Chris, he calmly sinks both free throws, just like we knew he would. St. John’s wins. That was a fun walk out of the Carrier Dome.

Magic Johnson, Mullin’s teammate on the ’92 Dream Team, and someone who has to be in the conversation for greatest basketball player of all time said this during the Hall of Fame induction ceremony: “When God looked down and made a basketball player, he made Chris Mullin. That’s what Chris Mullin is, he’s a basketball player.” Magic said that.

It wasn’t a race thing for us, (Magic is probably my fav) we were just so happy to have a white guy out there, doing well. It’s not racism when you see someone like you, and pull for that person is it? White guys are always sensitive to that I suppose. When the Puerto Rican community makes Roberto Clemente their own or the Italians root for Dimaggio what is that? Human nature? It just feels right to most of us. Fitting that Mullin came along and infused Catholic-school Brooklyn, Queens and The Bronx with a little confidence and pride right when Ronald Reagan was doing the same for the country. In the final days of the Carter Administration, with unemployment skyrocketing, and puppet regimes in Iran poking America in the eye with a stick, Reagan made us proud to be Americans again. Mullin was doing the same for guys like us. I know my friends and I played a lot more ball after Mullin came along. And we wouldn’t think twice about grabbing the round ball and heading to any number of courts around Brooklyn to play the city game. Sometimes we won, sometimes we lost. In the end, despite the fact that we walked a little taller and played with a little more heart, who did we think we were? Chris Mullin? Nah, there's only one of him. Congrats Mully, you made us all proud.

The Bald and the Beautiful

Let me say up front, there’s no anger here. You can’t hear tone of voice in an essay but these are merely observations about men and women about images and life changes. I think we would all agree that women are the more sensitive sex. Women take people’s feelings into account before commenting on someone’s attire or new hairdo. Men? We try, especially married men because we have been trained to be more, sensitive. For the most part though, we are Neanderthals. Most things are fair game, all the time. Most.

When I hear women complain about Hollywood and Madison Avenue promoting images of genetic freaks, women who are supremely thin and buxom at the same time, I feel for them I do. I understand what they are complaining about. You are thinking: those women aren’t real. they have personal trainers, professional chefs, nannies. Real women have: careers, kids, homework, baseball games, recitals, laundry and mac and cheese. Maybe it’s my increased sensitivity? While guys appreciate the beauty of say, a Sports Illustrated Swimsuit model, we all know, like many popular video games, that’s not real life. But why does this outcry against unreal imagery, unreal expectations stop there?

Guys are victims in this too. Hear me out on this. When is the last time you saw a bald guy, or even a guy with thinning hair or a chubby guy on “The Bachelor?” How many of Hollywood’s leading men look like the guys you see at the town beach or on the sideline of a soccer game? Even in the Cialis commercials, these guys with limp noodles look like 60 year old freaks. Here’s a guy who can’t cut the mustard in the sack but he’s in unbelievable shape and he has a badger growing on top of his head. Every pharmacist viewing those commercials is saying, “You know those guys don’t look like my Viagra customers; the guys I sell Viagra to look more like, Joe next door.”

I think real guys, guys who are getting older, thicker in the mid-section and thinning on top, need a good public relations guy. What we need is an older guy union, The OGU. If women have been complaining about fashion magazines promoting unreal expectations, there should be an outcry for real men. Shouldn’t we be saying that the image that Hollywood and GQ are portraying is unrealistic? And shouldn’t women be joining us in this?

Truthfully, there won’t be much help from the fairer sex. Actually the reverse is true. How many times have you been at a dinner, and the topic of baldness comes up? At dinner. Want to see a Penn State Linebacker shrink up like a turtle? Bring up his thinning hair while you’re eating your clams casino. I love watching this conversation, simply because women, who are usually so aware of these things, seem so callous and boorish. At one wedding, we were all comparing coverage. I don’t remember who broached the subject but I can guarantee it was someone with a full head of hair or a wife who was very proud of her adequately coiffed hubby. Eventually, the conversation denigrated to something like middle school boys doing push ups in front of the girls. And the wives were leading the charge. “Your husband still has pretty good coverage.” I’m looking at my friend Jimmy thinking, yeh, he still has pretty good coverage, does he have better coverage than me? Suddenly his wife reaches over and pulls his hair back from his forehead and says, “Not really see, he covers it up with this new haircut. Really you can see that he’s losing it, there’s no growth right there.” One minute my buddy was laughing and joking, the next minute he looks like someone kicked him in the balls. And it was his own wife! We’ve all seen guys with thinning hair argue and compare. I was at a bar recently and two "follically challenged" friends were circling each other with their chests out, like gorillas in the jungle, “Well, you have less than me!" "Get out of here, look at your shiny head. Honey, don’t I have more hair than him?”

During these conversations, suddenly women become expert geneticists. “How come he’s losing his hair? His father had a full head of hair.” “You see that doesn’t matter, the baldness gene comes from your mother’s side. What kind of hair does his maternal grandfather have?” “Oh, yeh, he’s bald as a cue ball.” The only people comfortable during this conversation are the women and the guys with all their hair. Usually I’ll keep my mouth shut or toss out some non-sequitur, "Did you hear Joan and Peter are swingers?"

I often wonder what would happen if a group of guys did this at dinner? Imagine if at one of your dinner parties, you are sipping your martini and some dude lobs out this verbal hackey sack? “Julie, your ankles look really good. You are keeping yourself in really good shape” And her husband pipes in, “Not really. See, she’s covering it up with the dark colors and the Uggs.” “Really? I didn’t realize. But her mother has such nice ankles.” “See you have that wrong, the kankle gene comes from your maternal grandfather. Did you ever see Grandpa Guatano’s ankles? Looks like he’s got the gout.” “Yeh but your wife looks great! She doesn’t even watch what she eats, does she go to the gym every day?” “No, it’s the new Spanks-panty hose she has on. She looks good now but she’s a human sausage. When she gets undressed at home her ankles will inflate like a life raft.

