Sports and competition were big parts of what I shared from early childhood with my Uncle Lou Wallach, who died not long ago. But we never actually competed,except for just this one time....
Softball is what we had most in common. I loved that he lead the Wallach Wonders, the team that represented our side of the road in intramural softball games at Lansmans Bungalow Colony. As a boy I rooted for that team with all my heart. And it got even better when, as a teenager, I played in the same outfield with my uncle on the Lansmans Mens Softball team that competed against other colonies. I was 14 in short center and he was 45 in right field. Despite his seemingly advanced years he helped us win the championship that season.
But we never played against each other in softball. Nor did we in basketball, his number 1 sport as a kid. In fact I never even saw him on a basketball court. And it wasn't in gin rummy, his favorite card game, nor in handicapping horses at the track which he had a passion for. No, we did not compete in any of the areas that he loved.
We vied in paddleball, a sport that he'd never previously played.
No one at Lansmans, in fact, played paddleball, at least not when my family and I first arrived there. Handball was the big sport (besides softball) and it was played by barrel chested men who wore gloves to soften the sting of the hard black ball that they used. Maybe that's why I never got into it...too painful. So I was glad when paddleball slowly began to take over. And I was delighted when a group of players organized the first Lansmans Mens Paddleball Tournament.
Though I was a good player, the organizers did not rate me as one of the top, or "A", players. Probably because I was only 15. So they ranked me a "B" and paired me with another, pretty solid, B level player. Marv Grohmen, one of the men at the Colony that I admired, because Marv had played professional baseball! He'd been a high level minor leaguer, performing for the Atlanta Crackers, a Triple A team that still exists today. On the Lansmans softball field, Marv hit the ball a long way but didn't like to run.
And that's the way he played paddleball. He could wack the ball but didn't care to cover too much of the court. That was fine with me. I loved to scamper all over and get to balls that Marv didn't care very much to chase. We easily rolled through our first 2 opponents that way and made it to the semi finals.
In the semis we faced Shelly Moskowitz who was probably the best player. Shelly was not just good...he liked to psyche people out, playing all sorts of mind games. And he dearly loved to beat me. In fact, a few summers later, Shelly won a hard fought game against me though he complained near the end of not feeling well. Later he was taken to the hospital...he'd suffered a mild heart attack. A few days afterwards I got a message from him: "I can even beat you when I'm having a heart attack!" Happily, he was well on the way to recovery.
But in the tournament, Shelly was paired with a "C," a very weak, partner. So, as much as we could, Marv and I hit the ball to the poorer player. By the end Shelly threw down his paddle in disgust. We'd won easily...
...And advanced to the finals where we faced another strong player, Normie Shlesinger. Normie hit the ball harder than anyone and he announced to the entire colony that "there is no way that Mikey can beat me." In fact I didn't intend to even try. Our strategy, of course, was to beat Normie's weaker partner.
And that, in case you haven't guessed it, was Uncle Lou! Though a great athlete, Uncle Lou never played paddleball or any other, similar, racquet sport. He was a weak paddleballer and had thus been teamed with the powerful Norm. And so this was my one big competition with my Uncle!
The game went just as Marv and I hoped. We built a solid lead by playing the ball to Uncle Lou. He did very well, all things considered, but we were just relentless and that kept Normie from being much of a factor. Sometimes as a result, perhaps out of frustration, he overextended himself and that gave us even more advantages.
Finally it was championship point. I hit a shot to Uncle Lou and he swung a mighty, slightly uppercut swing. This swing had propelled many long home runs in softball and here he caught the ball solidly as well. It flew off his paddle towards the wall but up and up, rising about the wall and smacking into the screen above it. It was over and we were champs.
Norm and Uncle Lou congratulated us and walked off the court. Norm was shaking his head and kind of muttering to himself. Not Uncle Lou. He smiled at me, turned to the crowd and announced in a very clear voice: "Okay, next activity, gin rummy game in 15 minutes, in front of my bungalow!"
And that is the way he handled it, that one time I beat Uncle Lou!
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Friday, November 18, 2011
WALLACH WONDERS
A road runs through Lansmans Bungalow Colony, the Catskill resort where I spent almost all my childhood summers. One side of the road contained (and still does)the casino with its pinball machines and restaurant, the paddleball, basketball and tennis courts, the swimming pool, day camp grounds and parking lot. The other side, my side, was much better.
We had the softball field!
It was on that field, on so many glorious Sunday mornings, that the fabled Mens Softball Team, often with me leading off, won championship after championship. It is not about that team or that day that I write.
I want to tell you about Saturdays.
That's when everyone got together for a colony softball game. We kept no records and no standings but everyone loved those games. Most of the men came out and wanted to play. Much of the rest of the colony came to watch and cheer. Every Saturday. Everyone loved that game.
But no one loved it as much as me.
I couldn't wait for Saturday. Even when I was too young to play. I would chase fly balls in the outfield during batting practice and then settle down to watch the game. Sometimes I'd keep score. Always I'd cheer for our team.
And our team consisted of the guys from our side (the good side) of the road. And the captain of our team, the person who got to decide who played and where, was my uncle Lou Wallach! What an honor! And how proud that made me feel!
And that's not all. Not only did he get to make all those vital decision...the team was actually named after him!! The Wallach Wonders! What a great name! Who could possible beat a wonderful team made up of Wonders! Why, it would take a miracle to beat a team like ours!
Unfortunately, that's what we faced: The Muriello Miracles represented the other (not as good) side of the road. It's captain was Johnny Muriello, an elegant, somewhat overweight man, very sweet but not very athletic (unlike his son Tony who was the fastest, best athlete I'd ever seen up to that time...but that's another story). The thing about Johnny is he tended to move v...e...r...y s...l...o...w...l...y in all that he did. And he was the pitcher for The Muriello Miracles. As you might imagine if you are a knowledgable softball/baseball person (and would I be friends with any other type of person?), Johnny's pitches were very, very, well, you know, slow.
