The death last week of my brother in law Todd stings. In the 30 years we knew each other he was a large, kind, provocative, fascinating, enfuriating, influential presence.
Todd thought I needed his help with finances. Money was more important to him than it was to me...he loved the "finer" things and I just wanted the proper sports equipment. He figured I should be doing more with my savings then just saving it. He got me to buy my first shares of stock.
Haber was a new technology company and Todd got me to invest. The company had developed a process to non toxically separate precious metal like gold from the ore that it was found in. It was fun to be an investor. The company did good things and the value of its stock kept going up. As I had no need for the money I just slowly increased my number of shares and watched the price continue to rise.
And then there came a time when I did need it. That was when, in the mid 1980s, I decided to leave my steady social work job and develop a private practice as a psychotherapist. As I earned $25 total in my first week of practice, I knew I'd need my savings and investments to help me.
Sadly it was at exactly this time that investors began to notice that Haber, despite all its new technology promise, wasn't actually extracting precious metal from the ore it came in. Nor, of course, was it making any money. It's price share went down, stabilized, then plummeted.
I was in shock. Everything was disappearing just when I needed it. I met with Todd, who was a stock broker, to decide what to do. He owned far more shares of Haber than I did. He said he couldn't bear the idea of selling after such a downturn. "I'd rather watch it go down to zero," I recall him saying, "and go out in a blaze of glory then give up on something that has so much promise."
I, however, had no desire to go out in a blaze of glory, or, more accurately, to lose all of the investment. I needed this money now. "SELL," I should have said. In fact I said nothing and Todd left.
Over the next few days the stock continued to lose its value and I continued to watch in muted shock. Until the day I received a note from Todd's office. The day after we spoke he'd sold all my Haber shares! I actually made a relatively small profit overall. More importantly I had enough now to allow me to develop my therapy practise.
Pretty nice of Todd to come to his senses and realize what I needed. And pretty dramatic of him to do it without letting me know!
One day around this time Todd had a massive heart attack. I visited him one night at Columbia Presbyterian Hospital where he was recovering. It was just the two of us. Todd looked back at his life and said "I've always run at the head of the pack. The best of everything." By that he meant the finest of steak, the best cigars, a whole host of things that, I thought at the time, might well have contributed to his heart attack and drastically changed his life. But he was unremorseful, unappologetic and, seemingly, accepting, of the bargain he'd negotiated for himself.
I was dismayed. We'd always had different views on exercise, working out, healthy eating, healthy life style. I was hoping that he'd now develop a different attitude and commit himself to changes that could help to really make him better. But I also marvelled at his no regrets attitude. He wasn't beating himself up over past choices that couldn't be changed, something I'm not so good at doing. Maybe that was his way of not getting depressed and being able to go on with optimism.
Over the years, Todd and I often argued. I think he liked to make a point in a provocative way and see what reaction it would stir. Many times it stirred a sense of challenge, fun and interest in me. Sometimes, however, he would just make me angry.
Though much of our political views were usually not that different, Todd was a huge supporter and defender of the free enterprise system. Sometimes that put us at odds like the time, in our last huge fight about a year or so ago, I reacted to the latest banker scandal by saying "all those bankers should be thrown in jail."
My brother in law did not think that a very smart comment and called me "a fucking idiot."
Todd thought it would be interesting to explain to me why I was mistaken. I decided to focus more on the "idiot" part of his reaction and explain why I couldn't just let that one go and move on to the merits. Voices, okay, my voice, escalated from there.
So there it is. Todd evoked a lot of passion. It was NEVER boring to be around him. I wish we had another 30 years.
Wednesday, December 5, 2012
Saturday, October 13, 2012
IT'S ALL UPHILL
I felt pretty upset yesterday morning when my doctor's office said that the TURP procedure to relieve my miserable BPH symptoms was not scheduled until November 1. Almost 3 weeks! Three more weeks of walking around with, being annoyed by, this Lousy Device I've got to wear so that urine won't stay inside my body, screw up my bladder and kidneys and make life incredibly uncomfortable.
The worst part is that I can't do anything the least bit physical. No running, of course, but also no weight lifting, no aerobic machines, no swimming, no push ups, no...well, you get the idea. And these are among the things that I love, the things that make me feel so good, so strong, so in shape, so, well, so not my age!
In fact, at my lowest, this makes me feel kind of old and decrepit. Cautious, careful and like my life is now spent walking up hill.
Oddly, however, aside from these limitations, it's not been as physically uncomfortable as seemed possible. I'm walking okay, going up and down subway stairs okay, carrying what I need to carry and getting on with my life as usual. Just not the working out stuff that I crave.
Life is all up hill, stairs have been okay and I can't run or work out. How can this all be put together?
I've decided to walk my building's staircase. Six stories. Slowly. Using the handrail. But to the top I'm going to go, then down on the elevator an back up again. A bunch of times. Just now, 3 trips. 18 floors of up stairs walking. Nicely parallels my life.
So far, no apparent ill affects. I'm going to try it again later. 4 trips. If I've got to wait till November 1, I won't wait laying down. If I can help it.
The worst part is that I can't do anything the least bit physical. No running, of course, but also no weight lifting, no aerobic machines, no swimming, no push ups, no...well, you get the idea. And these are among the things that I love, the things that make me feel so good, so strong, so in shape, so, well, so not my age!
In fact, at my lowest, this makes me feel kind of old and decrepit. Cautious, careful and like my life is now spent walking up hill.
Oddly, however, aside from these limitations, it's not been as physically uncomfortable as seemed possible. I'm walking okay, going up and down subway stairs okay, carrying what I need to carry and getting on with my life as usual. Just not the working out stuff that I crave.
Life is all up hill, stairs have been okay and I can't run or work out. How can this all be put together?
I've decided to walk my building's staircase. Six stories. Slowly. Using the handrail. But to the top I'm going to go, then down on the elevator an back up again. A bunch of times. Just now, 3 trips. 18 floors of up stairs walking. Nicely parallels my life.
So far, no apparent ill affects. I'm going to try it again later. 4 trips. If I've got to wait till November 1, I won't wait laying down. If I can help it.
Friday, October 5, 2012
BAD PARTS OF AGING
There are lots of good, quite young, parts of me. My hair, for example. It's really dark. No grey at all. True, I pluck out the occasional old looking strand, but I don't think that counts. Pretty good hair. And my lungs. Youthful, too. Efficiently takes in so much oxygen with each gulp that a test says it's like a 29 year old's. So I can run around and race around and sprint around with a lot of folks who claim to be much younger. My knees, my quads, pretty much the same thing.
But not my prostate. Oh, it functions alright, as far as I know. But it acts in a really old manner. Like in many men as we age it keeps getting bigger. Big enough to hug my urethra and impinge on the urine flow from the bladder. And sometimes to totally stop it. BAD crisis of aging!
That happened for the first time 5 months ago so I began to take medication. That made it okay till last Monday. Then, sitting in my office, listening to a patient, wondering if it could be really happening again, my hand, holding the pad I use to take notes, began to shake violently. This can't be! But it was. No more pee and the awful growing discomfort that comes with it. As quick as I could, I raced uptown to my urologist.
"Have a seat," said the receptionist, but I couldn't sit down. Fortunately my doctor had me into his office quickly and hooked me up with the dreaded catheter. Immediate relief! When I handed over the $50 copay a bit later he joked: "I wonder how much this would've been worth to you before I fixed you up!"
The plan was to leave the catheter in place till the following Wednesday....9 days...to allow things to cool down and regain function. Then we'd decide what to do next.
Nine days! Nine days of no running, no athletics, no working out. Nine days of walking around EVER so gingerly. Nine days of difficulty sleeping, general discomfort and more than a bit of depression. Yes, these are some of the bad things about aging.
Still, there's another, more important bad thing....
I couldn't see how 9 days could pass, but, of course, they did. One of the things that sustained me through this time was my love of the election and excitement about how well Obama was doing. I plunged into reading the analysis, the polls, the predicitions. I became a BIG fan of the wonderful 538 Blog. And I grew confident that Obama was on the verge of victory.
As important as I think that is for the nation, it paled, of course, to its personal meaning: It cheered me up.
All this, of course, made me keenly aware of the import of the upcoming Presidential Debate. And that was scheduled for Wednesday evening, just hours after my doctor's appointment. Great big day!
The day finally arrived and the doctor removed the catheter. I could pee! Okay, good start. Then he outlined my options. We could add a second medication to the one I was currently taking. It would shrink the prostate, but not for many weeks. It also had some pretty awful potential side effects and it's been linked to agressive prostate cancer though my doctor didn't believe that was necessarily true. The second alternative was a surgical procedure called TURP that would use a laser to evaporate the places where the prostate had become too close to the urethra.
My doctor said he didn't have an opinion on which option was best. I had no medical issue to make it critical to choose the agressive surgical solution. I faced merely quality of life issues...putting up with possible side effects of the medication or the occassional time when I might again require the Dreaded Catheter.
Me? I had to decide? Based on what fountain of knowledge that I posess was I to decide? I didn't want any of those options. I wanted my prostate to be young and small again. At worst I wanted to remain on the single medication and maybe drink less water and hope for the best much harder. I didn't want a new medication with scary side effects. I certainly didn't want surgery and the recovery it entails.
And this, my friends, is pretty much the worst part of aging. Sometimes just you has got to decide when all you want is for some all knowing authority to tell you the right thing, the happy ever after thing, to do.
"The surgery," I said, then instantly regretted it. Maybe I didn't need something so irrevocable. Maybe the new medication wouldn't treat me unkindly. Maybe I should continue as is and wait and see. "The surgery," I concluded.
I went to my office and, later, home, to watch the debate. All was flowing well. I was not drinking very much. Maybe that WAS the key! The urologist had once told me that could be important. Maybe I should hold off on this procedure after all.
The debate came on and it was awful. I hoped I was wrong but, when MSNBC commentator's Rachel Madow's first post debate words were "I don't know who won," I knew who had won. Comments by others, including David Gergen who I really respect, and a CNN Snap Poll all supported the original diagnosis. It was a miserable night.
But at least I could pee.