Of course that would never happen. Why is that? If women are usually the more sensitive sex? Why do men know enough to stay away from certain topics in public? And how in the world could women be so clueless? And really, why do men care so much? Somewhere along the line a full head of hair has come to be connected to virility, with being in shape. What's a guy to do? Remember the Seinfeld episode where Elaine is dating some guy with a great head of hair and she mentions how important it is to women that their guy have thick lustrous hair. She turns to George who is balding and says, “Sorry George but it’s true.” Crestfallen, George puts his head down and says, “I knew it.”

This is exactly why so many men go to great lengths to make sure they don’t lose their hair. Why not just grow old gracefully? Most of try not to but what choices do we have?

We can shave our heads. That’s a choice for some of us. Once in the 90’s we were watching the NBA playoffs and my buddy Murph says, “You see that’s not fair, Jordan shaves his head and he looks cool.” Shelley Stemmer, my friend Steve’s mom, and our elder stateswoman posits, “It’s all how you carry yourself Murph.” To which Murph said, “It’s easy for Michael Jordan to be confident, he’s Michael Jordan.” “Oh Billy, you just have to be confident in yourself.” “I tell you this Shelly, I’d be a lot more confident if I wasn’t a pasty white guy with the sun shining off my head.”

I’m not one of those guys who will do the Rogaine thing. Not that my body is a temple but a topical solution to make sure you regrow hair seems, less than organic. I guess if I knew it was completely safe…but my fear is that years from now we’ll see guys with penises growing out of the top of their head and we’ll whisper, “Sure he’s got a thick head of hair but...

We can be creative with our haircuts. For most guys, the drawback with thinning hair, besides snickering women and kids, is that in everyday life, lack of hair is a hassle. I spent a lot less time worrying about it when I had plenty. I always tell Marisa, she’s my “stylist,” “You’re the professional, I don’t want to look silly, I don’t want to look like one of those guys who is trying to cover something up. But please do whatever you can.” She’s always so nice and tells me how great my hair looks. Yes I do know she works on tips.

And of course there’s the all-American, baseball hat. As we get older, every time we go to the beach, we have to bring a baseball hat. Actually, every time we are going to be in the sun for an extended period of time, we need a hat. It’s a drag. Or worse, you can reach the point of putting sunscreen right on your head. That’s a sobering moment for a dude. I tend to use some type of spray, unsightly white gobs on your head are really unflattering.

We can be careful with the pics we post on the internet. I love the fact that we all post flattering pics on Facebook. Often I think, if that’s his or her good picture, oh jeez. When my wife posts pictures I am always like, “Hon do you realize that shot really accents my double chin and people will be blinded by the sun beating off my cranium? I appreciate that.” When we find old friends on FB, admit it, the first thing we look at is, did she get fat and does he still have his hair? Those are really the only two worries for guys, bald or fat. One we have control over, one we don’t. They call it male pattern baldness and I have been slightly lucky so far, for the most part it’s been occurring from back to front, so I don’t have to witness it every day. I can delude myself into thinking it still looks good. Once in a while I will catch an alignment of two mirrors, in an elevator or in a bathroom in a restaurant and I’m always like, "THAT'S what I look like from behind?" If there are no mirrors, I have my kids at home, "Dad you should try Rogaine." And I teach 8th grade, so once in a while my students will let me know, as if I didn’t know it already, “Mr. Spinner did you know you are going bald?” I always try to handle this with humor. “Oh, my god, really? When did this happen?” Or sometimes I say, “Did you know you’re failing this class?”

My theory is that this is a control issue. No matter how much a guy works out and no matter what you eat, most guys will experience hair loss. It’s humbling for a guy. It’s connected to aging obviously. Through the Hollywood image-makers, we have come to see it as the autumn of our lives. Like trees, we start to lose our hair as we move toward the latter seasons of our lives. Oh, and that’s another thing, your head gets colder. Maybe all of us "regular" people, men and women, should work together to debunk the images that Hollywood continues to propagate? How about we start a magazine with regular people in it? Then again who would read it?

Doctor's Orders

Sometimes in the act of writing we learn things about ourselves. Recently this happened in, of all places, a Facebook stream. My friend Craig posted a black and white photo of Gilda Radner and John Belushi. The photographer captured a tender moment, Gilda seated in a chair, Belushi standing behind, leaning in to wrap his arms around her, his head next to hers. It was a provocative photo; in that it provoked, thought. I was one of the first to view it. We all know the pressure of wanting to write a pithy, poignant comment, right then. Myriad emotions coursed through my brain: the tragedy, the love, the talent, the laughter, the inspiration.


My comment was about comedians and how they seem to be drawn to comedy by some larger force. Thinking of comedians who seem to be haunted, like: Belushi, Chris Farley, Richard Pryor, John Candy and more recently Greg Giraldo. These performers seek the laughter of others to fill a need in themselves. At some point, Craig and I pulled off the main Facebook stream and had our own electronic conversation about “comedians like that.” Eventually, we reflected on our own desire to make others laugh.

I know just enough about Freud and Jung to be dangerous, or at least confusing, to myself. If you asked my grammar school friends at Immaculate Heart of Mary, I don’t think it would be a reach for them to place me in the class clown category. If you polled Jean Ann Powers, Robby Sullivan and Chrissy Ryan, they’d probably throw that moniker on me and a handful of others in our class. I started to think about what triggers this desire in me? Like Belushi, am I damaged in some way? Did I have abusive neglectful parents? No. Was my father a raging alcoholic? Well not raging, nothing out of the ordinary for our family, circle of friends, or the 70’s. Why do I feel this desire to make the one comment that will crack up the staff meeting?