How could The Muriello Miracles ever possibly beat The Wallach Wonders? My Uncle Lou was a TREMENDOUS athlete. A really good point guard in his youth (sadly I never saw him play basketball), he was a lefty throwing, lefty swinging powerhitter. I remember one summer when he unveiled a new swing: He'd begin his backswing by dramatically lifting his right leg into the air as the pitch was released and violently bringing it down as he started to move forward into the ball. Truthfully (and I've never said this in all these years) I don't think this helped his hitting. But Uncle Lou loved it! He told me many times that this was how Mel Ott, the great NY Giant, had hit.
Wow! No way a team lead by a slow moving, slow throwing pitcher, now matter how Miraculous, could possibly beat a team lead by a slugger who hit like Mel Ott!
And here's kind of the funny thing. I have NO memory of how any of those games turned out. Probably The Muriello Miracles won some games. Of course I plan on always thinking that we won the majority. But it really doesn't matter. Because what I do remember is how much I loved that The Wallach Wonders was named after my uncle Lou.
He was a really good hitter and outfielder. And uncle.
We had the softball field!
It was on that field, on so many glorious Sunday mornings, that the fabled Mens Softball Team, often with me leading off, won championship after championship. It is not about that team or that day that I write.
I want to tell you about Saturdays.
That's when everyone got together for a colony softball game. We kept no records and no standings but everyone loved those games. Most of the men came out and wanted to play. Much of the rest of the colony came to watch and cheer. Every Saturday. Everyone loved that game.
But no one loved it as much as me.
I couldn't wait for Saturday. Even when I was too young to play. I would chase fly balls in the outfield during batting practice and then settle down to watch the game. Sometimes I'd keep score. Always I'd cheer for our team.
And our team consisted of the guys from our side (the good side) of the road. And the captain of our team, the person who got to decide who played and where, was my uncle Lou Wallach! What an honor! And how proud that made me feel!
And that's not all. Not only did he get to make all those vital decision...the team was actually named after him!! The Wallach Wonders! What a great name! Who could possible beat a wonderful team made up of Wonders! Why, it would take a miracle to beat a team like ours!
Unfortunately, that's what we faced: The Muriello Miracles represented the other (not as good) side of the road. It's captain was Johnny Muriello, an elegant, somewhat overweight man, very sweet but not very athletic (unlike his son Tony who was the fastest, best athlete I'd ever seen up to that time...but that's another story). The thing about Johnny is he tended to move v...e...r...y s...l...o...w...l...y in all that he did. And he was the pitcher for The Muriello Miracles. As you might imagine if you are a knowledgable softball/baseball person (and would I be friends with any other type of person?), Johnny's pitches were very, very, well, you know, slow.
How could The Muriello Miracles ever possibly beat The Wallach Wonders? My Uncle Lou was a TREMENDOUS athlete. A really good point guard in his youth (sadly I never saw him play basketball), he was a lefty throwing, lefty swinging powerhitter. I remember one summer when he unveiled a new swing: He'd begin his backswing by dramatically lifting his right leg into the air as the pitch was released and violently bringing it down as he started to move forward into the ball. Truthfully (and I've never said this in all these years) I don't think this helped his hitting. But Uncle Lou loved it! He told me many times that this was how Mel Ott, the great NY Giant, had hit.
Wow! No way a team lead by a slow moving, slow throwing pitcher, now matter how Miraculous, could possibly beat a team lead by a slugger who hit like Mel Ott!
And here's kind of the funny thing. I have NO memory of how any of those games turned out. Probably The Muriello Miracles won some games. Of course I plan on always thinking that we won the majority. But it really doesn't matter. Because what I do remember is how much I loved that The Wallach Wonders was named after my uncle Lou.
He was a really good hitter and outfielder. And uncle.
Monday, November 14, 2011
AN AFTERNOON SPENT OCCUPYING WALL STREET
Walking down Broadway I almost missed it. I was on Broadway's east side and the occupied area ended just short of Broadway's west side. Had the colorfulness of Zuccotti Park not caught my eye I'd have gone right by it.
So here is the first thing: The area of Occupy Wall Street is pretty small.
And here is the second thing: As is almost always the case, my right wing friends are wrong. No way the Occupation and its related traffic are hurting nearby businesses. The Park is isolated and doesn't border on any stores. In fact, on the sidewalks closest there are a whole bunch of food carts, T Shirt vendors, button dealers and such folk.
Small business is thriving!
The perimeter of the Park is crowded with people passing out leaflets carrying signs and talking up a whole variety of causes. The inside is practically busting over with tents of various sizes, almost all tightly packed upon one another. There are some walk ways in between, but so little room that I feared I'd step on someone's tent or, worse, someone lounging inside. The outer and inner areas are separated by metal barriers that you often see at parades. It helped give the tent area a very segregated, almost imprisoned look. But people moved easily between the areas.
Feeling like the inner part was more "hard core" and that it would be intrusive for me to be there, I walked around the perimeter. I saw 1 sign supporting Obama, several against fracking, a sign about owning a railroad so it could be changed...apparently a quote from Teddy Roosevelt...and another next to it about taking over a bank. There was a huge placard extolling getting along with the community and containing a list of rules to minimize problems. It had the number of "community relations" people to call about any difficulties...I wondered if these problem solvers were the occupiers themselves, the police or city officials.
There were lots of cops, all in the outer area and practically all standing around casually with nothing to do. One cop told a group of people who'd gathered to closely examine a sign to move on as they were blocking the sidewalk. A young man came up on a cop who was walking along and began giving him a shoulder massage. Reminded me of the time that President Bush did that to the President of Germany. She didn't like it at all and I remember her shoulders really tensing. The cop, however, handled it better. He just kept walking.
