The Sins of The Father

I never ask for help.

Whether it be to ask for directions, need help with a work project or dealing with personal crisis I am completely self sufficient. I will begrudgingly accept help if offered, but only if I'm in way over my head or to appease the person offering the help, to make them feel better. As a kid in my neighborhood during pickup tackle football games or sandlot baseball games I was always a captain in charge of picking one of the teams. I would purposely pick an inferior line-up because it always felt better to win (or keep the game close) with less talent than to dominate over a weaker opponent.

I grew up with an over inflated ego. This was not due to constant, undeserved praise or coddling, but because from a very young age I knew that the adults in my life were fucked up and could sense that I was more in control of my emotions and reactions than almost every adult that I knew. My parents were an absolute mess. They never possessed an ounce of emotional regulation. The smallest of issues became huge fights in which ensued tremendous physical and emotional abuse. They divorced when I was seven, but my father was no where to be seen the last couple years of their marriage. He was around enough to knock her up a few more times, but soon disappeared into the selfishness and self-absorption of the 70's.

I don't talk about my father to anyone. Some of the things I witnessed as a young child are best kept in far recesses of my hippocampus. I don't have any regrets about my relationship with my father. To say that I have regrets would be to say I could have done something differently to change the situation. What I have concerning my father is more pity possible bordering on empathy. He never had a chance to enjoy his first set of children (he had six children with my mother, remarried and had another three, there could be others out there according to family lore). He never got to experience the unconditional love that comes with being a parent (my sisters profess to have loved him as they developed a relationship with him as adults, I doubt it was unconditional). He died a guilt ridden, painful death (my sisters tell me that he was calling out for me and my brother Greg during his last minutes on earth, although we have the same name, so the selfish bastard could have been calling out for himself).

A long time ago, while I was in my teens, I knew that I would never get an explanation as to why my father abandoned his family. My father was a low level criminal who was as full of shit as the day is long. He was a compulsive liar. Even as a seven year old I knew that he wasn't just embellishing a story to make it more interesting, he was an outright liar. My mother wasn't blameless in the situation, she had a myriad of emotional and mental health issues on her plate. In hindsight it was a good thing that they didn't remain together.

Of the many sins my father committed there are only two which I can't forgive.

The first is that he left my mother to raise five children (my brother Derek died at two months) with zero financial or emotional support. She had a stroke at 34 years old which left her paralysed on her left side and caused numerous other health problems until she died at 52 years old.

If he had helped her out financially even a little, at Christmas.

If he had taken us for weekend visits, once a year.

If he had been available for us kids to call him, to vent and receive validation.

Then maybe her burden would have been lessened just enough to keep her petite, frail body strong enough to raise her children to adulthood and maintain her sanity.

The other sin I will never forgive my father for is the fact that by not maintaining contact with us he robbed me of a relationship with the side of the family for which I am named. I never got to know my Uncle Tommy, his son Jimmy or his wife Connie. I never got to know my Uncle Jimmy. I did meet my Grandpa Sullivan a number of times, but never did anything with him, just sit in his apartment on Washington Street in Roslindale watching him and my dad smoke cigarettes. My Aunt Lorreta and her kids, Joey and Joanie kept in contact with us even after the divorce, but my father and mother were running so much interference with the situation that the relationship soured. My father went as far as to lie about our location to his sister. She didn't realize that we were still in the state until she read about my Grandma Norton's passing in the Boston Globe (I read this in a condolence letter she sent to my mother that I found amongst my mother's possessions when she passed). My brother's and sister's could have used all of the support possible when my father left, but instead we were left only with the Sullivan name.

This weekend I saw my cousin Jimmy for the first time in 40 years (read Jimmy's story here). I made contact with him August one year ago after seeing names on the grave where my brother Derek is buried and doing some Internet research about the Sullivan side of the family. I found Jimmy's (aka Suldog) blog and started reading. As I read stories about his life and some concerning family members I had never met I became angry. Angry at my father for denying me the chance to know my family, good or bad. Angry at my mother for not maintaining relationships for the sake of the kids. Angry at the Sullivan's for not wondering or caring about their nieces and nephews and their well being, knowing their brother had committed one of the worst crimes a man can commit, abandoning his offspring.

Moments and people from the past loom over our psyche and get bigger by each passing year.

When I got out of my Jeep after a two hour drive down the Mass Pike to Boston on Saturday I spotted my cousin Jimmy standing in front of the movie theater at Cleveland Circle, our rally point. As I got closer to my elder cousin I realized he was much smaller than I imagined. I am 6 feet and 200+, so most people are smaller, but in my mind he was my older cousin and I expected him to be bigger. I had the same feeling when I saw my father for the first time in over a decade at my sister Chris's wedding. I was 24 and hadn't seen my father since I was 13. When he introduced me to his wife Marie I barely looked at her, but was sizing him up. I promised my sister I would not pound him and it took every ounce of self restraint to not ruin her day (my brothers took the same oath and to this day we still haven't received any props). He looked frail and much smaller than I remembered. He had a tentative, frightened look in his eye. I wondered if it was the same look that I had when he broke down our front door during a fight with my mother. Jimmy had the same tentative look in his eye, but there was no fear or guilt. It was more the look you would have on the first day of school or a new job.