Until a few hours later when I awoke to find that I couldn't. By 2:30 AM I got to the Emergency Room at Roosevelt Hospital. They took good, quick care of me. Again, as the Dreaded Device went on, great relief! They had me lay there for awhile to make sure nothing else was wrong which there wasn't.
One thing I knew for sure. I'd made the right choice regarding the TURP decision. It will, by the way, happen in the next 2 to 3 weeks. Nice to feel certain. Tough way to achieve that certainty.
Another bad part of aging.
But not my prostate. Oh, it functions alright, as far as I know. But it acts in a really old manner. Like in many men as we age it keeps getting bigger. Big enough to hug my urethra and impinge on the urine flow from the bladder. And sometimes to totally stop it. BAD crisis of aging!
That happened for the first time 5 months ago so I began to take medication. That made it okay till last Monday. Then, sitting in my office, listening to a patient, wondering if it could be really happening again, my hand, holding the pad I use to take notes, began to shake violently. This can't be! But it was. No more pee and the awful growing discomfort that comes with it. As quick as I could, I raced uptown to my urologist.
"Have a seat," said the receptionist, but I couldn't sit down. Fortunately my doctor had me into his office quickly and hooked me up with the dreaded catheter. Immediate relief! When I handed over the $50 copay a bit later he joked: "I wonder how much this would've been worth to you before I fixed you up!"
The plan was to leave the catheter in place till the following Wednesday....9 days...to allow things to cool down and regain function. Then we'd decide what to do next.
Nine days! Nine days of no running, no athletics, no working out. Nine days of walking around EVER so gingerly. Nine days of difficulty sleeping, general discomfort and more than a bit of depression. Yes, these are some of the bad things about aging.
Still, there's another, more important bad thing....
I couldn't see how 9 days could pass, but, of course, they did. One of the things that sustained me through this time was my love of the election and excitement about how well Obama was doing. I plunged into reading the analysis, the polls, the predicitions. I became a BIG fan of the wonderful 538 Blog. And I grew confident that Obama was on the verge of victory.
As important as I think that is for the nation, it paled, of course, to its personal meaning: It cheered me up.
All this, of course, made me keenly aware of the import of the upcoming Presidential Debate. And that was scheduled for Wednesday evening, just hours after my doctor's appointment. Great big day!
The day finally arrived and the doctor removed the catheter. I could pee! Okay, good start. Then he outlined my options. We could add a second medication to the one I was currently taking. It would shrink the prostate, but not for many weeks. It also had some pretty awful potential side effects and it's been linked to agressive prostate cancer though my doctor didn't believe that was necessarily true. The second alternative was a surgical procedure called TURP that would use a laser to evaporate the places where the prostate had become too close to the urethra.
My doctor said he didn't have an opinion on which option was best. I had no medical issue to make it critical to choose the agressive surgical solution. I faced merely quality of life issues...putting up with possible side effects of the medication or the occassional time when I might again require the Dreaded Catheter.
Me? I had to decide? Based on what fountain of knowledge that I posess was I to decide? I didn't want any of those options. I wanted my prostate to be young and small again. At worst I wanted to remain on the single medication and maybe drink less water and hope for the best much harder. I didn't want a new medication with scary side effects. I certainly didn't want surgery and the recovery it entails.
And this, my friends, is pretty much the worst part of aging. Sometimes just you has got to decide when all you want is for some all knowing authority to tell you the right thing, the happy ever after thing, to do.
"The surgery," I said, then instantly regretted it. Maybe I didn't need something so irrevocable. Maybe the new medication wouldn't treat me unkindly. Maybe I should continue as is and wait and see. "The surgery," I concluded.
I went to my office and, later, home, to watch the debate. All was flowing well. I was not drinking very much. Maybe that WAS the key! The urologist had once told me that could be important. Maybe I should hold off on this procedure after all.
The debate came on and it was awful. I hoped I was wrong but, when MSNBC commentator's Rachel Madow's first post debate words were "I don't know who won," I knew who had won. Comments by others, including David Gergen who I really respect, and a CNN Snap Poll all supported the original diagnosis. It was a miserable night.
But at least I could pee.
Until a few hours later when I awoke to find that I couldn't. By 2:30 AM I got to the Emergency Room at Roosevelt Hospital. They took good, quick care of me. Again, as the Dreaded Device went on, great relief! They had me lay there for awhile to make sure nothing else was wrong which there wasn't.
One thing I knew for sure. I'd made the right choice regarding the TURP decision. It will, by the way, happen in the next 2 to 3 weeks. Nice to feel certain. Tough way to achieve that certainty.
Another bad part of aging.
Saturday, September 22, 2012
THE LADY WITH THE SCARY ARMS
The boys outside the house on Sumac Street seemed just a little out of control. One rode a bike, darting in between parked cars and dangerously close to the strollers on the block. The smaller one kept pointing his gun...obviously a toy one...at those same strollers. No one really seemed to notice but me.
I walked towards the house and the boy on the bike asked what I was doing. "Talking to people about President Obama," I answered. "You know, the election. Are you going to vote for him?"
"I'm not old enough," he said. "But my mom is. Come in the house and talk to her." He rushed ahead of me and opened the screen door and went inside, motioning for me to follow. I came to the door and figured I really ought to wait there for his mom. The people of Philadelphia had been plenty friendly to me, but maybe not so friendly that I could enter a home without an adult's invitation. The smaller boy came over and pointed his gun at me. "Are you going to shoot me?" He laughed, changed his aim, pulled the trigger and shot a plastic ball through the open door.
Their mom picked up the ball, tossed it outside and came to the door. She looked a little out of sorts, a little disheveled, like her son had just awakened her. She also had tatoos running up and down both arms and across the top part of her chest. I got a bad feeling. I didn't think my usual charm would go over well with her. I was not expecting this to be a very good discussion. I anticipated that this would be a brief one. I had the thought that, like her oldest, she was probably a biker.
I figured I'd be taking one for the team. But at least I'd be able to mark her off the list of the 120 doors I was supposed to knock on.
I introduced myself and asked if she had a couple of minutes to chat about the Presidential election. I didn't think that she'd be particularly interested. I was wrong. She was an Obama supporter. I asked what issues particularly interested her. "Obamacare and education," she replied. "I'm raising 2 special needs boys."
Oh. She talked. Her oldest had a mild form of autism. Her youngest had been born with congenital heart defects that had required several surgeries. He also had a learning disability. Medical bills had put her family $30,000 in debt. She was working in a bar at night and in a nursing home by day to pay the pills and start cutting into what she owed. She couldn't get health insurance but expected she'd be able to under Obamacare. "He needs to get reelected so I'll have it."
She railed at the local Republicans who, she said, were hurting the school system and making it more difficult for her son with the learning disability. "The Mayor of Philladelphia is a Republican," I asked, demonstrating my ignorance. She looked crossly at me. "The governor. Too much funding for charter schools." Oh.
The day was getting warmer and I was starting to sweat as I had uncharacteristically worn long pants on a Saturday to avoid looking too casual. She brought me a glass of water as she detailed the various programs she was using in kind of a scatter shot effort to take care of her kids' manyl needs and pay her bills.
It was the best talk of the day. I knew pretty early in it that I'd badly misjudged her. My misperception was based, frankly, on her appearance, the behavior of her kids and her tatooes which, I must admit, kind of scared me. I felt silly. But I took some solace in knowing that sometimes I'm an idiot and this won't be the last time.
I also thought that this woman fits all of Romney's stereotypes as well. There's a good chance she pays no federal income taxes. She takes advantage of every government program that can help her. She unabashedly wants more and will use all of Obamacare once it's fully implemented, after we get him reelected.
To think for a second, however, that this is a person who doesn't take responsibility, who doesn't try as hard as she can, who has a victim mentality is GROSS. A gross distortion. A complete charicature. It shows what an idiot Romney can be. Unlike me, however, he seems blissfully unaware of it.
How we see this woman, how we regard her, how we help her, and, indeed, how we get to know her...beyond the irrelevancies of the tattoos on her arms and what she doesn't pay in federal income tax, is what, I think, discribes the differences between these 2 campaigns and why I keep walking down the streets of Philladelphia.
I walked towards the house and the boy on the bike asked what I was doing. "Talking to people about President Obama," I answered. "You know, the election. Are you going to vote for him?"
"I'm not old enough," he said. "But my mom is. Come in the house and talk to her." He rushed ahead of me and opened the screen door and went inside, motioning for me to follow. I came to the door and figured I really ought to wait there for his mom. The people of Philadelphia had been plenty friendly to me, but maybe not so friendly that I could enter a home without an adult's invitation. The smaller boy came over and pointed his gun at me. "Are you going to shoot me?" He laughed, changed his aim, pulled the trigger and shot a plastic ball through the open door.
Their mom picked up the ball, tossed it outside and came to the door. She looked a little out of sorts, a little disheveled, like her son had just awakened her. She also had tatoos running up and down both arms and across the top part of her chest. I got a bad feeling. I didn't think my usual charm would go over well with her. I was not expecting this to be a very good discussion. I anticipated that this would be a brief one. I had the thought that, like her oldest, she was probably a biker.
I figured I'd be taking one for the team. But at least I'd be able to mark her off the list of the 120 doors I was supposed to knock on.
I introduced myself and asked if she had a couple of minutes to chat about the Presidential election. I didn't think that she'd be particularly interested. I was wrong. She was an Obama supporter. I asked what issues particularly interested her. "Obamacare and education," she replied. "I'm raising 2 special needs boys."
Oh. She talked. Her oldest had a mild form of autism. Her youngest had been born with congenital heart defects that had required several surgeries. He also had a learning disability. Medical bills had put her family $30,000 in debt. She was working in a bar at night and in a nursing home by day to pay the pills and start cutting into what she owed. She couldn't get health insurance but expected she'd be able to under Obamacare. "He needs to get reelected so I'll have it."
She railed at the local Republicans who, she said, were hurting the school system and making it more difficult for her son with the learning disability. "The Mayor of Philladelphia is a Republican," I asked, demonstrating my ignorance. She looked crossly at me. "The governor. Too much funding for charter schools." Oh.