A young man came up to me and asked if we knew each other. He didn't look familiar so I said no and introduced myself. "Now we know each other," he noted and began walking with me. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Looking for a bathroom," I honestly answered. He gave me directions that made absolutely no sense. I thanked him and went off, grateful to be away. He seemed a little odd and I'd expected him to ask for money. I found a restaurant 2 blocks away that immediately let me use the facilities...didn't seem like a lot of bathroom use tension.
Relieved now and summoning up a bit of courage I walked inside the Park. There was a medical tent filled with stuff and also with a great big dog laying on the floor. The library felt a bit more friendly and I walked thru it...books and magazines tightly packed. Seemed odd to be in a library that was so dark. Hard to imagine life without electric lights! In the middle of the Park...the big communal kitchen. I saw 4 women inside hard at work. A sign outside said "if you steal from the people's kitchen, you're stealing from the people. Don't do it."
A young man asked me if he could ask me a question. When I agreed he asked if I could name the state that ends with a "k." Can you? "Alaska is close," I said, feeling clever. He laughed and looked impressed, before replying "as is Nebraska and North and South Dakota." Smart ass! No wonder the 1% hates him! "It's not a trick question," he emphasized, so I thought about it some more before it hit me:
New York!
"I ask people," he said "so people will understand it's important to look at things differently." O.K. We can miss the obvious. Cute. "And what about you," I asked. "How do you look at things differently?" Well, it seems he's from Arizona and came here last week to talk about this project he's gotten involved with...and then his friend came along and whisked him off. Oh, well. I walked to the west end of the Park and the drummers.
THIS was intense. Five or six drummers pounding away. A saxaphone player. A really focused looking woman dancing to the beat. Non stop. Fierce. Loud. Many people on the street, most with their phones out, shooting the scene, recording it. Louder and louder, I sat down to listen. There is a pizza place across the street. Two stories of apartments about it. I wondered what it was like to live there. Not good. I went over to a shrine like table filled with chachkas. Then I was back out on the perimeter.
That's where I came upon the bikes! At first I thought it was the Occupation work out place. But no, it's where stationary bikers generate electricity for the community. Two bikers were active and the guy I spoke to looked in great shape. "I'm really a runner," he bragged. An older gentlement next to me said, "well, you certainly look like a runner." I waited to see if either would comment on the kind of athlete I looked like. Nope. Instead we discussed reforming capitalism v overthrowing it. We agreed that reform was really the way to go.
Down the street I walked and came upon a sign woman. She wore 3 layers of signs, each filled with very small writing. I put my glasses on and read. Seems I was having difficulty concentrating. Can't remember a word of it. But she is an anthropology grad student just back from a year in Fiji and on her way to the big anthropology conference beginning tomorrow in Montreal. She's from Georgia and finds New York to be overwhelmingly big and noisy. But she felt she had to be to the Occupation and, now that she has, thinks New York is pretty neat. She took out a bag of vegetable and offered me some. We both ate a raddish and commented on its surprising spiciness. She spoke about the families she met in Fiji and how, over time, they got beyond seeing her as a stereotypical american. This reminded me of my time in Kentucky and getting beyond my "hillbilly" stereotypes and theirs of Jews and New Yorkers.
She said that the diversity, the many different things that mattered to the people there was what had most impressed her. But then we spoke of a diverse person of a different sort...a guy who'd approached her to discuss his big issue...sniffing the butts of women. His ultimate goal was for people to be having sex in public. We agreed that his approach was unlikely to succeed. More importantly this represents the kind of crazies that can be attracted there. Since I'm working in therapy with an occupier who was sexually abused there, no doubt this is something bad.
I got to the corner ready to head for the subway when I heard singing...This Land Is Your Land, one of my favorites, so I stopped to listen. A group of elderly gentlemen, old lefties in song. Really wonderful. They tried to get me to join them for their followup, even giving me a copy of the words. The Occupy Wall Street Song. It concludes: In parks and squares across the land
People are rising hand in hand
So join the movement, take a stand!
Occupy for change
I helped out by not joining in. It was a really nice way to end.
So here is the first thing: The area of Occupy Wall Street is pretty small.
And here is the second thing: As is almost always the case, my right wing friends are wrong. No way the Occupation and its related traffic are hurting nearby businesses. The Park is isolated and doesn't border on any stores. In fact, on the sidewalks closest there are a whole bunch of food carts, T Shirt vendors, button dealers and such folk.
Small business is thriving!
The perimeter of the Park is crowded with people passing out leaflets carrying signs and talking up a whole variety of causes. The inside is practically busting over with tents of various sizes, almost all tightly packed upon one another. There are some walk ways in between, but so little room that I feared I'd step on someone's tent or, worse, someone lounging inside. The outer and inner areas are separated by metal barriers that you often see at parades. It helped give the tent area a very segregated, almost imprisoned look. But people moved easily between the areas.
Feeling like the inner part was more "hard core" and that it would be intrusive for me to be there, I walked around the perimeter. I saw 1 sign supporting Obama, several against fracking, a sign about owning a railroad so it could be changed...apparently a quote from Teddy Roosevelt...and another next to it about taking over a bank. There was a huge placard extolling getting along with the community and containing a list of rules to minimize problems. It had the number of "community relations" people to call about any difficulties...I wondered if these problem solvers were the occupiers themselves, the police or city officials.
There were lots of cops, all in the outer area and practically all standing around casually with nothing to do. One cop told a group of people who'd gathered to closely examine a sign to move on as they were blocking the sidewalk. A young man came up on a cop who was walking along and began giving him a shoulder massage. Reminded me of the time that President Bush did that to the President of Germany. She didn't like it at all and I remember her shoulders really tensing. The cop, however, handled it better. He just kept walking.