After my conversation with Craig, I thought about a morning this past summer….My wife and I had eye appointments. After shuttling our boys off to their respective day-camps, we met at the doctor’s office. As is usually the case, I arrive after my wife. It’s a big rectangular waiting room with multiple practices using the same space. I open the door, take a quick glance around the room and spy Kira on the exact opposite side. While I am glancing around the room, all eyes are on me; there’s not a lot going on in the waiting room. I fight the urge to break into song, seriously. Why? Because it amuses me. I had this vision of me donning an imaginary top hat and cane and doing a little Bugs Bunny/Al Jolson ragtime: “Hello my baby, hello my sweetie, hello my rag time girl…” I don’t have the nerve, I settle for an overindulgent stage wave, acting as if my trans-Atlantic crossing was successful and I am seeing Kira for the first time in months. Kira shakes her head and looks at the floor.

Some eyes are still on me as I make my way across the room. I notice a grizzled WWII vet right next to one of the magazine tables. I make a b-line and survey the inventory. I am looking for material. I already have something to read, I always do. Jackpot! There’s a copy of a magazine that’s perfect for my next performance; a periodical I would have no reason to ever read. I pick up the latest issue of, “Cheerleader.” I feel Sergeant Fury’s eyes on me. I peruse the cover as if I am really thinking about reading it. I put a quizzical look on my face, and say, “Oh, I have not seen this issue yet!” After delivering my line, I display, like one of the models on “The Price is Right,” the cover of the July issue of “Cheerleader” a glossy photo of the captain of the LSU cheerleading squad in all her blonde, blue and gold glory. Nothing, maybe a derisive grunt from my geriatric G.I. Joe. I am stunned. That was good stuff you old codger! I’m not expecting you to spit your coffee out but I was hoping for a guffaw, maybe a chortle, a snort, a chuckle, I would have settled for a polite smirk. But derision?

By now Kira is mortified, a few of the other patients might be as well, especially the women. I am beaming. I think it’s hysterical, especially the fact that Kira wants to crawl under the table. In my heart I know she thinks it’s funny. If she doesn’t, I think it is and that’s what matters to me. If my "Cheerleader" skit didn't work, no worries. I am used to these comedic lead balloons. My batting average for these impromptu jokes is probably like a decent major leaguer, that is to say, around .300. So 70% of these efforts fail, but I don’t care. I take my walk of shame, and sit next to Kira, a cheshire cat grin on my face.

The sliding glass window, behind which the clerical staff sits, is in the middle of the long side of the rectangle, across from the WWII vet. I open my book and do some reconnaissance. The room looks like a Woody Allen movie set. Every age group is represented, 90’s, 80’s, 70’s… “and playing the part of the 40 somethings will be Jim and Kira Spinner.” I know there’s a joke in here about early bird dinner specials but I decide to save it for later. I have this eerie feeling that I am glimpsing our future. Walkers, oxygen tanks, and canes, oh my.

I read and then interest in my book wanes, so I talk to Kira as if I am hard of hearing, “HOW DID THE BOYS GET OFF FOR THEIR FIRST DAY OF CAMP?” She pleads with me, with her eyes, please stop? “DO YOU THINK THEY’LL LANCE THAT LARGE FESTERING BOIL?” I can see Kira is pained, so I back off. Sometimes I know when to stop. I keep glancing over my book, like we all do, playing detective about the other patients…Hmmm, what do you think she’s in here for? She’s 90? I can’t believe she’s 90. She’s sharper than half the people I know. What an interesting lady. I wonder what her life has been like? Oh, look at him, he’s on his last leg, poor guy, now his wife has to wipe his butt for him. That’s not for me. I hope I go quickly, I don’t want to hang on like that….

The patients continue getting called up. There’s one recently retired guy, a sharp dresser, still thin at 60 something, making an effort to make the clerical staff laugh. I applaud the effort. He made some marginally funny comments as he was checking in. But when they call his name, he shouts, “That’s me! What did I win!” I am the only one to laugh, the sound of one man laughing, know it well. I think, that guy’s alright, I bet he’d be fun to hang out with.

The couples go in together, with the accoutrements of the aging process. Then they call, “Mr. and Mrs. Spinner!” I stay seated, “You go first.” I am thinking I will continue to enjoy some time to myself. Kira goes up to the window and is informed that we should go in together. I wave my hand at the window, “She can go first. I’ll wait here and enjoy some unfettered reading time.” I like to weave the word unfettered into conversations whenever I can. Despite my protestations, we are told to go in together.

We are escorted to the eye exam room and told to wait for the doctor. I begin to play with the equipment. I am like a kid in a candy store. I pick up some unknown eye implement and ask Kira, “Have you ever had the Aunt Jemima treatment?” Kira is a nurse and she has a respect, or a fear, of doctors that I just don’t have. While I appreciate their expertise and their devotion to schooling, there’s a part of me that knows they put their pants on one leg at a time. I also have a little chip on my shoulder because my 3:30 appointment should be 3:30 for them also. But I digress. “Put that stuff down!” Kira whispers, with one eye on the door that says, the doctor could come in at any... And on cue, the doc comes in.

The first thing I do upon introduction is to tell the doctor, “I think you should know, Kira memorized the eye chart.” Kira apologizes for what a jackass I am. Doctor McGillicuddy rolls her eyes, “I have one of those at home too.” The doc deals with me as she would an adolescent, after her cursory comment, she ignores me. I go back to my book. Unfortunately, the doc keeps feeding me lines, “Kira, your eyes are so red. Are they always this red?” Geez doc, if you are going to play straight man… “Doc, I’ve been talking to her about this, maybe you can help? Even though she’s the mother of three boys, she's still smoking the ganja like she's a coed at a frat party.” Freaking doctor doesn’t blink an eye, “Well at least she won’t get glaucoma.” I think, she might be fun to hang out with.