The day was getting warmer and I was starting to sweat as I had uncharacteristically worn long pants on a Saturday to avoid looking too casual. She brought me a glass of water as she detailed the various programs she was using in kind of a scatter shot effort to take care of her kids' manyl needs and pay her bills.
It was the best talk of the day. I knew pretty early in it that I'd badly misjudged her. My misperception was based, frankly, on her appearance, the behavior of her kids and her tatooes which, I must admit, kind of scared me. I felt silly. But I took some solace in knowing that sometimes I'm an idiot and this won't be the last time.
I also thought that this woman fits all of Romney's stereotypes as well. There's a good chance she pays no federal income taxes. She takes advantage of every government program that can help her. She unabashedly wants more and will use all of Obamacare once it's fully implemented, after we get him reelected.
To think for a second, however, that this is a person who doesn't take responsibility, who doesn't try as hard as she can, who has a victim mentality is GROSS. A gross distortion. A complete charicature. It shows what an idiot Romney can be. Unlike me, however, he seems blissfully unaware of it.
How we see this woman, how we regard her, how we help her, and, indeed, how we get to know her...beyond the irrelevancies of the tattoos on her arms and what she doesn't pay in federal income tax, is what, I think, discribes the differences between these 2 campaigns and why I keep walking down the streets of Philladelphia.
Friday, September 21, 2012
THE DAY I ELECTED RICHARD NIXON
I didn't mean to do it. Voting for Richard Nixon, I mean. Three times. All in the same election. But I did.
Similarly, I never expected to be living in Kentucky. Northern Kentucky, right across the Ohio River from Cincinnatti. But I was.
All of this happened because I hated the Vietnam War.
It was 1971 and times were exciting. The Mets, the Jets, the Knicks, my teams, were all recent champions. I was a new college graduate, just passed my 21 birthday. And I was having a fight with my draft board.
They kept trying to draft me. And I kept telling them that I was a Consciencious Objector who refused to serve in the armed forces and would certainly never go to Vietnam. They didn't believe me and I demanded a hearing. There they asked me questions, laughed at my answers and probably concluded that it wasn't worth the effort. They granted me CO status and ordered me to do civilian work in the national interest.
So I joined VISTA...Volunteers In Service To America, a federal program that was the domestic equivalent of the Peace Corps. And that's what brought me to my 2 room apartment on Boone Street, Newport, Kentucky. There I set up a (surprise!) basketball league and a recreation program for kids in public housing. And a program to help people train for their high school equivalency diploma.
And in my spare time I joined the McGovern for President campaign. Shh, don't tell anybody. I wasn't supposed to.
I loved Senator McGovern. Unlike his oppenents, the soft spoken Senator Muskie, the compromised former Vice President Humphry or the hawkish Senator Jackson, McGovern's opposition to the horrible Vietnam War was deep and passionate. Like mine. Much to my surprise he did well in the primaries and I joined his campaign.
The first thing we did was voter registration. To my surprise we registered far more democrats than republicans. After he won the nomination we started to canvass and found a good bit of McGovern support. I was made leader in 5 districts which we thought would go our way. Things looked good!
Then things turned bad. The Democratic convention was so crazy that McGovern didn't give his acceptance speech till 2 in the morning...long after even I had fallen asleep. His VP pick had to resign after word leaked that he'd received electrical shock therapy for depression. Neither Senator Kennedy or several other big name Democrats would accept McGovern's pleas for them to become his new running mate, leaving my guy hanging and looking silly. He also felt he had to withdraw his signature domestic proposal...a negative income tax...because almost no one could understand it. I recall a part of that speech: "A leader who won't change isn't a leader, he's a disaster."
Sadly the campaign had become a disaster. No Democratic leader or candidate in Kentucky would say McGovern's name. At a fundraiser for our Senatorial candidate, the nominee ended his remarks by saying: "Let's support our ticket from the top to the bottom." "Top of the Ticket." That was as close as they'd come to naming the man at the top of our ticket.
Still I worked with all my heart. And we did well. The only disaster WE had was when I called a potential voter named Alex Pigg. I couldn't help it. I asked to speak to Mr. Pigg and couldn't stop laughing! On the plus side I hadn't yet identified myself as a rep from the McGovern campaign.
Talk at campaign headquarters focused on Harry Truman. He had completely fooled the polls so who's to say we couldn't too. If that was our best shot I was not encouraged.
On Election Day I still held on to hope but knew it would take a near miracle. I walked out onto Boone Street very early that morning; I was the Democratic Challenger at one of the polling places as we were on guard against Republican shenanigans. I noticed a light rain fell. RAIN? I became excited. Maybe it was raining all over the country! Maybe the rain would get very hard! And maybe only the most commited of voters...McGovern supporters, of course...would come out! We could win a low turnout election! Oh my gosh!
I got to the poll on, I think, Monmouth Street. The rain had stopped.
There were no Republican shenanigans at the poll. Perhaps I'd scared them off. Still I had work to do. A person came in not knowing how to vote. The election officials there sent me into the booth to help him.
Now I imagine you realize that they shouldn't have done that. You don't send a representative from 1 political party into a voting booth to help an uncertain voter. But that is what they did. So in I went. And asked who he wanted to vote for. To my horror he said: "Nixon." I moved my finger towards the clip next to Nixon's name. I paused. My finger began shaking. I lowered my hand and now my finger was next to the name McGovern. The shaking became a lot worse as I contemplated going against the voter's instructions. I couldn't get myself to do it. But how could I cast a vote for Nixon? I don't know. But I did. His vote (the idiot!) went the way he intended.
It happened two more times that day. Two voters who needed help. Help to vote for Nixon. Each time it was easier to cast the asked for ballot.
At the end of the day, the voting officials had me view the actual vote count. This was important because this was one of our Priority districts. We needed a big win here. And we did win...by 3 votes. My heart fell. A 3 vote win in our priority district where we had focused so much effort. I knew that we had lost.
A while later, at campaign headquarters, I watched on TV as the news anchor announced the first state projected for Nixon...Kentucky, of course. And based in part on my 3 votes!
I've just got to do better for Obama!
Similarly, I never expected to be living in Kentucky. Northern Kentucky, right across the Ohio River from Cincinnatti. But I was.
All of this happened because I hated the Vietnam War.
It was 1971 and times were exciting. The Mets, the Jets, the Knicks, my teams, were all recent champions. I was a new college graduate, just passed my 21 birthday. And I was having a fight with my draft board.
They kept trying to draft me. And I kept telling them that I was a Consciencious Objector who refused to serve in the armed forces and would certainly never go to Vietnam. They didn't believe me and I demanded a hearing. There they asked me questions, laughed at my answers and probably concluded that it wasn't worth the effort. They granted me CO status and ordered me to do civilian work in the national interest.
So I joined VISTA...Volunteers In Service To America, a federal program that was the domestic equivalent of the Peace Corps. And that's what brought me to my 2 room apartment on Boone Street, Newport, Kentucky. There I set up a (surprise!) basketball league and a recreation program for kids in public housing. And a program to help people train for their high school equivalency diploma.
And in my spare time I joined the McGovern for President campaign. Shh, don't tell anybody. I wasn't supposed to.
I loved Senator McGovern. Unlike his oppenents, the soft spoken Senator Muskie, the compromised former Vice President Humphry or the hawkish Senator Jackson, McGovern's opposition to the horrible Vietnam War was deep and passionate. Like mine. Much to my surprise he did well in the primaries and I joined his campaign.
The first thing we did was voter registration. To my surprise we registered far more democrats than republicans. After he won the nomination we started to canvass and found a good bit of McGovern support. I was made leader in 5 districts which we thought would go our way. Things looked good!
Then things turned bad. The Democratic convention was so crazy that McGovern didn't give his acceptance speech till 2 in the morning...long after even I had fallen asleep. His VP pick had to resign after word leaked that he'd received electrical shock therapy for depression. Neither Senator Kennedy or several other big name Democrats would accept McGovern's pleas for them to become his new running mate, leaving my guy hanging and looking silly. He also felt he had to withdraw his signature domestic proposal...a negative income tax...because almost no one could understand it. I recall a part of that speech: "A leader who won't change isn't a leader, he's a disaster."
Sadly the campaign had become a disaster. No Democratic leader or candidate in Kentucky would say McGovern's name. At a fundraiser for our Senatorial candidate, the nominee ended his remarks by saying: "Let's support our ticket from the top to the bottom." "Top of the Ticket." That was as close as they'd come to naming the man at the top of our ticket.
Still I worked with all my heart. And we did well. The only disaster WE had was when I called a potential voter named Alex Pigg. I couldn't help it. I asked to speak to Mr. Pigg and couldn't stop laughing! On the plus side I hadn't yet identified myself as a rep from the McGovern campaign.
Talk at campaign headquarters focused on Harry Truman. He had completely fooled the polls so who's to say we couldn't too. If that was our best shot I was not encouraged.
On Election Day I still held on to hope but knew it would take a near miracle. I walked out onto Boone Street very early that morning; I was the Democratic Challenger at one of the polling places as we were on guard against Republican shenanigans. I noticed a light rain fell. RAIN? I became excited. Maybe it was raining all over the country! Maybe the rain would get very hard! And maybe only the most commited of voters...McGovern supporters, of course...would come out! We could win a low turnout election! Oh my gosh!
I got to the poll on, I think, Monmouth Street. The rain had stopped.
There were no Republican shenanigans at the poll. Perhaps I'd scared them off. Still I had work to do. A person came in not knowing how to vote. The election officials there sent me into the booth to help him.
Now I imagine you realize that they shouldn't have done that. You don't send a representative from 1 political party into a voting booth to help an uncertain voter. But that is what they did. So in I went. And asked who he wanted to vote for. To my horror he said: "Nixon." I moved my finger towards the clip next to Nixon's name. I paused. My finger began shaking. I lowered my hand and now my finger was next to the name McGovern. The shaking became a lot worse as I contemplated going against the voter's instructions. I couldn't get myself to do it. But how could I cast a vote for Nixon? I don't know. But I did. His vote (the idiot!) went the way he intended.