A young man came up to me and asked if we knew each other. He didn't look familiar so I said no and introduced myself. "Now we know each other," he noted and began walking with me. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Looking for a bathroom," I honestly answered. He gave me directions that made absolutely no sense. I thanked him and went off, grateful to be away. He seemed a little odd and I'd expected him to ask for money. I found a restaurant 2 blocks away that immediately let me use the facilities...didn't seem like a lot of bathroom use tension.
Relieved now and summoning up a bit of courage I walked inside the Park. There was a medical tent filled with stuff and also with a great big dog laying on the floor. The library felt a bit more friendly and I walked thru it...books and magazines tightly packed. Seemed odd to be in a library that was so dark. Hard to imagine life without electric lights! In the middle of the Park...the big communal kitchen. I saw 4 women inside hard at work. A sign outside said "if you steal from the people's kitchen, you're stealing from the people. Don't do it."
A young man asked me if he could ask me a question. When I agreed he asked if I could name the state that ends with a "k." Can you? "Alaska is close," I said, feeling clever. He laughed and looked impressed, before replying "as is Nebraska and North and South Dakota." Smart ass! No wonder the 1% hates him! "It's not a trick question," he emphasized, so I thought about it some more before it hit me:
New York!
"I ask people," he said "so people will understand it's important to look at things differently." O.K. We can miss the obvious. Cute. "And what about you," I asked. "How do you look at things differently?" Well, it seems he's from Arizona and came here last week to talk about this project he's gotten involved with...and then his friend came along and whisked him off. Oh, well. I walked to the west end of the Park and the drummers.
THIS was intense. Five or six drummers pounding away. A saxaphone player. A really focused looking woman dancing to the beat. Non stop. Fierce. Loud. Many people on the street, most with their phones out, shooting the scene, recording it. Louder and louder, I sat down to listen. There is a pizza place across the street. Two stories of apartments about it. I wondered what it was like to live there. Not good. I went over to a shrine like table filled with chachkas. Then I was back out on the perimeter.
That's where I came upon the bikes! At first I thought it was the Occupation work out place. But no, it's where stationary bikers generate electricity for the community. Two bikers were active and the guy I spoke to looked in great shape. "I'm really a runner," he bragged. An older gentlement next to me said, "well, you certainly look like a runner." I waited to see if either would comment on the kind of athlete I looked like. Nope. Instead we discussed reforming capitalism v overthrowing it. We agreed that reform was really the way to go.
Down the street I walked and came upon a sign woman. She wore 3 layers of signs, each filled with very small writing. I put my glasses on and read. Seems I was having difficulty concentrating. Can't remember a word of it. But she is an anthropology grad student just back from a year in Fiji and on her way to the big anthropology conference beginning tomorrow in Montreal. She's from Georgia and finds New York to be overwhelmingly big and noisy. But she felt she had to be to the Occupation and, now that she has, thinks New York is pretty neat. She took out a bag of vegetable and offered me some. We both ate a raddish and commented on its surprising spiciness. She spoke about the families she met in Fiji and how, over time, they got beyond seeing her as a stereotypical american. This reminded me of my time in Kentucky and getting beyond my "hillbilly" stereotypes and theirs of Jews and New Yorkers.
She said that the diversity, the many different things that mattered to the people there was what had most impressed her. But then we spoke of a diverse person of a different sort...a guy who'd approached her to discuss his big issue...sniffing the butts of women. His ultimate goal was for people to be having sex in public. We agreed that his approach was unlikely to succeed. More importantly this represents the kind of crazies that can be attracted there. Since I'm working in therapy with an occupier who was sexually abused there, no doubt this is something bad.
I got to the corner ready to head for the subway when I heard singing...This Land Is Your Land, one of my favorites, so I stopped to listen. A group of elderly gentlemen, old lefties in song. Really wonderful. They tried to get me to join them for their followup, even giving me a copy of the words. The Occupy Wall Street Song. It concludes: In parks and squares across the land
People are rising hand in hand
So join the movement, take a stand!
Occupy for change
I helped out by not joining in. It was a really nice way to end.
Saturday, October 8, 2011
HOW I HURT MY FATHER'S FEELINGS
When I was a boy, I LOVED the Brooklyn Dodgers. I loved everything about them, like Ebbets Field, their little ball park, that they were the first major league team in the 20th Century to have a black player, that Pee Wee Reese was their captain and Duke Snider hit home runs onto Flatbush Avenue, that they had a pitcher (though not a very good one) that had a last name similar to mine, that Campy was their catcher...I just loved them and all their players.
And it certainly helped that 1955 is the first year that I can remember and that was the year that they won their first World Series.
For all that, though, I'm still not sure what caused me to casually comment to my dad that I'd really like to have Don Newcombe as my father.
Now I assume that I said that in 1956 when Newcombe was having an incredibly good year, but before the 7th game of that season's World Series when he pitched incredibly badly. I pretended to have a stomach ache so I could skip school and watch THAT??? Oh, well. Different story. But my point is, though I said I wanted it I'm not sure why I wished to be Newcombe's son.
Surely I hadn't thought through what it would mean to be multiracial or, for that matter, have to move from the Lower East Side which I loved to the Newcombe home in New Jersey. Nor was I thinking of the genetic value of having a 6' 6" father and what that would mean towards increasing my rather limited height and power hitting ability.
I do recall, though, seeing the Newcombe family once on TV and noticing that they had a ping pong table in their rec room. Now THAT made an impression on me, but I'm not sure if that's why I wanted him as my dad. Really, I can't think of why that struck me as such a good idea.
Of course, what also didn't strike me was how my father might feel about my statement. Actually I still don't know. He didn't react very strongly, as I recall, and seemed mildly amused and curious. And the issue never came up again as I don't think I really wanted to be Don Newcombe's son, and, of course, certainly not after that Game 7 disaster.
But what my father did feel strongly about was the St. Looie Cardinals. He loved them and he especially loved Stan Musial and, throughout his life, never tired of reciting Musial's great statistics, like how many triples he had in 1952 which, sadly, I can't recall. I thought my father was very odd about this. I could never understand a New Yorker not rooting for, indeed, loving, a New York team. Why did he love the Cardinals? I have no idea.
