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.

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.

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.

THE TIME I BEAT UNCLE LOU

Sports and competition were big parts of what I shared from early childhood with my Uncle Lou Wallach, who died not long ago. But we never actually competed,except for just this one time....

Softball is what we had most in common. I loved that he lead the Wallach Wonders, the team that represented our side of the road in intramural softball games at Lansmans Bungalow Colony. As a boy I rooted for that team with all my heart. And it got even better when, as a teenager, I played in the same outfield with my uncle on the Lansmans Mens Softball team that competed against other colonies. I was 14 in short center and he was 45 in right field. Despite his seemingly advanced years he helped us win the championship that season.

But we never played against each other in softball. Nor did we in basketball, his number 1 sport as a kid. In fact I never even saw him on a basketball court. And it wasn't in gin rummy, his favorite card game, nor in handicapping horses at the track which he had a passion for. No, we did not compete in any of the areas that he loved.

We vied in paddleball, a sport that he'd never previously played.

No one at Lansmans, in fact, played paddleball, at least not when my family and I first arrived there. Handball was the big sport (besides softball) and it was played by barrel chested men who wore gloves to soften the sting of the hard black ball that they used. Maybe that's why I never got into it...too painful. So I was glad when paddleball slowly began to take over. And I was delighted when a group of players organized the first Lansmans Mens Paddleball Tournament.

Though I was a good player, the organizers did not rate me as one of the top, or "A", players. Probably because I was only 15. So they ranked me a "B" and paired me with another, pretty solid, B level player. Marv Grohmen, one of the men at the Colony that I admired, because Marv had played professional baseball! He'd been a high level minor leaguer, performing for the Atlanta Crackers, a Triple A team that still exists today. On the Lansmans softball field, Marv hit the ball a long way but didn't like to run.

And that's the way he played paddleball. He could wack the ball but didn't care to cover too much of the court. That was fine with me. I loved to scamper all over and get to balls that Marv didn't care very much to chase. We easily rolled through our first 2 opponents that way and made it to the semi finals.

In the semis we faced Shelly Moskowitz who was probably the best player. Shelly was not just good...he liked to psyche people out, playing all sorts of mind games. And he dearly loved to beat me. In fact, a few summers later, Shelly won a hard fought game against me though he complained near the end of not feeling well. Later he was taken to the hospital...he'd suffered a mild heart attack. A few days afterwards I got a message from him: "I can even beat you when I'm having a heart attack!" Happily, he was well on the way to recovery.

But in the tournament, Shelly was paired with a "C," a very weak, partner. So, as much as we could, Marv and I hit the ball to the poorer player. By the end Shelly threw down his paddle in disgust. We'd won easily...

...And advanced to the finals where we faced another strong player, Normie Shlesinger. Normie hit the ball harder than anyone and he announced to the entire colony that "there is no way that Mikey can beat me." In fact I didn't intend to even try. Our strategy, of course, was to beat Normie's weaker partner.

And that, in case you haven't guessed it, was Uncle Lou! Though a great athlete, Uncle Lou never played paddleball or any other, similar, racquet sport. He was a weak paddleballer and had thus been teamed with the powerful Norm. And so this was my one big competition with my Uncle!

The game went just as Marv and I hoped. We built a solid lead by playing the ball to Uncle Lou. He did very well, all things considered, but we were just relentless and that kept Normie from being much of a factor. Sometimes as a result, perhaps out of frustration, he overextended himself and that gave us even more advantages.

Finally it was championship point. I hit a shot to Uncle Lou and he swung a mighty, slightly uppercut swing. This swing had propelled many long home runs in softball and here he caught the ball solidly as well. It flew off his paddle towards the wall but up and up, rising about the wall and smacking into the screen above it. It was over and we were champs.

Norm and Uncle Lou congratulated us and walked off the court. Norm was shaking his head and kind of muttering to himself. Not Uncle Lou. He smiled at me, turned to the crowd and announced in a very clear voice: "Okay, next activity, gin rummy game in 15 minutes, in front of my bungalow!"

And that is the way he handled it, that one time I beat Uncle Lou!

WALLACH WONDERS

A road runs through Lansmans Bungalow Colony, the Catskill resort where I spent almost all my childhood summers. One side of the road contained (and still does)the casino with its pinball machines and restaurant, the paddleball, basketball and tennis courts, the swimming pool, day camp grounds and parking lot. The other side, my side, was much better.