It happened two more times that day. Two voters who needed help. Help to vote for Nixon. Each time it was easier to cast the asked for ballot.
At the end of the day, the voting officials had me view the actual vote count. This was important because this was one of our Priority districts. We needed a big win here. And we did win...by 3 votes. My heart fell. A 3 vote win in our priority district where we had focused so much effort. I knew that we had lost.
A while later, at campaign headquarters, I watched on TV as the news anchor announced the first state projected for Nixon...Kentucky, of course. And based in part on my 3 votes!
I've just got to do better for Obama!
Monday, September 3, 2012
RACING IN A STATE OF CONFUSION
I like to think while I run. Problem solving thoughts, happy thoughts, heroic thoughts, why I'm right and pretty much everyone else is wrong thoughts. Inside my mind, at least during runs, is generally a very pleasant place.
But not when I race. Racing is stressful. I'm trying to find the fastest possible pace that I can maintain for the distance we're going. And that means making really intense demands on my legs, my muscles and my heart's ability to get oxygen and fuel circulated to every part of me that's getting increasingly desperate for it.
And that, as you can imagine, causes me to feel VERY uncomfortable. And that discomfort is not conducive to my usual happy thinking. It's really not conducive to thinking at all. Except, of course, thinking about how I'm doing. Now THAT I can focus on!
But, sadly, not at today's Roosevelt Island 5K. The race was very unfair to me. It wouldn't let me figure out if I was doing good until I was convinced that I was doing very, very bad.
Last week you may recall I raced a very tough 5K course in Harlem and averaged 8 minutes and 1 second per mile. So I figured that "doing good" on this easier, much flatter course would be at least a sub 8 minute pace. Of course, beating that pace by just a second or two really wouldn't feel so great. I hoped to get it down around 7:45. That seemed achievable.
At the starting line, this is what I thought: "Go out agressive but not too agressive. Be fast but not at an exhausting pace. Try to hit about 7:40 at the 1 mile marker and hope to not feel so weakened that the remaining 2.1 miles will seem like torture." Not happy thoughts. Strategic, however.
The race began and a very fast lead pack went off into the distance. I was at the head of the second pack and no one was passing me. We headed north on the Queens side of the Island, ran under the 59th Street Bridge to the Island's boundary, turned right, then right again and headed back the other way with Manhattan now on our left. At the 1 mile marker I read my watch: 7:52. This was not wonderful...though not terrible...news. Good to be under 8 but I'd have to speed up to reach my 7:45 goal and already I was feeling uncomfortable and fatigued.
Not pleasant to consider.
Suddenly I had other thoughts. I was passing other runners. How was this possible? Took me a moment but then I realized it was because there was also a 10K race going on at the exact same time as ours. Their course had begun just ahead of ours and now I was catching up to their back of the pack runners. Damn, I enjoyed that! For the entire second mile...even as my discomfort was getting to mild pain...I had some fun with going by someone on his left, then someone on her right, then in between 2 of them!
Here came the 2 mile marker...7:27. 7:27!!!! Oh my gosh I ran mile 2 in 7:27? That's so much better than I thought I could possibly do! Now I didn't even have to do a very hard mile 3! I was well ahead of expectations. All I had to do was hang in there! But that was now more and more difficult to do because the discomfort that had turned to mild pain was now definitely, unquestionably true pain. I wanted to slow but I didn't want to slow because it looked like a really good time was in reach.
I pushed ahead and finally, up ahead, I saw it, the 3 mile marker. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was just getting to 7 minutes! I'd probably hit 3 miles in a bit over 7:30 and then there'd be just a tenth of a mile to go. Sweet!
And then I really saw it. As I got close to the mile marker I saw it and it was terrible! This: 10K. It was the 3 mile marker for the 10K race, not my 5K race! Where was the 5k marker? I kept running and looked at my watch. 7:45, no marker. 8:00 no marker. 8:30, nothing. Finally, there it was. I reached it...8:54! I'd run an 8:54 mile 3! How could that be? I hadn't walked, had barely slowed. Were the other mile markers wrong? Didn't matter. I'd run this course before and, as I crossed the finish line 41 seconds later I felt pretty confident that it was 5K that I'd just run. A fair mile 1, a good mile 2 and a HORRIBLE mile 3!
Walking now I was able to calculate pretty clearly. This all added up to a pace well OVER 8 minutes for the mile. On easier, flat Roosevelt Island I'd run substantially slower than I had on the hilly, nasty Harlem course. How could that be? What was wrong?
I approached the race director and told him something seemed amiss with the mile markers cause my mile 3 had been much slower than mile 2. He asked if perhaps I'd misread the mile 2 marker...maybe that was for the 10K? Yeah, well, right. I'd done it for mile 3. Maybe I'd done it on mile 2 as well.
"Otherwise," the director asked, "how did you like the race?" "Yeah, well, it was fine, except for my total fuck up," I didn't say but did think to myself. See, no more happy thoughts.
After awhile I decided to take in the totality of the bad news. I looked at my watch. It read 23:54 for the entire race. Wait a minute. That's not so bad. That's definitely under 8 minute pace. In fact well under it. Was it? Maybe I was mistaken now. No, definitely under 8. How could that be?
So I looked at the splits for each mile. Remember, at mile 1, my watch said I'd run it in a mediocre 7:52? Well, that's what I saw, but that wasn't what was there. It had read 6:52. But since 7:52 was possible and 6:52 (at least for now) isn't, my mind interpreted it as the reasonable time for the first mile. And so I had an incredibly fast time for mile 1, an equally unbelievable 3 mile split and together, along with my quite good...and perhaps actually accurate...mile 2 averaged out to a 7:43 race.
About what I thought I could do from the beginning. Too bad my addled running mind couldn't see it coming!
But not when I race. Racing is stressful. I'm trying to find the fastest possible pace that I can maintain for the distance we're going. And that means making really intense demands on my legs, my muscles and my heart's ability to get oxygen and fuel circulated to every part of me that's getting increasingly desperate for it.
And that, as you can imagine, causes me to feel VERY uncomfortable. And that discomfort is not conducive to my usual happy thinking. It's really not conducive to thinking at all. Except, of course, thinking about how I'm doing. Now THAT I can focus on!
But, sadly, not at today's Roosevelt Island 5K. The race was very unfair to me. It wouldn't let me figure out if I was doing good until I was convinced that I was doing very, very bad.
Last week you may recall I raced a very tough 5K course in Harlem and averaged 8 minutes and 1 second per mile. So I figured that "doing good" on this easier, much flatter course would be at least a sub 8 minute pace. Of course, beating that pace by just a second or two really wouldn't feel so great. I hoped to get it down around 7:45. That seemed achievable.
At the starting line, this is what I thought: "Go out agressive but not too agressive. Be fast but not at an exhausting pace. Try to hit about 7:40 at the 1 mile marker and hope to not feel so weakened that the remaining 2.1 miles will seem like torture." Not happy thoughts. Strategic, however.
The race began and a very fast lead pack went off into the distance. I was at the head of the second pack and no one was passing me. We headed north on the Queens side of the Island, ran under the 59th Street Bridge to the Island's boundary, turned right, then right again and headed back the other way with Manhattan now on our left. At the 1 mile marker I read my watch: 7:52. This was not wonderful...though not terrible...news. Good to be under 8 but I'd have to speed up to reach my 7:45 goal and already I was feeling uncomfortable and fatigued.
Not pleasant to consider.
Suddenly I had other thoughts. I was passing other runners. How was this possible? Took me a moment but then I realized it was because there was also a 10K race going on at the exact same time as ours. Their course had begun just ahead of ours and now I was catching up to their back of the pack runners. Damn, I enjoyed that! For the entire second mile...even as my discomfort was getting to mild pain...I had some fun with going by someone on his left, then someone on her right, then in between 2 of them!
Here came the 2 mile marker...7:27. 7:27!!!! Oh my gosh I ran mile 2 in 7:27? That's so much better than I thought I could possibly do! Now I didn't even have to do a very hard mile 3! I was well ahead of expectations. All I had to do was hang in there! But that was now more and more difficult to do because the discomfort that had turned to mild pain was now definitely, unquestionably true pain. I wanted to slow but I didn't want to slow because it looked like a really good time was in reach.
I pushed ahead and finally, up ahead, I saw it, the 3 mile marker. I glanced at my watch and saw that it was just getting to 7 minutes! I'd probably hit 3 miles in a bit over 7:30 and then there'd be just a tenth of a mile to go. Sweet!
And then I really saw it. As I got close to the mile marker I saw it and it was terrible! This: 10K. It was the 3 mile marker for the 10K race, not my 5K race! Where was the 5k marker? I kept running and looked at my watch. 7:45, no marker. 8:00 no marker. 8:30, nothing. Finally, there it was. I reached it...8:54! I'd run an 8:54 mile 3! How could that be? I hadn't walked, had barely slowed. Were the other mile markers wrong? Didn't matter. I'd run this course before and, as I crossed the finish line 41 seconds later I felt pretty confident that it was 5K that I'd just run. A fair mile 1, a good mile 2 and a HORRIBLE mile 3!
Walking now I was able to calculate pretty clearly. This all added up to a pace well OVER 8 minutes for the mile. On easier, flat Roosevelt Island I'd run substantially slower than I had on the hilly, nasty Harlem course. How could that be? What was wrong?
I approached the race director and told him something seemed amiss with the mile markers cause my mile 3 had been much slower than mile 2. He asked if perhaps I'd misread the mile 2 marker...maybe that was for the 10K? Yeah, well, right. I'd done it for mile 3. Maybe I'd done it on mile 2 as well.
"Otherwise," the director asked, "how did you like the race?" "Yeah, well, it was fine, except for my total fuck up," I didn't say but did think to myself. See, no more happy thoughts.
After awhile I decided to take in the totality of the bad news. I looked at my watch. It read 23:54 for the entire race. Wait a minute. That's not so bad. That's definitely under 8 minute pace. In fact well under it. Was it? Maybe I was mistaken now. No, definitely under 8. How could that be?