Still, it didn't matter that much because the Cardinals were not a big rival to the Dodgers during the years I cared about them. The Dodgers moved to Los Angeles in 1958 but it didn't really upset me. I continued rooting for them till they gave away the pennant to the Giants at the end of the 1962 season. I was crushed and my love for them was somehow fractured. Worse, there was now a new team in New York to pick up my affection...the NY Mets. I didn't want to become a Mets fan because they'd just lost 120 games in their first season. I knew the suffering that this would lead to. But, as you know, love is inexplicable.
The Cardinals had not been doing particularly well over these years and Musial had come to the end of his career. My father was losing or had lost interest in the team and told me that he'd become a Mets fan. He did it, I'm sure, mostly to support me, as, in addition to having to deal with becoming a teenager I also had to cope (and I didn't do it well) with 100+ loss seasons. But at least I didn't want to be related to any of the Mets players and my dad probably appreciated that.
Then the Mets got Duke Snider from the Dodgers. What a joy it was having the Duke of Flatbush back. I remember the newspapers talking about a great catch he made in his first Mets game, how much he was already helping the team, though they didn't mention that, despite this terrific help, the team lost that contest, 10 - 0, and promptly went on an 8 game losing streak.
And then the Cardinals came to town. And took a 2 run lead into the 9th. I remember my father and I watching that game in my parents' bedroom. Strongly had the feel of yet another Mets' loss. Until they got 2 runners on and The Duke was sent up to pinch hit. The Cardinal manager brought in a lefty. This late in his career, Snider rarely hit against lefties. I got up close to the screen and yelled encouragement. My usually talkative father was strangely quiet sitting behind me. Snider smashed a 3 run home run to win the game and I began screaming and hopping around. I turned to my father just in time to see him get up and leave the room...without a word! Now that was certainly unusual for him!
Turns out my father had not stopped being a Cardinals fan as much as he'd thought. And he was not delighted by my joyful celebration of that rare and dramatic Mets triumph over his team. Nor did he want to take away from my fun. And, of course, he'd never have been watching that game had it not been for me.
No doubt he was upset by it all. And that's how I hurt my father's feelings. I thought of all this today because, if he was watching Chris Carpenter's performance with me last night, he'd certainly be happy and not overly concerned about that 1963 upset.
And it certainly helped that 1955 is the first year that I can remember and that was the year that they won their first World Series.
For all that, though, I'm still not sure what caused me to casually comment to my dad that I'd really like to have Don Newcombe as my father.
Now I assume that I said that in 1956 when Newcombe was having an incredibly good year, but before the 7th game of that season's World Series when he pitched incredibly badly. I pretended to have a stomach ache so I could skip school and watch THAT??? Oh, well. Different story. But my point is, though I said I wanted it I'm not sure why I wished to be Newcombe's son.
Surely I hadn't thought through what it would mean to be multiracial or, for that matter, have to move from the Lower East Side which I loved to the Newcombe home in New Jersey. Nor was I thinking of the genetic value of having a 6' 6" father and what that would mean towards increasing my rather limited height and power hitting ability.
I do recall, though, seeing the Newcombe family once on TV and noticing that they had a ping pong table in their rec room. Now THAT made an impression on me, but I'm not sure if that's why I wanted him as my dad. Really, I can't think of why that struck me as such a good idea.
Of course, what also didn't strike me was how my father might feel about my statement. Actually I still don't know. He didn't react very strongly, as I recall, and seemed mildly amused and curious. And the issue never came up again as I don't think I really wanted to be Don Newcombe's son, and, of course, certainly not after that Game 7 disaster.
But what my father did feel strongly about was the St. Looie Cardinals. He loved them and he especially loved Stan Musial and, throughout his life, never tired of reciting Musial's great statistics, like how many triples he had in 1952 which, sadly, I can't recall. I thought my father was very odd about this. I could never understand a New Yorker not rooting for, indeed, loving, a New York team. Why did he love the Cardinals? I have no idea.
Still, it didn't matter that much because the Cardinals were not a big rival to the Dodgers during the years I cared about them. The Dodgers moved to Los Angeles in 1958 but it didn't really upset me. I continued rooting for them till they gave away the pennant to the Giants at the end of the 1962 season. I was crushed and my love for them was somehow fractured. Worse, there was now a new team in New York to pick up my affection...the NY Mets. I didn't want to become a Mets fan because they'd just lost 120 games in their first season. I knew the suffering that this would lead to. But, as you know, love is inexplicable.
The Cardinals had not been doing particularly well over these years and Musial had come to the end of his career. My father was losing or had lost interest in the team and told me that he'd become a Mets fan. He did it, I'm sure, mostly to support me, as, in addition to having to deal with becoming a teenager I also had to cope (and I didn't do it well) with 100+ loss seasons. But at least I didn't want to be related to any of the Mets players and my dad probably appreciated that.
Then the Mets got Duke Snider from the Dodgers. What a joy it was having the Duke of Flatbush back. I remember the newspapers talking about a great catch he made in his first Mets game, how much he was already helping the team, though they didn't mention that, despite this terrific help, the team lost that contest, 10 - 0, and promptly went on an 8 game losing streak.
And then the Cardinals came to town. And took a 2 run lead into the 9th. I remember my father and I watching that game in my parents' bedroom. Strongly had the feel of yet another Mets' loss. Until they got 2 runners on and The Duke was sent up to pinch hit. The Cardinal manager brought in a lefty. This late in his career, Snider rarely hit against lefties. I got up close to the screen and yelled encouragement. My usually talkative father was strangely quiet sitting behind me. Snider smashed a 3 run home run to win the game and I began screaming and hopping around. I turned to my father just in time to see him get up and leave the room...without a word! Now that was certainly unusual for him!