So, why did that Belushi/Radner picture make me flash back to that eye doctor appointment? Why did the conversation between me and Craig prompt this introspection about why am I like this? How come I can’t just go to an eye doctor’s appointment, the supermarket, the park, or a faculty meeting and behave myself? Why this need to entertain, to nudge, to in a sense beg for the attention of others? I really don’t know. My mother or father did not seem to share this quality. In the end, I am going to take the easy way out. Occam’s Razor, as taught to me by Maureen Grice goes something like: The simplest explanation for something is most likely to be the correct one. In the end, I think it’s because I find it entertaining.  With our trips to the doctor’s office, food shopping, t-ball games, DMV excursions…life can be, well, dull. What’s a person to do? Something my former principal used to say would work well here. Linda Demikat's spin on a common phrase was “Life is too long to be miserable.”

Face Painting

Sitting in our living room recently, the Spinner boys were discussing our favorite sports teams. To a man we are all Jet fans. In baseball we pull for the Mets and Red Sox, I have dubbed us MetSox fans. Papa Bill, one of my boy's grandfathers, was in the room but on the periphery. I am sure he wouldn’t mind if I said, "he's not a sports guy.” Bill Duesing, you should know, is an organic farmer of some note. He’s a Yalie, and a published author, and I guess you might call him a hippy in twilight. If my boys ask me a question I can’t answer, particularly about nature and farming, my pat answer is, “Let’s call Papa Bill.” In short, he’s well-educated and wise. So when Nick, Brian and Charlie asked, “Papa, what’s your favorite team?” He hesitated and cleverly said, “The Farmers.” Knowing Bill, I thought Farmers was a great answer but my boys were relentless. “No really Papa. What’s your favorite team?” “Well, I grew up outside of Philadelphia, and my mom was a Phillies fan. So I guess I would say the Phillies.”

For me the conversation was cute but awkward. When I talk to Bill and my mother-in-law Suzanne about sports, I always feel like I have to qualify my fandom. It’s my own insecurity, they have never given me reason to believe they are judging me. I feel compelled to explain to Bill and Suzanne (who don’t even own a tv), what it is we sports fans get out of rooting for our teams. Why does a relatively intelligent, 47 year old father of 3 boys, care if the New York Jets win the Super Bowl? How to explain this? In my head I know it’s kind of pedestrian to be a fan. Yes I am being a snob but part of me thinks I should be above it. The fact that I spend so much time watching grown men play a game seems, embarrassing. I can’t help it though, I am a fan.

On the way out of our house that morning, I thought about ways to explain being a sports fans to Papa in terms he would understand. I wanted to explain that I am not a cliché, I am not a beer swilling lout on a tv commercial. I wanted to show him and Suzanne that what I am doing, a lot of us do, and there are reasons for it. I wanted to make the case that this fandom, because it’s so pervasive in our society, addresses some primal need. It would appear that many of us, especially guys, have to do it. We buy the t-shirt, tune in to games, read the newspaper, learn the lore and lexicon, chat with friends, attend games, and some of us, paint our faces.

That’s when it hit me. The painted faces! I had a hypothesis that would explain fandom to Papa Bill in terms that his scientific-naturalist mind would understand.. “You know what Papa, maybe being a fan is…Tribal? Could it be that somewhere in our DNA, in our hunter-gatherer genetic helix is a code that persuades us that we need to be a part of a tribe of: Met fans, Jet fans, I hate to say it, Yankee fans? If you look closer, these are tribes: color wearing, chanting, with their own histories, idiosyncrasies and customs. We need to be a part of…something bigger than us, protective, inclusive. We are not hunting and gathering anymore so we put our jerseys on and tailgate; or drive to our local sports bar and eat chicken wings, with our tribe.” I figured I was on to something.

After that discussion, my radar was up to gather evidence to support my theory. Shopping for a car just after that I said to my buddy Johnny Murray, a fellow Jet fan, “I saw a used Jaguar XJ6, it was in my price range but it just didn’t feel right to me. I don’t think I’m a Jaguar type of guy.” To which Murray says, “You can’t drive a Jaguar, Jet fans don’t drive Jaguars, Giant fans drive Jaguars.” He wasn’t insulting me, he was confirming my hypothesis.

Then I saw an interview with Jumbo Elliot, former All-Pro Offensive lineman who played for both New York NFL teams. The article was about the Jets and Giants sharing the new stadium and Jumbo had this to say, “Jet fans are…blue-collar, anti-establishment, rebels. Giant fans are older, established, they can be a little much…” Confirmation from an All-Pro?

If we move beyond the borders of the United States, isn't it easy to see our national pride during the Olympics? Or Soccer's World Cup? I don't know that much about soccer fans but are Manchester United fans different from Manchester City fans? Does my theory hold water overseas?

I started to think that there had to be more to this sports fan thing than just the tribal nature of the group. I mean for so many people to be involved, really? I walked after the snow storm recently and I thought of other benefits of being a sports fan. Most important to me is sports as metaphor for life. How we are all learning life’s lessons through playing and watching sports. Things like: hard work and practice are rewarded, sacrificing individual glory for the good of the whole is admirable, sports as the arena of redemption, yesterday’s goat might be tomorrow’s hero, cheaters never prosper, you can be gracious in victory or defeat and of course you can be classless as well.

Of course there is the fact that if you watch, you will be compelled to play. How often will my boys and I go play a sport after watching a game? It puts you, in the mood. Watching sports encourages kids to play and that’s healthy, mentally and physically. Sports figures can also make good role models, helping this and further generations in sports and life in general.