So I looked at the splits for each mile. Remember, at mile 1, my watch said I'd run it in a mediocre 7:52? Well, that's what I saw, but that wasn't what was there. It had read 6:52. But since 7:52 was possible and 6:52 (at least for now) isn't, my mind interpreted it as the reasonable time for the first mile. And so I had an incredibly fast time for mile 1, an equally unbelievable 3 mile split and together, along with my quite good...and perhaps actually accurate...mile 2 averaged out to a 7:43 race.
About what I thought I could do from the beginning. Too bad my addled running mind couldn't see it coming!
Monday, August 20, 2012
THE CHAMPIONSHIP GAME
The Reds needed just 1 more win to take the championship. We lead our best 2 of 3 series with the Wackers, 1 game to none, as the result of our stunning win the week before when we played them dramatically short handed. No way they could bounce back, especially now that we had our full team and they were the ones short handed, although not by nearly as much as we had been.
Happily the game started off just as I planned it...well, at least hoped it would go. In our very first at bat, Max singled, Adam did the same and Jeff, one of our returning players, slammed a home run to center field. In the second inning the onslaught continued. Anthony, also returning to us, singled and Caruso slammed one to right that looked sure to be a big extra base hit but their right fielder had other plans. Still, we were POUNDING that pitcher. Dennis singled and Chris, welcome back, walked. The bases were loaded and heavy damage about to be done. Tony stepped up and slammed the ball! Great contact but poor aim. It zoomed along the ground right to their shortstop who started a double play.
But we were pounding the ball, no problem...except our pounding stopped there. We, amazingly, did not get another hit till 2 were out in the 7th inning. Nothing at all in the 3rd, 4th, 5th and 6th and even our paltry 7th inning single did not lead to a run. So we had a 3-0 lead and we couldn't add to it. Was it enough?
Nope. Wackers tied us up. And they threatened to do worse. They put runners on base and looked absolutely set to take the lead, maybe a big lead. Except for 1 thing. Everytime they had a chance to score, they hit the ball to Anthony. Big mistake. He's our third baseman. He doesn't like to be challenged. Or maybe he does. Handles them pretty well, I'd say.
Runner on first, line drive to Anthony's left. He lunges and graps it. Runners on second and third, 2 outs, a sharp 1 hopper, again to his left. Fielded cleanly and tossed to first. Second and third and 1 out, a slow roller this time that nets them nothing as Anthony fields it, holds the runner and makes that toss. Next batter? Pretty much the same thing and same result. Inning over.
So we went to extra innings and, in the eighth, Warner lined a hit to right. Anthony did the same and Warner raced to third base. Caruso came to the plate.
Remember my post last week where I mentioned a player who annoyed both teams by switching sides, first from the Reds to the Wackers and then from the Wackers back to us? Didn't mention his name. It was Caruso. And so, in this crucial situation the question was, which team would he again annoy and upset?
The Wackers. He bounced a chopper, just beyond the reach of the pitcher and Warner charged home. The Wacker third baseman was so upset that he muttered under his breath how we had all the luck! Playing against us 6 men down wasn't enough luck for him? I had no sympathy!!
The Wackers trailed now by a run but they had 1 more chance. They got a runner to first but we got 2 outs. Their final batter hit a soft line drive towards first. Initially it seemed like it might go over Max's head, but the ball soon lost altitude. But it also seemed to lose all sense of speed because it took forever to reach our first baseman. Eventually, however, it found it's final resting place in Max's big glove.
Game over! Series over! For the first time since 2008 the Reds are champs! I think there are more championships in our immediate future!
Happily the game started off just as I planned it...well, at least hoped it would go. In our very first at bat, Max singled, Adam did the same and Jeff, one of our returning players, slammed a home run to center field. In the second inning the onslaught continued. Anthony, also returning to us, singled and Caruso slammed one to right that looked sure to be a big extra base hit but their right fielder had other plans. Still, we were POUNDING that pitcher. Dennis singled and Chris, welcome back, walked. The bases were loaded and heavy damage about to be done. Tony stepped up and slammed the ball! Great contact but poor aim. It zoomed along the ground right to their shortstop who started a double play.
But we were pounding the ball, no problem...except our pounding stopped there. We, amazingly, did not get another hit till 2 were out in the 7th inning. Nothing at all in the 3rd, 4th, 5th and 6th and even our paltry 7th inning single did not lead to a run. So we had a 3-0 lead and we couldn't add to it. Was it enough?
Nope. Wackers tied us up. And they threatened to do worse. They put runners on base and looked absolutely set to take the lead, maybe a big lead. Except for 1 thing. Everytime they had a chance to score, they hit the ball to Anthony. Big mistake. He's our third baseman. He doesn't like to be challenged. Or maybe he does. Handles them pretty well, I'd say.
Runner on first, line drive to Anthony's left. He lunges and graps it. Runners on second and third, 2 outs, a sharp 1 hopper, again to his left. Fielded cleanly and tossed to first. Second and third and 1 out, a slow roller this time that nets them nothing as Anthony fields it, holds the runner and makes that toss. Next batter? Pretty much the same thing and same result. Inning over.
So we went to extra innings and, in the eighth, Warner lined a hit to right. Anthony did the same and Warner raced to third base. Caruso came to the plate.
Remember my post last week where I mentioned a player who annoyed both teams by switching sides, first from the Reds to the Wackers and then from the Wackers back to us? Didn't mention his name. It was Caruso. And so, in this crucial situation the question was, which team would he again annoy and upset?
The Wackers. He bounced a chopper, just beyond the reach of the pitcher and Warner charged home. The Wacker third baseman was so upset that he muttered under his breath how we had all the luck! Playing against us 6 men down wasn't enough luck for him? I had no sympathy!!
The Wackers trailed now by a run but they had 1 more chance. They got a runner to first but we got 2 outs. Their final batter hit a soft line drive towards first. Initially it seemed like it might go over Max's head, but the ball soon lost altitude. But it also seemed to lose all sense of speed because it took forever to reach our first baseman. Eventually, however, it found it's final resting place in Max's big glove.
Game over! Series over! For the first time since 2008 the Reds are champs! I think there are more championships in our immediate future!
THE GAME WE WERE SUPPOSED TO LOSE
The team gathered round me as we prepared to begin the series that would determine the 2012 championship of our Sunday morning softball league. It was 3 years since the Reds last made it to the finals and 4 years since we'd won it all. So this was a long time in coming, a very big deal to climax a season where we'd had to fight till the very last week of the regular season simply to make it into the playoffs.
But we had made it and then swept to victory, 2 games to none, in the opening round. Now here we were with a chance to be the champs. And so I addressed the team: "Don't worry about today. I really don't think we can win. Let's just do our best, come back next week and try to beat them then.
Not inspiring I know, but true. We were missing half our team. Until 2 guys showed up at the very last minute I feared we wouldn't have a player to cover every defensive spot. Turns out we did but only by utilyzing people in positions they were totally unfamiliar with. One of our pitchers was in the outfield. So was an injured infielder. Our catcher had shown up to only a few games and had told me midseason that his shoulder hurt so badly he should really wait till next year.
Our opponents, on the other hand, had everybody. Their bench was absolutely filled with all their regular players, a bunch of substitutes, family members and fans. It looked like such a fun, happy place as they yelled and cheered and just exuded a sense of confidence.
Damn they pissed me off!
And just to make matters worse, there's a history between us and our opponents, the Wackers. We've met in the finals before with mixed results but a buildup of bad feelings. I suspect they once illegally used a "courtesy runner" to get a speedy guy on base in a crucial situation. In fact he scored the ultimate winning run. Some players have jumped from one team to the other...well, actually one, but he went from us to them and then back to us, annoying, at various times, everyone! Plus I'd tried to get the Wackers to postpone the game for the following week but they, knowing they had the advantage, refused. I don't blame them. I'd have done the same. Still that added to the hard attitude towards each other.
So I expected to lose, the Wackers expected to win and that's exactly what happened...at first. In fact, in the very first inning, a Wacker lofted a fly ball to our pitcher turned outfielder who misplayed it into a 2 run homer. See what I mean? No chance. They added runs in the second and third, we answered back with nothing and trailed, 4-0.
We were down and they should have beaten up on us from there but we wouldn't let them. We had our pride and good pitching and a few of our guys made some good defensive plays, like our injured infielder in the outfield. The Wackers couldn't score anything more and we scratched out a run. It was 4-1 going to the sixth. The Wackers threatened but we turned a double play and raced off the field. Our turn but time was running out.
But time was not working entirely in our opponents favor. Their pitcher was getting tired. He showed it by walking Adam on a 3-2 pitch. Warner singled to right. Dennis walked on 4 pitches. Bases loaded! Diaz singled in a run. Now we were within 2. Was it possible?
Didn't seem so. Our pitcher playing the outfield popped up. Our injured catcher lofted a fly to left center for the second out. But daringly maybe crazily our runner at third was tagging up, trying to score! The Wacker outfielder, taken a bit by surprise, hesitated then unleashed a throw high over the catcher's head. Warner was safe at home with our 3rd run and Dennis rushed from second base to third.
Tieing run just 60 feet away and to the plate came me. I'd already had a hit in the game but this one would be huge. We would tie up the game. I noticed the shortstop playing me too close to second base, leaving a very inviting opening between him and the third baseman. The pitch came in and that's where I hit it, solidly into left field. The game was tied.
Tied? The game was tied with 1 inning to go? Is this possible?
It was. We got the Wackers out in their half of the 7th inning, but only just barely on a close and disputed play at first, leaving 2 disappointed runners on base.
Now it was our turn. With 1 out Max and Adam both singled. Two on for Warner and he wasted no time, driving a hard ground ball past the desperately lunging first baseman. Max flew around third base as the Wacker right fielder rushed in for the ball, picking it up and hurling it towards home as Max headed there. The throw was a little weak and faded to the catcher's right side. Max dove to the plate on the catcher's left side. The catcher reached forlornly for the ball as Max slammed his left hand squarely in the middle of the plate.
Safe! We'd won! I did not see that one coming. Now we need just 1 more victory and we'll be champs.