Turns out my father had not stopped being a Cardinals fan as much as he'd thought. And he was not delighted by my joyful celebration of that rare and dramatic Mets triumph over his team. Nor did he want to take away from my fun. And, of course, he'd never have been watching that game had it not been for me.
No doubt he was upset by it all. And that's how I hurt my father's feelings. I thought of all this today because, if he was watching Chris Carpenter's performance with me last night, he'd certainly be happy and not overly concerned about that 1963 upset.
Sunday, September 25, 2011
THE MILE RACE
I have a love/hate relationship with the Mile. I've done well the few times I've raced it, but never without pain. So much pain that, after little more than a quarter mile I've wanted to slow down significantly and make it go away. But I can't. I've run so well so far and there isn't that much farther to go. That's how the mile sucks you in. The end is always so near. I can do it I tell myself. And I can't slow now, not in such a short race, there's no margin for error and it'll ruin everything. And not in front of all these people who line the street for the entire length of the race. The hard core, New York Race Community, all screaming madly. That would be too embarassing. So I speed on despite how much it continues to hurt.
And so, as I lined up yesterday, I felt scared. I knew what the blocks from 8oth Street to 60th held in store.
The Fifth Avenue Mile is the shortest of the New York Roadrunner races and the only 1 run in seperate heats based on age groups. I was with the 60 to 69 year old men and women, a group totaling, probably, less than 150. There were surely more spectators waiting to cheer us on.
I tend to do better as the race distances shorten. As this was also a team race I especially wanted to do well, so I pushed up to as close to the starting line as possible. I got to the fourth row and looked for someone a bit faster than me to pace off of. As I had absolutely no idea who that could be, I stood there wondering how I could start off fast enough for a really good time but not so fast that I'd be in the pain that I feared.
No way to do that, of course.
The starter announced 1 minute till the gun. I edged into the third row. The gun went off. I jumped around 2 slower people and I was running. Locked on to someone ahead of me and went by him. Went by a few more feeling very strong. Just passed 75th Street, on the left, was the quarter mile clock. It was under 80 seconds as I approached...exciting! I hit it at 83, my fastest quarter in years.
But that first quarter mile is tricky. It's all downhill. Gives a misleadingly quick time. The second quarter has 3 blocks of an extremely tough hill. I passed 1 or 2 runners as I crested it. The half mile mark was just ahead and I crossed it at 3 minutes flat. A great time for me, giving me an excellent chance to beat last year's 6:12. But it also meant I'd need to be a tiny bit quicker to break the 6 minute mark.
And I felt awful. Exhausted and hurting. Wanting to slow but facing the conflict I knew I would. How could I throw away a 3 minute half mile when all I had to do was keep it up for a measly 3 more minutes?
The third quarter is gently downhill. I started counting the blocks. 69th, 68th, 67th, ok, I was more than half way done with it. No one had passed me. But I did let myself slow, almost unconsciously, for a bit. When I realized I'd done so (or maybe when the pain let up for a bit) I pushed the pace again. Not enough, though, as I hit 93...
...No chance now for a sub 6 minutes because the final quarter was flat. This depressed me for an instant; it seemed terribly unfair that I should be in this much pain and face a flat course. Now I was counting portions of blocks. Halfway to 64th Street, ok, now I've got it, half way to 63rd...when I heard a roar from the crowd. I was afraid I knew what it meant. A runner was coming up on me. He was kicking it home and the crowd was caught up in the competition. Sadly, however, I wasn't. I had no kick to answer back. I had all I could do to maintain pace. He went by me. But, happily, so did 63rd and 62nd Streets. 100 meters to go! Then that damn roar again. Someone else kicking by me. 61st Street. It's almost over. He goes passed and beats me by 1 second and I don't care. Someone else trying. This is too much. Maybe I do care. Maybe I can kick for 10 meters. I can. I cross 1 second before he does. It's over!
My official time is 6:07 which is really good. I'm 5 seconds better than last year, almost all of it because of my very fast first quarter. The extremely high humidity of 87% was likely a factor in slowing over the rest of the race. In better conditions I might have indeed bested 6 minutes.
But I did best all 3 of my Greater New York Racing Team teammates. I knew I'd beat 1 of them but the other 2 have generally raced faster than me. But not this time. I usually do better in the shorter races.
And so, as I lined up yesterday, I felt scared. I knew what the blocks from 8oth Street to 60th held in store.
The Fifth Avenue Mile is the shortest of the New York Roadrunner races and the only 1 run in seperate heats based on age groups. I was with the 60 to 69 year old men and women, a group totaling, probably, less than 150. There were surely more spectators waiting to cheer us on.
I tend to do better as the race distances shorten. As this was also a team race I especially wanted to do well, so I pushed up to as close to the starting line as possible. I got to the fourth row and looked for someone a bit faster than me to pace off of. As I had absolutely no idea who that could be, I stood there wondering how I could start off fast enough for a really good time but not so fast that I'd be in the pain that I feared.
No way to do that, of course.
The starter announced 1 minute till the gun. I edged into the third row. The gun went off. I jumped around 2 slower people and I was running. Locked on to someone ahead of me and went by him. Went by a few more feeling very strong. Just passed 75th Street, on the left, was the quarter mile clock. It was under 80 seconds as I approached...exciting! I hit it at 83, my fastest quarter in years.
But that first quarter mile is tricky. It's all downhill. Gives a misleadingly quick time. The second quarter has 3 blocks of an extremely tough hill. I passed 1 or 2 runners as I crested it. The half mile mark was just ahead and I crossed it at 3 minutes flat. A great time for me, giving me an excellent chance to beat last year's 6:12. But it also meant I'd need to be a tiny bit quicker to break the 6 minute mark.
And I felt awful. Exhausted and hurting. Wanting to slow but facing the conflict I knew I would. How could I throw away a 3 minute half mile when all I had to do was keep it up for a measly 3 more minutes?