We had the softball field!

It was on that field, on so many glorious Sunday mornings, that the fabled Mens Softball Team, often with me leading off, won championship after championship. It is not about that team or that day that I write.

I want to tell you about Saturdays.

That's when everyone got together for a colony softball game. We kept no records and no standings but everyone loved those games. Most of the men came out and wanted to play. Much of the rest of the colony came to watch and cheer. Every Saturday. Everyone loved that game.

But no one loved it as much as me.

I couldn't wait for Saturday. Even when I was too young to play. I would chase fly balls in the outfield during batting practice and then settle down to watch the game. Sometimes I'd keep score. Always I'd cheer for our team.

And our team consisted of the guys from our side (the good side) of the road. And the captain of our team, the person who got to decide who played and where, was my uncle Lou Wallach! What an honor! And how proud that made me feel!

And that's not all. Not only did he get to make all those vital decision...the team was actually named after him!! The Wallach Wonders! What a great name! Who could possible beat a wonderful team made up of Wonders! Why, it would take a miracle to beat a team like ours!

Unfortunately, that's what we faced: The Muriello Miracles represented the other (not as good) side of the road. It's captain was Johnny Muriello, an elegant, somewhat overweight man, very sweet but not very athletic (unlike his son Tony who was the fastest, best athlete I'd ever seen up to that time...but that's another story). The thing about Johnny is he tended to move v...e...r...y s...l...o...w...l...y in all that he did. And he was the pitcher for The Muriello Miracles. As you might imagine if you are a knowledgable softball/baseball person (and would I be friends with any other type of person?), Johnny's pitches were very, very, well, you know, slow.

How could The Muriello Miracles ever possibly beat The Wallach Wonders? My Uncle Lou was a TREMENDOUS athlete. A really good point guard in his youth (sadly I never saw him play basketball), he was a lefty throwing, lefty swinging powerhitter. I remember one summer when he unveiled a new swing: He'd begin his backswing by dramatically lifting his right leg into the air as the pitch was released and violently bringing it down as he started to move forward into the ball. Truthfully (and I've never said this in all these years) I don't think this helped his hitting. But Uncle Lou loved it! He told me many times that this was how Mel Ott, the great NY Giant, had hit.

Wow! No way a team lead by a slow moving, slow throwing pitcher, now matter how Miraculous, could possibly beat a team lead by a slugger who hit like Mel Ott!

And here's kind of the funny thing. I have NO memory of how any of those games turned out. Probably The Muriello Miracles won some games. Of course I plan on always thinking that we won the majority. But it really doesn't matter. Because what I do remember is how much I loved that The Wallach Wonders was named after my uncle Lou.

He was a really good hitter and outfielder. And uncle.

AN AFTERNOON SPENT OCCUPYING WALL STREET

Walking down Broadway I almost missed it. I was on Broadway's east side and the occupied area ended just short of Broadway's west side. Had the colorfulness of Zuccotti Park not caught my eye I'd have gone right by it.

So here is the first thing: The area of Occupy Wall Street is pretty small.

And here is the second thing: As is almost always the case, my right wing friends are wrong. No way the Occupation and its related traffic are hurting nearby businesses. The Park is isolated and doesn't border on any stores. In fact, on the sidewalks closest there are a whole bunch of food carts, T Shirt vendors, button dealers and such folk.

Small business is thriving!

The perimeter of the Park is crowded with people passing out leaflets carrying signs and talking up a whole variety of causes. The inside is practically busting over with tents of various sizes, almost all tightly packed upon one another. There are some walk ways in between, but so little room that I feared I'd step on someone's tent or, worse, someone lounging inside. The outer and inner areas are separated by metal barriers that you often see at parades. It helped give the tent area a very segregated, almost imprisoned look. But people moved easily between the areas.

Feeling like the inner part was more "hard core" and that it would be intrusive for me to be there, I walked around the perimeter. I saw 1 sign supporting Obama, several against fracking, a sign about owning a railroad so it could be changed...apparently a quote from Teddy Roosevelt...and another next to it about taking over a bank. There was a huge placard extolling getting along with the community and containing a list of rules to minimize problems. It had the number of "community relations" people to call about any difficulties...I wondered if these problem solvers were the occupiers themselves, the police or city officials.