Finally, there’s the goosebumps department. When sports fans know that what we are witnessing is genius. Fans develop an appreciation for the sublime when watching the artistry of the performance. Can we make the comparisons? Michael Jordan to Michaelangelo? Tom Seaver to John Steinbeck? Jack Nicklaus to Jack Nicholson? Sports fans know when they are witnessing greatness, Ted Williams at the plate, Wayne Gretsky on the ice…

That's about what I can come up with. A little help? What other benefits are there to being: Met fans? Yankee fans? Giant fans? and of course Jet fans? Let's Go Jets!

Capo Di Tutti Capi (The Boss of Bosses)

I know it’s the thing to be thankful for our family and our friends this time of year. I am unbelievably thankful for all of those things. However, I’d like to talk to you about something else I am thankful for; something that a lot of us are thankful for. For me, like you I am sure, the soundtrack of my life is awesome. So many songs, so many artists…Neil Young, Tom Petty, Elvis Costello…But if I had to pick one artist that has provided the music for the screenplay of my life, it would have to be Bruce Springsteen. That’s right, I am thankful for The Boss.

 “The screen door slams, Mary’s dress waves”…gives me goose bumps. “The dogs on Main Street howl ‘cause they understand” gives me that little catch in my throat. “No retreat, no surrender” gets me pumped, makes me feel I could tear down walls. “Bobby Jean” helps me reminisce. “Meet me tonight in Atlantic City” makes me cry. Springsteen reminds me of what it’s like to be human. When I am driving in my car he has me trying to, as Bruce would say, to, “Turn the mother up, as loud as she will go.”

What is it about Bruce? Why does he do it for a lot of us? Not long ago, at a local pub, I was talking with Pat Lewis, a fellow Middlebury dad, and a buddy with whom I share many interests. Our conversation turned to music. We ploughed coins in the juke box as we talked of our favorite bands from The Beach Boys to The Replacements. Assuming he would love him I venture, “And what about Springsteen?” Pat kind of grimaced and said, “I don’t know. I’m not drinking the Kool-Aid.” That felt like a punch to the gut. How could Pat Lewis not like Bruce? Which made me think, what is it about Bruce that does it for so many of us?

When Bruce plays, you get the feeling that he’s earnest. Jon Stewart, hosting the Kennedy Center Honors, said of Springsteen, “Bruce doesn’t just sing, he testifies.” With Bruce, you never get the feeling he’s doing it for a paycheck. I think of the Dimaggio quote when Joltin’ Joe talked of why he gave his best every game, “Because there’s some kid in the stands, that’s the only game he’s going to see me play.” It’s that same passion you get from Springsteen, he’s up there, Proving it All Night, for you.

I remember when downloading music over the internet started happening, I was genuinely worried that we would lose our artists. My fear was that the future Lennons and McCartneys might not choose to go into the music business if it meant they couldn’t cash in on their rock star dreams. No reason to have worried though because real artists, are going to have to sing, or play, no matter what. If Bruce never made it big, Bruce fans know, he’d probably be working a 9 to 5 gig in some office complex on Route 1 in Jersey. But you could rest assured he’d be playing on the weekends in some local bars down the Jersey shore. He’s got this rock and roll in him, these songs, and he has to get them out.

And what a gift it is. Whatever music does it for you, from Sheryl Crow to the Counting Crows, we have to take a second to thank the artists. How hard it must be to write a song, from the lyrics to the melody, damn, I don’t know enough about it to even sound like I
know what I’m talking about. I’m just glad they pursue their dreams, they give their blood, sweat and tears, for us really.

I tell my students, I teach 8th grade, that I might not have survived adolescence, were it not for the music of Bruce Springsteen. I can picture myself in my bedroom, gingerly placing Darkness on the Edge of Town, the album, on my Hitachi stereo turntable. Those of you of a certain age will recognize my hi-fi; an all-in-one unit I bought at Macy’s. For $220 I got a turntable, cassette player and AM/FM stereo. Throw in some milk-crate-sized speakers and I was rocking out in my room; much to my Dad’s dismay. Early on I felt a strong connection to Springsteen’s songs. He was cool and vulnerable at the same time. In the same song you got the feeling he could kick your ass or he could be getting his heart crushed. The Boss’s music was the perfect lyrical elixir for an adolescent finding his way in the world. I can still picture 10th grade, in the room I shared with both of my brothers, singing along with Bruce to an imaginary girlfriend I hadn’t even met yet. “Well if she wants to see me! You can tell her that I’m easily found. Tell her there’s a spot out ‘neath Abram’s Bridge. And tell her, there’s a darkness on the edge of town.”

Bruce fans stick together, those of us that are actually drinking the Kool-Aid. I got a call this past week from Glen Gruder, one of my East 4th Street cronies. He called to let me know that I HAD to pick up Springsteen’s recently released multi-disk set. Glen turned 50 this past summer but I could hear the excitement in his voice as he talked about this new version of “Candy’s Room” on the new disk. Our connection goes way back.

Early on, we made Bruce our own. It felt cool to know about Bruce before other people, before he got big. “Darkness” came out in ’78 and there started to be a buzz about this Springsteen guy. Gruder and I were the big Springsteen fans on East 4th Street, buying vinyl versions of The Wild The Innocent and the E Street Shuffle in our local record store on 13th avenue.

It was Glen actually, who took me to my first Bruce concert. In 1980, G-man won 4 tickets to Springsteen’s New Year’s Eve show at the Nassau Coliseum. Springsteen was still relatively unknown or unappreciated in our circles. Actually we couldn’t even get two other friends to go with us. Springsteen on New Year’s Eve! We wound up scalping two of the tix, interestingly enough to Cathy Cavanaugh, a friend of ours from the neighborhood, who happened to be outside the Coliseum, looking for tickets.