I don't believe in jinxes or bad luck or the wrath of the Baseball Gods, well, or God for that matter. Now we are SUPPOSED TO WIN!!
But we had made it and then swept to victory, 2 games to none, in the opening round. Now here we were with a chance to be the champs. And so I addressed the team: "Don't worry about today. I really don't think we can win. Let's just do our best, come back next week and try to beat them then.
Not inspiring I know, but true. We were missing half our team. Until 2 guys showed up at the very last minute I feared we wouldn't have a player to cover every defensive spot. Turns out we did but only by utilyzing people in positions they were totally unfamiliar with. One of our pitchers was in the outfield. So was an injured infielder. Our catcher had shown up to only a few games and had told me midseason that his shoulder hurt so badly he should really wait till next year.
Our opponents, on the other hand, had everybody. Their bench was absolutely filled with all their regular players, a bunch of substitutes, family members and fans. It looked like such a fun, happy place as they yelled and cheered and just exuded a sense of confidence.
Damn they pissed me off!
And just to make matters worse, there's a history between us and our opponents, the Wackers. We've met in the finals before with mixed results but a buildup of bad feelings. I suspect they once illegally used a "courtesy runner" to get a speedy guy on base in a crucial situation. In fact he scored the ultimate winning run. Some players have jumped from one team to the other...well, actually one, but he went from us to them and then back to us, annoying, at various times, everyone! Plus I'd tried to get the Wackers to postpone the game for the following week but they, knowing they had the advantage, refused. I don't blame them. I'd have done the same. Still that added to the hard attitude towards each other.
So I expected to lose, the Wackers expected to win and that's exactly what happened...at first. In fact, in the very first inning, a Wacker lofted a fly ball to our pitcher turned outfielder who misplayed it into a 2 run homer. See what I mean? No chance. They added runs in the second and third, we answered back with nothing and trailed, 4-0.
We were down and they should have beaten up on us from there but we wouldn't let them. We had our pride and good pitching and a few of our guys made some good defensive plays, like our injured infielder in the outfield. The Wackers couldn't score anything more and we scratched out a run. It was 4-1 going to the sixth. The Wackers threatened but we turned a double play and raced off the field. Our turn but time was running out.
But time was not working entirely in our opponents favor. Their pitcher was getting tired. He showed it by walking Adam on a 3-2 pitch. Warner singled to right. Dennis walked on 4 pitches. Bases loaded! Diaz singled in a run. Now we were within 2. Was it possible?
Didn't seem so. Our pitcher playing the outfield popped up. Our injured catcher lofted a fly to left center for the second out. But daringly maybe crazily our runner at third was tagging up, trying to score! The Wacker outfielder, taken a bit by surprise, hesitated then unleashed a throw high over the catcher's head. Warner was safe at home with our 3rd run and Dennis rushed from second base to third.
Tieing run just 60 feet away and to the plate came me. I'd already had a hit in the game but this one would be huge. We would tie up the game. I noticed the shortstop playing me too close to second base, leaving a very inviting opening between him and the third baseman. The pitch came in and that's where I hit it, solidly into left field. The game was tied.
Tied? The game was tied with 1 inning to go? Is this possible?
It was. We got the Wackers out in their half of the 7th inning, but only just barely on a close and disputed play at first, leaving 2 disappointed runners on base.
Now it was our turn. With 1 out Max and Adam both singled. Two on for Warner and he wasted no time, driving a hard ground ball past the desperately lunging first baseman. Max flew around third base as the Wacker right fielder rushed in for the ball, picking it up and hurling it towards home as Max headed there. The throw was a little weak and faded to the catcher's right side. Max dove to the plate on the catcher's left side. The catcher reached forlornly for the ball as Max slammed his left hand squarely in the middle of the plate.
Safe! We'd won! I did not see that one coming. Now we need just 1 more victory and we'll be champs.
I don't believe in jinxes or bad luck or the wrath of the Baseball Gods, well, or God for that matter. Now we are SUPPOSED TO WIN!!
Monday, August 6, 2012
STRANGE TIMES AT SECOND BASE
Second base is exciting. Half way home, a mere single is often all it takes to allow its occupant to score. Unlike boring third base where, after a hit, you can pretty much walk home, from second you have to sprint. Even that may not be enough; scoring from second, in the end, may require your best slide or even a head first dive to get safely across home plate. Love that base!
And that's just offense. Defensively, second is where double plays are made and they are rarely easy. Second basemen must take the toss from a fellow infielder, touch the bag, dodge the incoming runner, turn to first and deliver a throw strong enough to beat the batter, now desperate to avoid the humiliation of having hit into a rally killing, pitcher's delight.
This season my Sunday Softball team, the Reds, has had great play at second base. We've turned double plays game after game after game. Our second baseman has just been the best. Till the playoffs began yesterday. That's when strange things began happening.
Early in game 1 our opponents, the Westies, had 2 outs, a runner on first when their batter hit a weak grounder to short. He flipped the ball to our second baseman for the out. Easiest of plays. The runner from first ran hard and futilely. He was clearly out but slid into second anyway where he made contact with our second baseman. No big deal. Happens all the time. Just baseball. No harm, no foul.
Our second baseman became enraged. He threw the ball down at the prone runner. Everyone ran out on the field. Players yelled, players pushed, players sought to calm things, the umpire threw our second baseman out of the game.
Why did this happen? I have no idea. Weird.
In the second game we had a nice early lead when our opponents put 2 runners on base. The next batter grounded the ball to our second baseman who had returned to the field after his first game banishment. Fielding it he decided to tag the runner. Sensing this the runner stopped. Not a surprising tactic but it seemed to befuddle our guy. He stood there for a few seconds just stairing at the now unmoving runner, then, finally, after giving the matter some thought, began walking slowly towards him. So the runner reacted by taking some steps in the direction of first base. This totally unsurprising move seemed to further mystify our player.
I watched in amazement. All he had to do was flip the ball to second where our shortstop awaited a throw. How could this simplest of plays be taking so long and becoming so complicated?
Finally our second baseman came to his senses and threw the ball to second. But by then the Westies' lead runner had arrived at third base, rounded it and decided to rush home. Our shortstop, seeing this, became eager to catch the throw and then nail the runner at home. So eager, unfortunately, that he came off the base before the ball arrived. Safe there! His throw home got away from our catcher. Safe there! And with the ball rolling, the runners each moved up another base. One run home, runners on second and third, no one out. Soon a missed throw at second base and a dropped pop up continued our worst inning of the season.
Mystifying! Weird!
And just as strange, we won both games because of what happened at second base. In game 1, the player who replaced our ejected guy had a big single to help score our first run and then hit a massive home run. In a 3-2 victory he acccounted for a crucial 2 runs. And, in game 2, with 5 runs in, with our 4 run lead turned to a 1 run deficit, with the bases loaded and 1 out we were well on our way to getting blown out. Till a grounder to third, a throw to second where our second baseman caught it, stepped on the bag, avoided the hard charging runner, pivoted and made a perfect throw to first for the double play, twin killing, pitcher's delight. Behind by just 1 run after that horror show? It was almost like, psychologically, we were still ahead. Soon a 2 run homer put us ahead for real and for good.
And, in the 6th inning when we needed another insurance run to make us feel safe? It was our second baseman who knocked it in.
Very strange!
Saturday, July 14, 2012
RUNNING UNDER THE INFLUENCE
I ran the 4 mile race in Central Park this morning on drugs.
Not the good kind that makes you happy or enhances your performance. That's okay, I don't want those kinds of drugs. They feel like cheating and, besides, I don't do them very well. In college, for example, a young lady sharing a joint with me described my pot smoking technique as "like someone gargoling a hash brownie." Alcohol too. Never liked the taste and drinking more than half a glass makes me a little ill. My father, who had none of these problems when it came to enjoying a drink, sometimes wondered if, in fact, we were genetically related.
So, no, I wasn't high on drugs this morning or even performance enhanced by them. I was on medicine; medicine that I began back in late April when my body decided that it was no longer going to pee. No consultation with me, no warning, just pffft in my office, no more pee.
My doctors immediately knew that the problem was that my prostate (whose purpose is basically a mystery to me) felt that it required more room to perform it's unknown function and had begun to intrude on my urethra, impeding it's very simple purpose of carrying urine from my bladder to anywhere outside my body.
They put me on flomax. While this helped me to pee again it also brought up scary thoughts of last year when, for less severe symptoms, I was also on the medication. Very nice, very helpful. And ruined my running.
It didn't ruin my running right away although it did seem to quickly elevate my heart rate. I still managed some good runs and decent races until the weather became extremely warm. Then I couldn't run 3 miles without feeling so exhausted that I had to stop. The culmination was a horrible 5 mile race in June in which I averaged over 9 minutes per mile...a pace I'd normally do in a not very fast training run. From it I ambled over to my softball game in which I pulled a quad muscle while beating out an infield hit.
Something had to be done. I stopped the flomax, my running improved and I hoped the symptoms wouldn't get worse. Which they didn't. Till they got much worse in April.
So I was back on the medication. But I hoped that it wouldn't hurt my running so much for the following reasons:
1-Because maybe, you know, it just wouldn't.
2-Cause I changed to Rapiflow and, though it's the same category of drug maybe it would just be better.
3-I'm hydrating more.
4-I'm taking it as far from when I run as possible.
5-I really want it to.
In fact my training has been better. Heart rate is lower, I don't have to stop and rest and I'm able to push the pace a bit.
On the negative side, I'm a bit slower, a little more fatigued and I haven't pushed myself to run any long distance, nothing more than 8 miles. And I was warned that I might die.
Not by a doctor but by a friend who was alarmed to hear that the medication elevates my heart rate. He warned me about tachycardia and arithmia and maybe other things too, it was hard to keep listening.
I asked my doctor who said I should absolutely not worry and just enjoy my runs. And, of course, I did have the experience of running while under the influence most of last summer and nothing bad had happened.
Nothing tells you your running condition then a race. But I've been shying away from them as I just felt reluctant to take on the all out effort, especially given that I've been a little slow and sluggish and there is that thought of dieing....