There were lots of cops, all in the outer area and practically all standing around casually with nothing to do. One cop told a group of people who'd gathered to closely examine a sign to move on as they were blocking the sidewalk. A young man came up on a cop who was walking along and began giving him a shoulder massage. Reminded me of the time that President Bush did that to the President of Germany. She didn't like it at all and I remember her shoulders really tensing. The cop, however, handled it better. He just kept walking.

A young man came up to me and asked if we knew each other. He didn't look familiar so I said no and introduced myself. "Now we know each other," he noted and began walking with me. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Looking for a bathroom," I honestly answered. He gave me directions that made absolutely no sense. I thanked him and went off, grateful to be away. He seemed a little odd and I'd expected him to ask for money. I found a restaurant 2 blocks away that immediately let me use the facilities...didn't seem like a lot of bathroom use tension.

Relieved now and summoning up a bit of courage I walked inside the Park. There was a medical tent filled with stuff and also with a great big dog laying on the floor. The library felt a bit more friendly and I walked thru it...books and magazines tightly packed. Seemed odd to be in a library that was so dark. Hard to imagine life without electric lights! In the middle of the Park...the big communal kitchen. I saw 4 women inside hard at work. A sign outside said "if you steal from the people's kitchen, you're stealing from the people. Don't do it."

A young man asked me if he could ask me a question. When I agreed he asked if I could name the state that ends with a "k." Can you? "Alaska is close," I said, feeling clever. He laughed and looked impressed, before replying "as is Nebraska and North and South Dakota." Smart ass! No wonder the 1% hates him! "It's not a trick question," he emphasized, so I thought about it some more before it hit me:

New York!

"I ask people," he said "so people will understand it's important to look at things differently." O.K. We can miss the obvious. Cute. "And what about you," I asked. "How do you look at things differently?" Well, it seems he's from Arizona and came here last week to talk about this project he's gotten involved with...and then his friend came along and whisked him off. Oh, well. I walked to the west end of the Park and the drummers.

THIS was intense. Five or six drummers pounding away. A saxaphone player. A really focused looking woman dancing to the beat. Non stop. Fierce. Loud. Many people on the street, most with their phones out, shooting the scene, recording it. Louder and louder, I sat down to listen. There is a pizza place across the street. Two stories of apartments about it. I wondered what it was like to live there. Not good. I went over to a shrine like table filled with chachkas. Then I was back out on the perimeter.

That's where I came upon the bikes! At first I thought it was the Occupation work out place. But no, it's where stationary bikers generate electricity for the community. Two bikers were active and the guy I spoke to looked in great shape. "I'm really a runner," he bragged. An older gentlement next to me said, "well, you certainly look like a runner." I waited to see if either would comment on the kind of athlete I looked like. Nope. Instead we discussed reforming capitalism v overthrowing it. We agreed that reform was really the way to go.

Down the street I walked and came upon a sign woman. She wore 3 layers of signs, each filled with very small writing. I put my glasses on and read. Seems I was having difficulty concentrating. Can't remember a word of it. But she is an anthropology grad student just back from a year in Fiji and on her way to the big anthropology conference beginning tomorrow in Montreal. She's from Georgia and finds New York to be overwhelmingly big and noisy. But she felt she had to be to the Occupation and, now that she has, thinks New York is pretty neat. She took out a bag of vegetable and offered me some. We both ate a raddish and commented on its surprising spiciness. She spoke about the families she met in Fiji and how, over time, they got beyond seeing her as a stereotypical american. This reminded me of my time in Kentucky and getting beyond my "hillbilly" stereotypes and theirs of Jews and New Yorkers.

She said that the diversity, the many different things that mattered to the people there was what had most impressed her. But then we spoke of a diverse person of a different sort...a guy who'd approached her to discuss his big issue...sniffing the butts of women. His ultimate goal was for people to be having sex in public. We agreed that his approach was unlikely to succeed. More importantly this represents the kind of crazies that can be attracted there. Since I'm working in therapy with an occupier who was sexually abused there, no doubt this is something bad.

I got to the corner ready to head for the subway when I heard singing...This Land Is Your Land, one of my favorites, so I stopped to listen. A group of elderly gentlemen, old lefties in song. Really wonderful. They tried to get me to join them for their followup, even giving me a copy of the words. The Occupy Wall Street Song. It concludes: In parks and squares across the land
People are rising hand in hand
So join the movement, take a stand!
Occupy for change

I helped out by not joining in. It was a really nice way to end.