When I got a counselor job, at YMCA Silver Lake in New Jersey in 1980, the Springsteen tattoo became permanent. Much to the chagrin of my co-counselor, Jim-Bob Mitchell, I bought a cassette of “Greetings From Asbury Park, NJ” at the Sussex County Fair. That whole summer in Cabin 17, I played that cassette over- and over. “Billy slammed on his coaster brakes and said, anybody want to head on out to Greasy Lake?” Even if the lyrics didn’t fit, I made them fit, Greasy Lake? Silver Lake? “Princess cards she sends me, with her regards...” Bruce’s songs are narratives, telling stories that seemed somehow to work for me.  “For you, for you I came for you
but you did not need my urgency…” thinking of a certain girl at camp, someone I have a crush on but she doesn’t know.

One of my other camp buddies who is “drinking the Kool-Aid” is Steve Swierczek. Every once in a while, after the kids go to sleep, the phone will ring. When I answer, all I can hear is crowd noise. Then I can hear Bruce singing “Night.” Swierczek knows, this is the first song I heard Bruce sing live. He calls so I can share the concert with him, me on my couch in Connecticut and Steve in some stadium, thinking of me when he hears, “And the world is bustin’ at its seams. And your just a prisoner of your dreams…” Those calls always mean a lot to me.

After 9/11, Bruce released an album of healing, “The Rising.” It was upsetting at first to listen to it, but eventually it became cathartic. No better artist to write that album except maybe Billy Joel. During “The Rising” tour, I joined Swierczek and a group of his Rutgers buddies for a tailgate before one of the summer shows at Giants Stadium. I had no ticket so I had to scalp a single. Tough to sit by yourself but I just had to go to this show. Second song in, I am surrounded by fellow Bruce fans, but strangers none the less, and Bruce goes into “The Rising,” a haunting tune about America picking itself up after 9/11. “I see you Mary in the garden. In the garden of a thousand sighs. There’s holy pictures of our children...” My mind flashes to people I know, and the horrors of that time and I feel a raindrop. I look up into the graying summer sky and there’s another one, not a deluge, just a few, like tears, falling slowly.

Maybe for you it’s not Bruce? Maybe it’s The Beatles? The Stones? Whoever it is that moves you, give thanks that they followed their muse. When you hear that song that gives YOU goosebumps, take a second to say Thanks to the artist for putting it out there for us, for sharing their humanity with us.

I often think of students that I’ve had over the years, the Jason Kinnards, the Pat Lamothes, the Jacob Calos, the Michael Griffins, middle school kids forming rock bands in their garage. I always think, this kid just might have "it." I say, keep going! Follow your passion, put yourself out there, the world needs musicians. We should all be thankful that they take a chance. “Tramps like us…”

The Postman Never Rings Anymore

Most of us are optimists. I can prove it. Raise your hand if you look forward to going to the mail box? Come on, be honest. Raise your hand

if when you see the mail truck coming down your street, or the letter carrier walking up the block, you get a little excited. We all have a little lilt in our voice when we say, “Hey, here comes the mailman.” This optimism continues, despite the overwhelming evidence. I mean, Monday thru Saturday, 52 weeks a year, for years if not decades now, you can assume all you will get in the mail is crap. Sure we get the occasional magazine subscription. And those are mostly single people. People I know with kids, quickly let their subscriptions lapse. Give or take a birthday card, or a refund check in April, there’s really no good reason to go to the mail box. So why do we still have a spring in our step as we go to check the mail?

Somewhere, deep in our DNA, we remember a time when the mailbox held treats; letters written by far away friends. Maybe you’d get a letter from a college buddy, a camp friend or if you're lucky, someone you have a crush on? I’m no Luddite, I am all for the forward march of technology. I mean if I had to write this on a Smith-Corona, I despised those machines, I might not write at all. This email stuff is cool, but we’ve lost a little something when we stopped writing letters. Don’t you think? Now there’s nothing to touch; nothing to smell, nothing to reread or savor. How many times have you reread an email?”

I really do miss going to the mailbox and seeing one of those special envelopes, mixed in with all the other mail, that was a letter from a friend. Maybe you were like me? I would tease myself, put the letter to the side, put the other mail in its proper pile, read everything else and then finally get to the letter. I had the pleasure of being a camp counselor during my high school and college years. That’s when the letter writing bug bit me. I made a lot of friends at YMCA Silver Lake and camp people liked to keep in touch the 10 months we were not at camp. At a time when long distance calls were still measured in minutes and fathers policed the phone bill, letters were an economical option to stay in touch. As an avid reader, someone who values his friendships and enjoys writing, letters were a no-brainer.

There was nothing like writing to a friend, trying to entertain, updating them on our lives all while trying to speak in our voice in the process. I loved crafting the letter, snickering at my desk picturing one of my buddies getting a kick out of one of my sophomoric stories. I guess that’s not all that different from email. But part of the joy was the anticipation, knowing the letter was in the postal system, meandering its way to Anytown, USA. For a few days picturing my friend’s mailbox at his or her house, knowing or hoping that they will be excited to receive a letter. Assuming their response is similar to my response when their return letter arrives a few weeks later.

Those of us who were letter writers could recognize letters by their post-mark, type of stationary, maybe a peculiar handwriting or of course a return address. To this day I could tell you that Kira’s, (that’s my wife) home address was 2 Dawn Lane in Ridgefield CT. Mike and Chrissy Parker lived at 62 Rodgers Lane in Sparta, NJ. If the post mark was Kilmer Facility? It’s a letter from Moira Flanagan in Phillipsburg. Bill Dunleavy, who enlisted in the army after college? He could be anywhere from Fort Benning, Georgia to Germany.