The third quarter is gently downhill. I started counting the blocks. 69th, 68th, 67th, ok, I was more than half way done with it. No one had passed me. But I did let myself slow, almost unconsciously, for a bit. When I realized I'd done so (or maybe when the pain let up for a bit) I pushed the pace again. Not enough, though, as I hit 93...
...No chance now for a sub 6 minutes because the final quarter was flat. This depressed me for an instant; it seemed terribly unfair that I should be in this much pain and face a flat course. Now I was counting portions of blocks. Halfway to 64th Street, ok, now I've got it, half way to 63rd...when I heard a roar from the crowd. I was afraid I knew what it meant. A runner was coming up on me. He was kicking it home and the crowd was caught up in the competition. Sadly, however, I wasn't. I had no kick to answer back. I had all I could do to maintain pace. He went by me. But, happily, so did 63rd and 62nd Streets. 100 meters to go! Then that damn roar again. Someone else kicking by me. 61st Street. It's almost over. He goes passed and beats me by 1 second and I don't care. Someone else trying. This is too much. Maybe I do care. Maybe I can kick for 10 meters. I can. I cross 1 second before he does. It's over!
My official time is 6:07 which is really good. I'm 5 seconds better than last year, almost all of it because of my very fast first quarter. The extremely high humidity of 87% was likely a factor in slowing over the rest of the race. In better conditions I might have indeed bested 6 minutes.
But I did best all 3 of my Greater New York Racing Team teammates. I knew I'd beat 1 of them but the other 2 have generally raced faster than me. But not this time. I usually do better in the shorter races.
Monday, September 19, 2011
I'M NO DEACON BLUES
Now that I'm writing again I've looked over past blog entries. It seems I enjoy writing about hope and achievement and doing better than expected. About the opposites, not so much.
Last year I wrote on the eve of Grete's Great Gallup that I hoped to do better than my dismal performance 12 months before. I didn't. It was worse. But you'll not find anything about my 10 minute mile 11 here. Similarly, I'd written about high expectations before the Disney 2010 Marathon. Nothing, however, about running out of steam barely half way through and wondering how I was going to negotiate 12 miles with no energy. The answerby the way: Extremely slowly.
This Summer, I loved writing on facebook about both my softball teams' long winning streaks. "I've forgotten what it's like to lose," I commented in 1 entry. Not too much detail, however, about our awful playoff ousters..."Now I've forgotten what it's like to win a post season series" I did not write anywhere.
Dwelling on what's I haven't written brought up Deacon Blues. Steely Dan sang in that 1970s tune:
They've got a name for the winners in the world
well I want a name when I lose
They call Alabama the Crimson Tide
Call me Deacon Blues*
I, however, do not want a name, Deacon Blues or otherwise, when I lose. I, apparently, want anonymity.
Grete's Half Marathon is coming up in 2 weeks and the Fifth Avenue Mile is this Saturday. I'm signed up for both. If you see nothing about the results here, assume I did not do well.
* The Demon Deacons were the nickname the awful football team of that decade at Wake Forest. I don't want to be called that, either.
Last year I wrote on the eve of Grete's Great Gallup that I hoped to do better than my dismal performance 12 months before. I didn't. It was worse. But you'll not find anything about my 10 minute mile 11 here. Similarly, I'd written about high expectations before the Disney 2010 Marathon. Nothing, however, about running out of steam barely half way through and wondering how I was going to negotiate 12 miles with no energy. The answerby the way: Extremely slowly.
This Summer, I loved writing on facebook about both my softball teams' long winning streaks. "I've forgotten what it's like to lose," I commented in 1 entry. Not too much detail, however, about our awful playoff ousters..."Now I've forgotten what it's like to win a post season series" I did not write anywhere.
Dwelling on what's I haven't written brought up Deacon Blues. Steely Dan sang in that 1970s tune:
They've got a name for the winners in the world
well I want a name when I lose
They call Alabama the Crimson Tide
Call me Deacon Blues*
I, however, do not want a name, Deacon Blues or otherwise, when I lose. I, apparently, want anonymity.
Grete's Half Marathon is coming up in 2 weeks and the Fifth Avenue Mile is this Saturday. I'm signed up for both. If you see nothing about the results here, assume I did not do well.
* The Demon Deacons were the nickname the awful football team of that decade at Wake Forest. I don't want to be called that, either.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
RESPECTABLE RUNNING
For the last few years, with rare exceptions, my racing has been poor. That changed a few months ago...to horrendous. At the Brooklyn Half Marathon in May I ran my worst half marathon by far, walking at every water station in the second half. A month later it was my worst 5 miler by far, done at a pace that would barely qualify as a decent training run.
I was losing any joy in racing; even my incentive to run was fading. Each time out was exhausting and disturbingly slow. If this continued I would stop running. And I didn't know what was the matter.
And then I had a thought. This all began fairly soon after I'd begun taking a medication for a minor discomfort. It seemed to elevate my heart rate and that became more pronounced as the weather warmed. I stopped taking it. I found a different (and satisfactory) way of remedying the original issue. I went out running and found it becoming easier. So I was able to train better.
And then I ran a 4 mile race in July. It was my worst ever for the distance. But NOT by far. Only by a little. It wasn't that my heart was going to fast, just that I'd not trained adequately. It was the first time a Personal Worst felt like a step forward.
After that my training really improved. About 30 miles per week and lots of high quality speed work. A 5 mile race in August that was only AMONG my worst...further cause for optimism. And more hard training.
That brings us to today's 4 mile race. My training times, particularly in track workouts, made me think I could run fairly well. But given the strange running place I've been all summer, it was really difficult to guess how well. Certainy faster than the 8:16 per mile of July. How about the 7:47 of April or the 7:38 of exactly a year ago? Or the 7:40ish pace I'd run in a series of 4 milers at the start of 2010?