HOW I HURT MY FATHER'S FEELINGS

When I was a boy, I LOVED the Brooklyn Dodgers. I loved everything about them, like Ebbets Field, their little ball park, that they were the first major league team in the 20th Century to have a black player, that Pee Wee Reese was their captain and Duke Snider hit home runs onto Flatbush Avenue, that they had a pitcher (though not a very good one) that had a last name similar to mine, that Campy was their catcher...I just loved them and all their players.

And it certainly helped that 1955 is the first year that I can remember and that was the year that they won their first World Series.

For all that, though, I'm still not sure what caused me to casually comment to my dad that I'd really like to have Don Newcombe as my father.

Now I assume that I said that in 1956 when Newcombe was having an incredibly good year, but before the 7th game of that season's World Series when he pitched incredibly badly. I pretended to have a stomach ache so I could skip school and watch THAT??? Oh, well. Different story. But my point is, though I said I wanted it I'm not sure why I wished to be Newcombe's son.

Surely I hadn't thought through what it would mean to be multiracial or, for that matter, have to move from the Lower East Side which I loved to the Newcombe home in New Jersey. Nor was I thinking of the genetic value of having a 6' 6" father and what that would mean towards increasing my rather limited height and power hitting ability.

I do recall, though, seeing the Newcombe family once on TV and noticing that they had a ping pong table in their rec room. Now THAT made an impression on me, but I'm not sure if that's why I wanted him as my dad. Really, I can't think of why that struck me as such a good idea.

Of course, what also didn't strike me was how my father might feel about my statement. Actually I still don't know. He didn't react very strongly, as I recall, and seemed mildly amused and curious. And the issue never came up again as I don't think I really wanted to be Don Newcombe's son, and, of course, certainly not after that Game 7 disaster.

But what my father did feel strongly about was the St. Looie Cardinals. He loved them and he especially loved Stan Musial and, throughout his life, never tired of reciting Musial's great statistics, like how many triples he had in 1952 which, sadly, I can't recall. I thought my father was very odd about this. I could never understand a New Yorker not rooting for, indeed, loving, a New York team. Why did he love the Cardinals? I have no idea.

Still, it didn't matter that much because the Cardinals were not a big rival to the Dodgers during the years I cared about them. The Dodgers moved to Los Angeles in 1958 but it didn't really upset me. I continued rooting for them till they gave away the pennant to the Giants at the end of the 1962 season. I was crushed and my love for them was somehow fractured. Worse, there was now a new team in New York to pick up my affection...the NY Mets. I didn't want to become a Mets fan because they'd just lost 120 games in their first season. I knew the suffering that this would lead to. But, as you know, love is inexplicable.

The Cardinals had not been doing particularly well over these years and Musial had come to the end of his career. My father was losing or had lost interest in the team and told me that he'd become a Mets fan. He did it, I'm sure, mostly to support me, as, in addition to having to deal with becoming a teenager I also had to cope (and I didn't do it well) with 100+ loss seasons. But at least I didn't want to be related to any of the Mets players and my dad probably appreciated that.

Then the Mets got Duke Snider from the Dodgers. What a joy it was having the Duke of Flatbush back. I remember the newspapers talking about a great catch he made in his first Mets game, how much he was already helping the team, though they didn't mention that, despite this terrific help, the team lost that contest, 10 - 0, and promptly went on an 8 game losing streak.

And then the Cardinals came to town. And took a 2 run lead into the 9th. I remember my father and I watching that game in my parents' bedroom. Strongly had the feel of yet another Mets' loss. Until they got 2 runners on and The Duke was sent up to pinch hit. The Cardinal manager brought in a lefty. This late in his career, Snider rarely hit against lefties. I got up close to the screen and yelled encouragement. My usually talkative father was strangely quiet sitting behind me. Snider smashed a 3 run home run to win the game and I began screaming and hopping around. I turned to my father just in time to see him get up and leave the room...without a word! Now that was certainly unusual for him!

Turns out my father had not stopped being a Cardinals fan as much as he'd thought. And he was not delighted by my joyful celebration of that rare and dramatic Mets triumph over his team. Nor did he want to take away from my fun. And, of course, he'd never have been watching that game had it not been for me.

No doubt he was upset by it all. And that's how I hurt my father's feelings. I thought of all this today because, if he was watching Chris Carpenter's performance with me last night, he'd certainly be happy and not overly concerned about that 1963 upset.