Winters in Brooklyn could be cold, months long roller hockey seasons, ice cold train platforms, and touch football games on East 4th Street so a letter from a friend was a ray of summer sunshine. And one of the beauties was we could save letters, not like emails. My letters were in a pair of cardboard boxes. Now that was something entertaining, to come across a box of letters months if not years later. I usually uncovered mine each time I moved. To sit on the basement floor and pick out a handful of letters was special. And again, email? To revisit our personal history, to go back in time, to remember what we were doing sophomore year in college…

Fargo Quad’s mailroom was right off the terrace on the second floor. The mail was delivered every day at around 3:30. And it was a social event. If I was in the vicinity, I’d stick around. Most of the "mailroom groupies," looking back, were probably girls awaiting letters from boyfriends and the occasional geek like me. We had those old-fashioned, little door mail boxes. You know the brass rectangles with the little glass window and the dial for your combo? We’d position ourselves near our mailboxes and watch Cheryl’s silhouette as she moved around behind the mailboxes, teasing us with visions of an incoming letter. Back and forth her shadow’d go, tantalizing us…here she comes, this is going to be for me, she’s reaching her hand up….No or Yes! It was always kinda cool if you got a letter, or maybe even two. It felt a little, I hate to admit it, but a little like, proof that you might actually have friends. That someone else thought you were letter-worthy, sadly, felt a little cool. Those who walked away from the mailroom empty handed, their envy was just icing on the cake. I once parlayed a letter from Robin Omark, a camp friend, into a bit of intrigue with one particularly cute freshman. “Oh, Spinner, who is Robin Omark?” But that’s a story for another time.

So I am not asking you to become a Quaker or to move to Amish country but maybe we could all take out a legal pad, or dust off that box of picturesque cards you bought while on vacation and write a letter to a friend. Think about the smile you will create on the other end when this old friend goes to the mailbox and sees a letter, from you! Wouldn’t that be cool? I know I am being a dreamer. And on that note, I am going to check the mail.

"I Didn't Rub. I Didn't Rub"(Ode to Big Al)

Daddy do you ever cry?


Nicholas, my eight year old asked me that on a Thursday not so long ago. I only know it was a Thursday evening because the very next day, a Friday, I took a call from one of my college buddies that would prove to him exactly what I was talking about. I told him that, “Surely I cry all the time. I cried when my Dad died. Nick I’m as sappy as they come, just ask your Mom. I cry during the National Anthem, especially after September 11th.” So when I took the call from Billy Murphy, on that Friday morning, Nicholas had his proof.

I could hear in Murph’s voice that something was off. “I don’t know how to tell you this. I picked up the phone last night two or three times to call you, but I just couldn’t make the call.”

I’m thinking, what could be so bad that he wouldn’t, that he couldn’t call me?

“What Murph? Just tell me.”

“Al Duarte’s dead. I don’t know how else to tell you. He went to the Yankee game last night and apparently he had a heart attack in the parking lot. He’s dead. It’s not his father, who is 73, I asked. It’s Al. Al Duarte’s dead.”
“No. No. No way.”

I was standing in the front entrance of my house. I walked into the kitchen. Nick picked up on the emotion, followed me, with his big, blue eyes wide open. During my conversation with Murph I had one hand on the phone and one around Nick’s shoulder as he came over and hugged me. That was enough to start the water works. I knew I should cry. I wanted to show Nick that it was okay to cry.

Murph and I discussed a plan of action, whom to call, when the services might be. I hung up the phone, stood in my kitchen, one arm around Nick’s shoulder and stared out the window. I tried to compose myself, to continue my day. My wife was at work, I had our three boys and we had plans. I figured doing something normal would help. I took my boys to a local library, for a Thomas the Tank Engine Fair. I got the boys in the car and we drive over to Silas Bronson Library in Waterbury. Walking around Library Park with my boys, watching them have fun with all of the different Thomas themed booths; I am in a daze, staring off...Al’s dead. What the -----?

I put on a happy face while I was walking around watching my kids eat fried dough. I thought of Al’s family, a parent's worst nightmare, burying a son. I thought of Al’s friends, What’s going through Murph’s mind? He’s known Al since they were little? And how is Jack Doyle doing? Jack’s on vacation in Nantucket. I am sure he knows by now. Maybe Billy O’Mara called him? I could picture Jack sitting on the beach while his kids frolic in the waves, his wife continues to talk to him about their plans. Jack is trying to maintain some type of normalcy but finds himself staring off into the surf….

And O’Connell? The New York City Firefighter. How much death has Chris had to deal with? How many funerals has he attended over the past few years? I know this one is different for Chris. I called Chris to let him know, figuring if calling me was that difficult for Murph I could call O’Connell.

We got home from the library and Kira, my wife, met me at the front door, “You should listen to the messages, Jack Doyle called, it sounds serious.”
“I know. Sad news, Big Al passed away.”
We hugged for a minute and she asked, “How are you doing?” I wanted to tell her I was fine.
“Not good. I’m having a tough time with this one...... This is a hard one to get a grip on. I need to go for a walk.”
“You better take a water bottle. And Be Careful!” I could see the fear in her eyes, Kira was saying, it’s hot, we don’t need another tragedy on our hands.

I grabbed a bottle of water and walked. I thought of Al; of all of us at college. I smiled. I laughed. I talked to myself. As I passed fellow walkers on the Middlebury Greenway, I realized I was talking out loud. I was aware that people were probably thinking I was weird, I didn’t care. The overwhelming refrain during my walk was, What the ----? I kept thinking of Al, of one of my friends, my peers dying. “What the ----?”