We walked up Chestnut Hill toward Alumni Stadium and a Boston College football game. We talked about our families, our lives and the sins of my father. After 40 years it was good to know that I had a connection to my surname and that there was another Sullivan that I could relate to. The sins of my father are buried with him. May they rest in peace.

Jena 6

Today in Jena, LA there is expected to be a gathering of at least 50,000 to protest the arrest and imprisonment of 6 black students who beat up a white student this past December. Read the story here. CapCity wrote a piece in her blog recently concerning this case and asked her readers to support the "Jena 6" by wearing black to support the students. I posted a comment on her site that was more like a post:

"I'll wear some black that day and I will pass along the story which has gotten little to no coverage here in the Northeast. (I Googled Jena 6 and read about 10 articles on the case.)I can't say that I condone violence of any kind including the beating of the white boy, but I can't say with a clear conscience that I wouldn't have done the same (I've done worse for less, we beat up people who wore orange on Saint Patty's Day because Orange symbolizes the Orange Order which marches through Catholic Belfast neighborhood's each summer to commemorate William of Oranges slaughter of the Irish 400 years ago. This is the cause of many of the riots in Northern Ireland during the past 40 years) I might actually kill if I were Black and saw nooses hanging in my or my children's school yard. I grew up in Boston during the early 70's when there was forced busing and the desegregation of schools. I don't agree with desegregation per say, but what the fuck is it with all the white kids hang here and all the black kids hang here? A white tree? Black bleachers? WTF!!!! Its 2007 and this shit is still an issue!?!My mother in law lives in Mississippi and segregation is alive and well. Its fucked up, but its the way everyone likes it Black and White alike. We should take some of that 10 billion per month we are spending on the war and we should have an empathic curriculum developed in all public schools which focuses on the struggles of every group that has come to the US, then exercise some good old American propaganda and emphasise that we are all Americans and not a country of separate, but equal people. We all live here and breathe the same air and watch the same shitty TV and eat the same crappy food which causes us to access the same dreadful health care and should focus on togetherness and the future of the good ol' USA. I just erased three more paragraphs because I realized that this was becoming a post not a comment."

Tuesday, September 18, 2007 6:50:00 PM

This case was highlighted on the "Today" show this morning as well as the "Boston Globe" and my local paper.

We need to dissolve this separate, but equal society we live in. 99% of our existence as human beings has nothing to do with the color of our skin, the god or gods we pray to or the country we live in. The majority of our time here on earth is managing our interpersonal relationships in order to meet our own individual needs (Maslow's Hierarchy of Needs).

People need to focus on themselves as individuals and not as the member of a group.

This contradicts slightly my heat of the moment statement ("We all live here and breathe the same air and watch the same shitty TV and eat the same crappy food which causes us to access the same dreadful health care and should focus on togetherness and the future of the good ol' USA. ") , but when the majority of people who immigrated to America (of their own free will), it was as individuals, separated from family, friends and birth-country.

Individual thought and individual actions are as American as baseball, apple pie and Chevrolet.

That said, the rest of the world views us as a bunch of money grubbing, arrogant, loud, opinionated, violent thugs who have no morals or sense of their place in the world. Whatever skin color you have, this is the world view of us and as long as we continue to have inequities like those in Jena, violent acts like those in Jena and segregated tribalism like that practiced in Jena then we are a country of hypocrites.

I fucking hate hypocrites.

"A long habit of not thinking a thing wrong gives it a superficial appearance of being right."
Thomas Paine

BC/Georgia Tech Challenge

Plez, a proud Georgia Tech Alum whose blog I peruse and admire, and I had a small wager over the BC vs GT game on Saturday night. If BC won he would have to put the BC Eagle flying proudly on his blog for 1 week and conversely I would do the same with the G Tech Yellow Jacket on my blog. Plez had all the confidence in the world when he accepted my wager.

Matt Ryan and the eagle receivers ran buck wild over the "Ramblin Wreck's" D while Frank Spaziani's D completely shut down the Tech's highly touted running attack leaving them no option but to attempt to throw the ball with the "noodle" armed Taylor Bennet. The announcers for the game actually uttered the words "Heisman" and "Ryan" in the same sentence on a number of occasions. Check out the Eagle over at Plez World. Oh and by the way, send your condolences to Plez. He is done crying in his bright yellow "We are number one" foam finger. It is dried out and ready to be worn next week while watching the "Wreck" pick up the pieces at Virginia in the hopes of facing BC in the ACC Championship game.

NFL 2007

Week one of the NFL season is in the books. I scribbled down my picks for this season while on the Cape two weeks ago, so week one had no influence on these picks. My MLB Picks are doing alright, better than most, but my NFL picks are a lock!

AFC East:

Pats, Pats and Pats. They will wrap up the division by Thanksgiving. The AFC East will not have another playoff team. I can see Buffalo, NYJ and Miami all finishing at 8-8. The Patriots will finish no worse than 13-3.