I decided to beat them all. I mean, what fun is it to try for anything less when there's doubt? So my goal was a 7:30 pace to finish the race in 30 minutes or less. The danger in trying to run a somewhat agressive pace, of course, is overestimating your stamina, going out faster than your body can support for the entire distance and ending unhappy, in pain, at a snail's pace, as everyone parades by you.
I figured mile 1, containing the tough Cat Hill, would foretell what the rest of the race held. When I did it in 7:29, exactly on pace and not feeling bad, it looked good. I speeded up to 7:17 on gently downhill mile 2 and slowed a lot to 7:47 on the difficult West Side Hills of mile 3.
Tired and very uncomfortable I tried to calculate where I stood. Did I have a shot at 7:30 pace? Two miles under it, 1 over. The numbers refused to compute. Just had no idea what was needed. So I figured I'd better run it as fast as I could.
Fortunately the last mile is largely downhill. So I ran confidently until the final 300 meters which is an unpleasant uphill. By then I had no energy left to push. People for the first time began passing me as they kicked home. I had nothing to answer with. And that's how I cruised over the finish line.
In 29:54, a pace of 7:28.5! Top ten age group (9 out of 60) honors! A performance score (don't ask how it's calculated) above 70% for the first time in over 3 years! And my best time at this distance since July, 2008!
At my best I've raced 4 miles in under 28 minutes. Long way to go to get to that. But at least this was some respectable running.
I was losing any joy in racing; even my incentive to run was fading. Each time out was exhausting and disturbingly slow. If this continued I would stop running. And I didn't know what was the matter.
And then I had a thought. This all began fairly soon after I'd begun taking a medication for a minor discomfort. It seemed to elevate my heart rate and that became more pronounced as the weather warmed. I stopped taking it. I found a different (and satisfactory) way of remedying the original issue. I went out running and found it becoming easier. So I was able to train better.
And then I ran a 4 mile race in July. It was my worst ever for the distance. But NOT by far. Only by a little. It wasn't that my heart was going to fast, just that I'd not trained adequately. It was the first time a Personal Worst felt like a step forward.
After that my training really improved. About 30 miles per week and lots of high quality speed work. A 5 mile race in August that was only AMONG my worst...further cause for optimism. And more hard training.
That brings us to today's 4 mile race. My training times, particularly in track workouts, made me think I could run fairly well. But given the strange running place I've been all summer, it was really difficult to guess how well. Certainy faster than the 8:16 per mile of July. How about the 7:47 of April or the 7:38 of exactly a year ago? Or the 7:40ish pace I'd run in a series of 4 milers at the start of 2010?
I decided to beat them all. I mean, what fun is it to try for anything less when there's doubt? So my goal was a 7:30 pace to finish the race in 30 minutes or less. The danger in trying to run a somewhat agressive pace, of course, is overestimating your stamina, going out faster than your body can support for the entire distance and ending unhappy, in pain, at a snail's pace, as everyone parades by you.
I figured mile 1, containing the tough Cat Hill, would foretell what the rest of the race held. When I did it in 7:29, exactly on pace and not feeling bad, it looked good. I speeded up to 7:17 on gently downhill mile 2 and slowed a lot to 7:47 on the difficult West Side Hills of mile 3.
Tired and very uncomfortable I tried to calculate where I stood. Did I have a shot at 7:30 pace? Two miles under it, 1 over. The numbers refused to compute. Just had no idea what was needed. So I figured I'd better run it as fast as I could.
Fortunately the last mile is largely downhill. So I ran confidently until the final 300 meters which is an unpleasant uphill. By then I had no energy left to push. People for the first time began passing me as they kicked home. I had nothing to answer with. And that's how I cruised over the finish line.
In 29:54, a pace of 7:28.5! Top ten age group (9 out of 60) honors! A performance score (don't ask how it's calculated) above 70% for the first time in over 3 years! And my best time at this distance since July, 2008!
At my best I've raced 4 miles in under 28 minutes. Long way to go to get to that. But at least this was some respectable running.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
THREE RACES
Road races coming up on each of the next 3 Saturdays. I'm excited. Because I think I can post some pretty good times.
Not my best times, of course. It's been 5 years since I've had a personal best. Injuries, illness, aging have all gotten in the way. And, of late, my times have been truly horrendous. Slow, slow, slow and beaten by all sorts of people including those I'd regularly bested in the past.
Early this summer was the absolute worst. I was so exhausted during a couple races that I walked. All I wanted was for it to end. My times weren't even good for training runs. It was awful...totally non competitive.
And then I figured out how to make it better. And I have. Consistent 30 or so miles a week for the past 10 weeks. Plenty of hard runs. No injuries...or at least none that stopped my running...and getting faster! Track workouts at a pace I've not done in 3 or 4 years.
Now it's time to put it to the test. Four mile race in Central Park this weekend. Fifth Avenue Mile the next. Grete's Half Marathon the week after that.
Three races. Very different distances. Sure would be nice to run them all in times I'm happy with.
Not my best times, of course. It's been 5 years since I've had a personal best. Injuries, illness, aging have all gotten in the way. And, of late, my times have been truly horrendous. Slow, slow, slow and beaten by all sorts of people including those I'd regularly bested in the past.
Early this summer was the absolute worst. I was so exhausted during a couple races that I walked. All I wanted was for it to end. My times weren't even good for training runs. It was awful...totally non competitive.
And then I figured out how to make it better. And I have. Consistent 30 or so miles a week for the past 10 weeks. Plenty of hard runs. No injuries...or at least none that stopped my running...and getting faster! Track workouts at a pace I've not done in 3 or 4 years.
Now it's time to put it to the test. Four mile race in Central Park this weekend. Fifth Avenue Mile the next. Grete's Half Marathon the week after that.
Three races. Very different distances. Sure would be nice to run them all in times I'm happy with.
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