He was a funny guy. Al always made you feel like you were special; like you and he were in on an inside joke but not in a mean way. I pictured us at an off-campus party, he and I against the wall, beers in hand, and Al whispering something goofy in my ear and the two of us laughing. I thought of how this one, this death, was different. Most of the time it’s older people who die. Something as shocking as 9/11 was an anomaly. That’s how we digested it. But college buddies, guys we played intramural football with weren’t supposed to have heart attacks.

I knew that my response was cliché, I thought of: When was the last time I saw him? Has it been that long?I just played golf with him last year…a foursome of me, Murph, O’Connell and Al played a golf course in Dutchess County, NY. We had a riot, busting on each other, not missing a beat, as if we were in college 6 months ago and not 25 years. How glad am I that we made that effort, now!

I always called Al on the last day of school. Al had a job that enabled him to take a weekday off; he managed the pro shop at a local golf course. This was part of our schtick. As a teacher, I always called Al to “announce” the beginning of summer. I am so glad that I did that because that was the last time Al and I spoke.
“Ring the bell Duarte, school’s out!”
“Hey SpinnER!”
The ER, always sounded funny, most of my life was spent in Brooklyn and the Spinner was usually, Spinnah. Al grew up in Westchester County where they pronounce their r’s.

I thought again of Jack Doyle, in Nantucket. I knew part of Jack’s Big Al movie: him and Al living together in college, years of playing baseball for the Panas baseball team, Al saying, “I didn’t rub. I didn’t rub.” This was supposed to be a sign of toughness if you got drilled by the pitcher but didn’t rub the spot and just trotted quickly down to first base.

I thought of other Al memories. Memories that I knew I wanted to write down so that I wouldn’t forget them. Memories that I was storing up so I had some stories for the upcoming wake. A wake? For one of our buddies? What the…?

Al Stories:

On NFL draft day Al would set himself up in his favorite chair (You had to see the furniture in our off-campus house, years, if not decades of food stains) with a two liter Pepsi by his side, a bag of chips and the house phone at his feet. He placed the phone there because he was acting as if the New York Jets might actually be calling. He acted all earnest which made it legitimately funny. Over the years, every year on draft day I would call Al. I would inform him that he was chosen in the 6th round. Al would play along. He’d hold the receiver away and act like he was yelling to his family, “I got drafted by the Jets!”

My senior year, living on 75 Lebrun Road in Buffalo, the five of us in the house would rush home to watch reruns of “Leave it to Beaver.” Those were some of the funniest times. Usually those were the things Al would say to me at a party, “I might be a rat Wally but I’m a rat with 9 dollars.” That’s all Al would have to say and I would burst out laughing.

Al was quietly clever. Early, super-senior year, my girlfriend was coming to visit. Al was great with girlfriends. Every girl I ever dated that met Al, loved him. I am sure Jack, Murph, Weizner and O’Connell would say the same. He had that big Teddy Bear thing going. So, Susan O’Neill is coming to Buffalo for a weekend visit. She was a senior at The University of Michigan while we were at SUNY Buffalo. So after a month and a half of phone calls, O’Neill was on her way. At that point she knew the guys in the house from chatting with them on the phone, particularly Al. Friday night, she says hello to the guys, drops her bags in my room and we go out to dinner. After dinner we go back to Lebrun Road to get ready to go out. Sue and I walk in and we’re hanging out in the living room enjoying some Bud cans before we head to PJ Bottoms on Main Street in Buffalo. O’Neill goes up to my room to “freshen up.”

On the walk to the bar, Al, Jack, Murph and O’Connell are ahead of us. And O’Neill is noticeably quiet. I keep asking if she’s okay. Eventually she stops in the middle of the sidewalk and tearfully tells me, “I want to go home.”
“What?”
“Take me home. I want to go home. I want to go back to Michigan.”
At this point she’s on the verge of tears and I am trying to put out the fire.
“What? What did I do? Do you not feel comfortable? Is it the guys?”
“Who is Lisa?”
“I don’t know any Lisa, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t lie! I read the letter from Lisa. Who is she?”
“There’s no Lisa I swear.”
“I read the letter!”

At that point my housemates come back to diffuse the situation. Al tells Sue that it was a fake letter. They wrote it. They placed it “just so” so she would find it. There’s no Lisa. You had to see the relief on O’Neill’s face and mine as well I am sure. Then we went back to get the letter. Was it a riot. All about what a great lover I was. Which should have been O’Neill’s clue that it was fake. That was Al, he was the mastermind behind the whole thing. I can picture him snickering as he and the guys crafted the letter. It was so over the top, Luscious Lisa, he figured Sue would know it was fake.

As I walk I’m Picturing Al, always a big guy but great hands and very athletic. Competitive but not psychotic about it. Avid sports fan, knows so much about a ton of teams but particularly the Yankees, Jets and Notre Dame football.

My task here is to capture the essence of a friend. And maybe to remind all of us to appreciate our friends while they are around. Because, you never know. Of course it's a textbook case of “you had to be there.” The truth is if you never met Al Duarte, I can’t help you. I can give you a ton of background information, use all of the sensory detail I can think of. I can set the scene with some timely references to pop culture like “Take on Me” videos on MTV. I know I am doomed to fail. The real Al Duarte was an inside joke. An easy to talk to, Teddy Bear of a guy, who made all of his friends feel special.

Now we are all left to contemplate Al. And to confront our own mortality. To live life without Al. It’s funny now that he’s gone, we’re all thinking of him more often. All of my college buddies, independently, have said exactly the same thing, “You know, I couldn’t tell you how often I thought of Al over the past few years but it seems like every day now I see something that reminds me of him.” I know, the things that prompt these memories: songs on the radio, an obscure sports fact, a Leave it to Beaver clip, a quick quip to a colleague that makes you smile. “I didn’t rub.”

I know Al would get a kick out of that.