Today's race, however, was a good one because I'd raced it last year...AFTER I'd stopped taking the medication for about a month...so I thought it could really tell me something about where I stood. I completed it then in 33:03. If I could just run it a little faster, then, given similar weather conditions, that would be a pretty good thing. That's why I decided to do it.
The race was scheduled for 8 AM and I arrived at 7. Sitting on the bench, putting on my racing shoes, team singlet and race number I began thinking that I really didn't want to be there. If it turned out that I was slower and knowing that I couldn't just decide to stop the medication (as long as I wanted to continue to be able to pee and not, as my podiatrist mentioned, turn yellow), then my running performance would be doomed. I could kiss running goodbye. As difficult as it is to maintain athletic ability through the aging process, this would be the last straw because of a Stupid Medication. And who's to say about tachycardia and arithmia, they're probably much more likely when running on hills, and....
Okay, it was a bit of an anxiety attack. I got up to begin my warm up jog. I took it slowly. As I gradually picked up the pace I felt less anxious. Soon I was in the coral near the starting line, listening to the pre race announcement. Several caused the other runners to applaud but I kept mine to a minimum. Energy saving mode. I kept reminding myself to go out slowly.
I needn't have. The gun went off and it took a minute and a half to make it to the starting line. Even then it was too crowded to do anything but go along at the pace of those around me. Downhill we went, soon reaching the Boat House and the beginning of the dreaded Cat Hill with its statue of a leaping panther about half way up. I hadn't run on a single hill since April. Would my heart explode with this unfamiliar effort? Nope, never got above 150 beats per minute, around my usual racing pace. I did mile 1 in 7:57.
Not bad! That put me well on pace to beat last year when I averaged 8:16 for the entire 4 miles. But though besting 12 months ago was the perfect goal I REALLY hoped I could be under 8 minutes. Nothing in my training suggested I could, but, still, that would be REALLY nice.
Mile 2 has no tough hills so usually it's faster. But the Cat Hill climb had taken a lot out of me and I could only improve by a few seconds to 7:54.
Two sub 8s in a row was a good thing and better than my fearful worst case scenario which involved either collapsing or quiting, but I also knew that I had no chance of continuing that pace for the entire distance. Mile 3 was nasty. It had the tough West Side Hills. And, worse, I was really tired.
I pushed to go on, telling myself that every step put me in better shape. Then I hit the hills and forward progress seemed to stall. My legs felt really, really heavy. Other runners were passing me. I kept saying to just hang in. Then I saw the mile 3 marker not far ahead and my watch was not even at 7 minutes for the mile! Incredible! Expect it was the marker for the water station and toilet, not for mile 3. Oh, well. I finally trudged to the end of the third mile in 8:35. Yikes!
Mile 4 began with the end of the last West Side Hill and was then mostly flat and slightly down. I'd love to say that I picked up the pace but I didn't have the energy to do that. The best I could do was maintain.
By the way, did I mention that the day was really humid? It was! Sweat pored out of me even during the warmups. Not throwing that in here as an excuse. I'm just saying....
Now in my training runs I'd sometimes run a few miles fast. Of late I've not been able to do more than 3 of them. Then I'd be too tired to push on. At that point I'd usually walk to the nearby water fountain, drink, splash myself, rest a moment and then continue on at a much slower pace. But I couldn't do that here of course, as this was a FOUR mile race.
So every fairly, moderately fast step I took beyond mile 3 felt really good, something better than I'd done in the last several months. I turned on to the 72nd Street transverse and finished the final mile in 8:13.
My official time is 32:40 and that is 24 seconds faster than last year. That's clearly a good thing. What's more, I think (from various clues) that weather conditions were worse today. So I could have been even quicker had the weather cooperated. At some future race, it will.
Sitting, relaxing, recovering afterwards and chatting with other racers I felt good. I certainly did the best I could today and I'm confident I'll get faster as I continue to train. Whether I can completely overcome the impact of running under the influence I don't know, but at least I'm looking forward to the next race.
Friday, May 11, 2012
SOME BAD PARTS ABOUT AGING
I stood on the side watching the lazy fly ball go towards short right center field. I was out of action for our weekday Weintraub team softball game and a new guy patrolled my position in right.
Right field, of course, was not my true position. I always played in center field or left, where most of the action is, because I've always been one of the best (if not THE best) defensive outfielder on the team. But that hasn't been true for years and I've had to slide over to the least hit to part of the field.
But not that day because I was watching another player rush in for that fly. He charged aggressively, yelling "mine, mine, mine" as he closed on the ball, finally catching it about chest high. It was a good play, not a great play, the kind I've made a thousand times in my life.
But not recently. Whether it's because I've slowed, don't pick up the flight of the ball as quickly or my reflexes have diminished (a combination of all?) I have, in fact, become less aggressive out there. On this play I probably would've peered to my side to see if the right center fielder was giving chase. When I realized that he wasn't I'd have come in as hard as possible, probably making the play, but not as easily as my new teammate had done. I'd likely have gotten there a bit late and had to reach down to my knees or even ankles to make the play. When I did my teammates would congratulate me warmly and probably think I was the best 62 year old outfielder around. But I would have known the truth. The play need not have been so hard.
And there was another truth I was concealing from my supportive teammates. I had told most of them that I was out with a groin injury. Not quite the full gospel. It did have to do with the groin area but less an injury than an insult. During the previous week my prostate had grown enormously. Well, maybe a fraction of an inch or so. But enough to stop the flow of urine. I'd stood in my office bathroom unable to pee. I'd stormed around my office a bunch of times hoping to shake something loose. I'd taken, at my doctor's suggestion, a hot bath.
But still I stood there futilely, feeling more and more uncomfortable, more and more panicky. Finally I looked up and thought: "Just please let me pee." And then I thought: "But you don't believe in god. You are talking to the bathroom ceiling." Sadly that didn't answer prayers either. I ended up in the emergency room with, ultimately, a device stuck in me and a recommendation to see a urologist the next day. I did. As expected he prescribed flomax and said he'd take the device out in a few days.
Not in time for that Monday night game, however, which I watched feeling part man, part mechanical device, definitely not right fielder. So I coached third base and waived 2 runners home who both got thrown out, just my contribution to a game that ended in a 0-0 tie. Not a good night. But I was hopeful that tomorrow would be better because that was the day the device was scheduled to come out. I'd have prayed that the flomax was doing the trick if only, you know, I believed in a god.
The prostate gland surrounds the urethra which is the tube leading from the bladder to the penis. When the prostate grows during the aging process it pinches in on this tube, impeding and sometimes blocking urine flow. Flomax and alpha blocker medications like it prevent this from happening by some magical process that doesn't actually involve shrinking the prostate.
I had a history with flomax. It began a little over a year ago when I noticed, much to my horror, blood in my urine following a hard run. My doctor was reassuring saying it was likely exercise induced trauma, a pretty unserious issue that involves the bladder, sometimes because of poor hydration, takes a beating during vigorous workouts like running. He sent me to a urologist who said, after an initial office exam, that he was "85% certain" that's what it was. To rule out the other, scarier, possibilities, he sent me for a series of tests that culminated with an actual peek inside the bladder (do not ask me how!)4 weeks later. I was highly anxious with each test but each test yielded negative results. Finally, the ultimate look see confirmed the original diagnosis. Apparently there was just a pesky capillary in the bladder that would sometimes break under stress.
"Nothing to worry about," my doctor said. "If and when it happens again, treat it as a nose bleed." So the aging process had caused blood in my urine to morph into a bloody nose, like when I once fouled a bunt off directly down onto home plate and it bounced up and hit me in my shnoz.
But the urologist told me 1 thing more. Another test had shown my urine flow wasn't so great. I knew it but just regarded it as an inconvenience of, you know, aging. He suggested flomax. I took it and, sure enough, the problem ceased. Sadly another began.
Flomax mildly lowers blood pressure and this had the effect of raising my heart rate. Absolutely no big deal. Except when I ran I began getting incredibly fatigued after just a mile and a half or so. I began slowing my runs, shortening them and doing them less frequently. I'd stop after 3 and a half miles to drink water and rest. I ran a 5 mile race in Central Park that was SO SLOW that it was like a training run. Not connecting it with the flomax at first I wondered if something was physically wrong with me. Then, thinking I didn't seek out help for slow urine flow at all I decided to experiment and see what would happen without the medicine.
What happened was I speeded back up and was able to train like myself again and run races faster and faster. And the pesky flow problem didn't return. Till it did last week. Only worse.
So I wanted the flomax to help. And I didn't want to be on it because it will probably ruin my running again.
The next day I went to the urologist, really nervous about what would happen. He took the device out and...nothing happened. Could barely pee. If this isn't working I know what the next step is...laser surgery. I don't want laser surgery. Certainly not in that area.
"It doesn't mean anything," the urologist said. "You're bladder is empty. Give it time." I explained my running problem to him and he said there are different medications but they're all alpha blockers. They'll all probably do the same thing. There are some chemical differences between brands and maybe my body will react differently to a different one. So he gave me an alternate prescription. But he didn't give me a lot of hope. So I went home, not knowing if the flomax would work and, if it did, not knowing if my running would be ruined.
I got home and, sure enough, I'd come back to life! Can not tell you how good it is to regain a function that had been so automatic till it stopped. But that night there seemed to be a problem. Nothing much was happening and I must have gotten out of bed 6 times to try. I was so anxious that I was going not out of a sense of urgency but more out of a sense of testing to see if it would flow. Going to the bathroom had become a medical test. I was a mess and slept not a week. I was contemplating surgery and worrying about how long after it it would be before I knew if I was alright.
I did have an early morning appointment with the urologist who wanted to be sure that my bladder was emptying. I was sure that it wasn't and wondered how quickly we could set the surgery up and how foolish would it be for me not to get a second opinion. The doctor ran his hand held ultrasound machine over my belly and said the bladder was pretty empty and that was the reason I couldn't go last night. He said I must've become anxious and that made me keep trying though there was nothing much there to come out. He said to relax. And oh, by the way, there's a stone in my bladder that probably causes the bleeding and also a stone in my right kidney that requires watching. More sucky aging stuff. He said come in tomorrow and we'll check the bladder again just to be sure.
After that it all seemed to improve. I returned the next morning expecting good news then began to panic as he approached me with the ultrasound. What if I felt good but the bladder was all stuffed up? Emergency surgery then? I needn't have worried. All was well. Better than the day before in fact.
.
"Come back in a month," he suggested which I took as a good sign and then we got into an argument about Obama care. I have a softball game this Sunday and he said I could play. I want to run on Saturday and he said there's no reason not to do it. I left feeling really good...if I can just get back into my athletics without a problem.
So today I did a bunch of pushups. An hour later there was blood in my urine. Oh, god (in whom I don't believe). This is too much.
I told myself that this was likely nothing more than residual trauma from having a device in me for so long and the fact that I'd just worked out for the first time. Even pushups puts pressure in that area. But damn! Couldn't I just get to feel okay and fine and confident for the weekend?
With all this I don't want to rely strictly on western medicine. I actually had an appointment with an accupuncturist and herbologist who I'd seen before and once during this crisis. I got to her and she asked if I continued to be okay since I'd emailed her the previous day. "Well, therein lies a story," I answered. "Let me tell you it and then we'll decide if I continue to be okay." So I told her and she was reassuring that it was the combination of bladder stone and exercise that lead to the bleeding. "The bladder stone is actually good news because it explains things." I think she's right. But who knows?
Then she put needles in me. Weird. Not pleasant, a little painful. She'd tell me to breathe before needling me. I'd breathe hard. One of the spots that reduces inflamation in the prostate is the ear lobe. Didn't hurt but seems strange. Everything seems strange, frankly.
I don't want to sit back and do nothing about the stones. She says there are granules that I can take to reduce and ultimately eliminate the stones and strengthen both the kidneys and bladder. Should take about 3 months. Eager to get going with it. Then we'll talk about other alternatives.
And now I want to get back to all the things I love. I hope they won't somehow restart the problem. I've been told by all concerned that this is not likely at all. So I'll try. Maybe I shouldn't slide. Maybe I should hope for rain this Sunday. I hope the flomax doesn't screw up my running. If it does I hope a different medication will be better for my running but just as good for my prostate.
I really don't know what's coming next though I do know that nothing I'm doing will make me a better outfielder. And that's some of the bad parts, at least in my case, of aging.
Saturday, March 3, 2012
MAKING THE TEAM
Watching my nephew Matt play his first college game got me thinking about mine. They're actually quite similar. He pitched 2 innings of relief in the late innings of a game hopelessly lost. I pitched 2 innings of relief at the end of a contest we'd already lost. He hit a batter. I was supposed to hit a batter. He gave up a run. I gave up a, well, actually, I didn't give up a run. Sorry, Matt. And there were other differences....
Matt was a highly recruited high school star with a sizzling fastball that tops out in the mid to upper 80s. The Quinipiac Baseball Program really wanted him and is very glad they have him. I didn't play high school ball, probably never threw anything that even approached 80 miles per hour. And I don't think the Stony Brook Baseball Program in 1967 really wanted me.
That didn't stop me, of course, from trying out. I was a pitcher/outfielder and, throwing on the side 1 day I was having trouble with my control. I saw the coach coming over and managed to get a pitch over the plate. Pleased, I looked up and listened to the first words the coach ever said to me: "Right down home run ally, little man." Hmmm. This didn't sound good.
It got worse a few days later when the guys were divided up for an intersquad game...18 players making up 2 teams. My position? Coaching first base! Apparently I was the 19th guy. Didn't cheer me up when the coach later complimented me: "Nice chatter."
As opening day approached 2 players quit and 17 remained. By a stroke of good luck, Stony Brook had 17 baseball uniforms. So 17 and 17. I'm convinced that this is why I made the team.
Certainly the coach had no intentions of playing me and so I sat on the bench. In my long life up to that point I'd never, ever sat on a bench. I hated it. And our team was pretty bad. We lost game after game often by big margins and often with stupid plays. I honestly didn't know if I could hit college pitching or get college hitters out. But I did know that I wouldn't do the awful things I saw happening in front of me.
About half way into the season we entered the 9th inning astonishingly only behind by 1 run. We got a runner on and the coach, who was at least aware that I could run fast, put me in to pinch run. My first college action of any kind! With 2 outs I arrived at third. I hollered at the batter, our team captain, to get a hit and bring me in. He looked up at me in surprise. "What are you doing there?" he asked, obviously finding it hard to believe I was on the field. Damn! He popped up to end the game.
Pinch running doesn't count as real action, but that came the next day when, as usual, we were behind by about 9 runs in the 8th and the coach put me in. The first batter I faced was a lefty who'd given us trouble all day. Coach said to me, "throw at him." A knock down pitch was going to be my big debut! As I came out of my windup and released the pitch our coach yelled from the bench "look out" to warn the batter. He needn't have. My pitch came in low and outside. This irritated our catcher who was likely already pissed by the parade of runners who'd crossed home right in front of him. He jumped up from behind the plate and came storming out to the mound. "Don't you have any guts," he yelled at me. You know, fuck these people, they were really messing up my debut. "Yeah, I've got guts," I told him. "But I don't have much control."
The batter was so screwed up by all this that he was absolutely bailing on my next pitch which I managed to get over the plate. With his body practically heading for our bench he flicked a weak little pop to short...I'd retired my first college batter! And I got 5 more and they didn't score a run.
Afterwards the coach told the team he was impressed by my pitching. Apparently he didn't notice that my knock down pitch had not gone as planned. But I don't think he really was impressed because I never pitched another inning for Stony Brook.
Our left fielder, who, like most everyone, was having a horrible year, failed to slide at home on a close play and was tagged out at the start of our next contest. The third base coach yelled at him. Our coach REALLY lit into him and our left fielder screamed back, called the coach a loser, stripped off his shirt, threw it down right there and quit the team.
And that's how I became a starting outfielder for the Stony Brook Patriots. And let me tell you about the game I consider my REAL first game. I lead off. I got on base all 5 times I batted...a couple of hits, a walk, an error and hit by a pitch that just nicked my shirt. I recall turning to the umpire and screaming "the ball hit me, ump. Right here." "I know, I know," he answered. "You don't have to yell at me." I couldn't help it, though, I was pretty excited to finally be getting on base!
At season's end I was voted the teams most improved player. I felt really good to get that award. Because at the beginning of the season they pretty much thought I wasn't good enough to play for a pretty awful team.
Matt was a highly recruited high school star with a sizzling fastball that tops out in the mid to upper 80s. The Quinipiac Baseball Program really wanted him and is very glad they have him. I didn't play high school ball, probably never threw anything that even approached 80 miles per hour. And I don't think the Stony Brook Baseball Program in 1967 really wanted me.
That didn't stop me, of course, from trying out. I was a pitcher/outfielder and, throwing on the side 1 day I was having trouble with my control. I saw the coach coming over and managed to get a pitch over the plate. Pleased, I looked up and listened to the first words the coach ever said to me: "Right down home run ally, little man." Hmmm. This didn't sound good.
It got worse a few days later when the guys were divided up for an intersquad game...18 players making up 2 teams. My position? Coaching first base! Apparently I was the 19th guy. Didn't cheer me up when the coach later complimented me: "Nice chatter."
As opening day approached 2 players quit and 17 remained. By a stroke of good luck, Stony Brook had 17 baseball uniforms. So 17 and 17. I'm convinced that this is why I made the team.
Certainly the coach had no intentions of playing me and so I sat on the bench. In my long life up to that point I'd never, ever sat on a bench. I hated it. And our team was pretty bad. We lost game after game often by big margins and often with stupid plays. I honestly didn't know if I could hit college pitching or get college hitters out. But I did know that I wouldn't do the awful things I saw happening in front of me.
About half way into the season we entered the 9th inning astonishingly only behind by 1 run. We got a runner on and the coach, who was at least aware that I could run fast, put me in to pinch run. My first college action of any kind! With 2 outs I arrived at third. I hollered at the batter, our team captain, to get a hit and bring me in. He looked up at me in surprise. "What are you doing there?" he asked, obviously finding it hard to believe I was on the field. Damn! He popped up to end the game.
Pinch running doesn't count as real action, but that came the next day when, as usual, we were behind by about 9 runs in the 8th and the coach put me in. The first batter I faced was a lefty who'd given us trouble all day. Coach said to me, "throw at him." A knock down pitch was going to be my big debut! As I came out of my windup and released the pitch our coach yelled from the bench "look out" to warn the batter. He needn't have. My pitch came in low and outside. This irritated our catcher who was likely already pissed by the parade of runners who'd crossed home right in front of him. He jumped up from behind the plate and came storming out to the mound. "Don't you have any guts," he yelled at me. You know, fuck these people, they were really messing up my debut. "Yeah, I've got guts," I told him. "But I don't have much control."
The batter was so screwed up by all this that he was absolutely bailing on my next pitch which I managed to get over the plate. With his body practically heading for our bench he flicked a weak little pop to short...I'd retired my first college batter! And I got 5 more and they didn't score a run.
Afterwards the coach told the team he was impressed by my pitching. Apparently he didn't notice that my knock down pitch had not gone as planned. But I don't think he really was impressed because I never pitched another inning for Stony Brook.
Our left fielder, who, like most everyone, was having a horrible year, failed to slide at home on a close play and was tagged out at the start of our next contest. The third base coach yelled at him. Our coach REALLY lit into him and our left fielder screamed back, called the coach a loser, stripped off his shirt, threw it down right there and quit the team.
And that's how I became a starting outfielder for the Stony Brook Patriots. And let me tell you about the game I consider my REAL first game. I lead off. I got on base all 5 times I batted...a couple of hits, a walk, an error and hit by a pitch that just nicked my shirt. I recall turning to the umpire and screaming "the ball hit me, ump. Right here." "I know, I know," he answered. "You don't have to yell at me." I couldn't help it, though, I was pretty excited to finally be getting on base!
At season's end I was voted the teams most improved player. I felt really good to get that award. Because at the beginning of the season they pretty much thought I wasn't good enough to play for a pretty awful team.
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