AFC South:

Indy, Indy and Indy. Indy will finish 11-5 and struggle defensively. Tennessee will be a surprise and sneak into a wild card spot. Jax and Houston will be non-factors, but the Texans may surprise as their young talent begins to gel pushing them toward .500.

AFC North:

This division will beat the crap out of each other with no clear cut favorite. I like Baltimore to win 11 and take the division, but can see Cincinnati challenging for the division crown. Pittsburgh will be mediocre and the Browns will be looking for a new coach after Week 4.

AFC West:

Denver will tame the west with a 11-5 record and will beat the Chargers twice which will give them the division. The Chargers will also be 11-5 and get the Wild Card.

NFC East:

Dallas will be the cream of the crop in the NFC East but will have a serious challenge from the rest of the teams in that division. Washington and the Giants will get the Wild Cards from the best division in football.

NFC South:

Carolina and New Orleans will be in a "Dog Fight" while Tampa Bay and the "Vickless" Falcons watch from the basement (he,he). New Orleans will eek out the division over the Panthers.

NFC North:

Bears, by default. The worst division in football.

NFC West:

Seattle will win the division handily, but the rest of the teams will be competitive. SF will make a run at the Wild Card and Arizona will be entertaining with their potent offense, but come up just short of a playoff spot.

Playoffs

AFC

The Pats and Indy will get byes.

Denver will beat the Titans in the first round. Baltimore will beat San Diego.

In the second round The Pats will pummel Baltimore while the Colts will be upset by a resurgent Denver team.

The Pats will beat Denver at home for a fourth Super Bowl birth in seven years.

NFC

Dallas and Seattle will get the byes.

In the first round the Bears will beat the Giants, while the Saints will beat the Redskins.

In the second round Dallas will beat the Bears while the Saints beat Seattle.

New Orleans will go to their first Super Bowl at the expense of a playoff cursed Romo.

Super Bowl XLII

The Patriots will raise their 4th Lombardi trophy in seven years in another close Super Bowl in which the defenses dominate. Brady to Moss will be the theme as the Patriots win 20 to 10.

Check back in week 9 for my self-assessment.

Ther Swamps Of Jersey

Yesterday I drove 400 miles round trip to tour the swamps of Jersey. The Meadowlands are an absolutely miserable place to attend a football game. They are in the middle of doing construction at the complex which includes Giants Stadium, Continental Airlines Arena (Nets) and a race track. This construction has limited the available parking, so if you aren't a Jets or Giants season ticket holder they park you 2-3 miles from the stadium and bus you in. The only plus to that was the "satellite" parking lots were a sea of Pats fans and the beer flowed freely. I haven't been to Giant Stadium in years and it appears old and outdated compared to the state of the art Gillette Stadium. It was 90 degrees and sunny which you would think was great except there is absolutely no breeze in that stadium because it completely enclosed. Sweltering.

Being typical New Yorkers, the Jets fans were loud and obnoxious to the point of being living caricatures (In pre-game warm-ups they played lots of Springsteen and Beastie Boys which added to the parody). Their boorish behavior peaked when their QB Chad Pennington sustained a knee injury and limped off the field. They cheered his injury hoping to see the back-up Clemons, who, from what they say, tore up the pre-season (big-woop!!) . Pennington was16 of 21 with 2 TD's and no picks. I am no expert but that seems like a good day to me.

It was a good day for the , I would estimate, 10,000 Pats fans in attendance. It may be the only chance many of them would have to see their team this year, being tickets at Gillette are scarce. I picked up my tickets Saturday AM on Ticketmaster (15 rows up in the East end zone!!). Lucky. Many I spoke to at the game planned this trip for months knowing they had no chance getting tickets in New England. The rest areas on Route 95 heading back to New England were packed with smiling, content Pats fans.

I was struck by two things on the field.

1) Adelius Thomas may be the biggest man I've ever seen not playing on the line. In this defense he is a guaranteed All-Pro.

2) Randy Moss is the real deal. He dwarfed the Jets D-backs making them look like JV'ers playing on Varsity.

The lasting image I'll have of the Swamps of Jersey won't be the Swamps, but the view from the Swamps.

The NYC skyline looks naked without the WTC.

It is the first time since 9/11/01 that I have seen the skyline from the Jersey-side view over the Hudson (I have seen it from the air and it is not so dramatic). Stuck in traffic with lots of time to stare over at Manhattan I was transported back to that infamous day six years ago.

As much as I despise New York and New Yorkers, I have to give it to 'em. They are a bunch of tough, resilient bastards.

Tune in tomorrow for my picks this season. (Sunday's games didn't change a thing!!)

The Snow Game

January 19, 2002.

The Snow Game.

The greatest football game in New England football history.

I was there.

The New England Patriots have played bigger games (as of the date of this writing they have played in 5 Super Bowls), they have played in closer games, had games with more controversy (1976 playoffs vs Raiders, sno-blower-gate) and they have played games in worse weather conditions. There has never been a single game in their history that could compare with this games combination of magnitude, atmosphere, suspense and exhilaration.

The Pats had a season that was typical of those since Bob Kraft had bought the team in the early 90's, competitive, hopeful, but missing some unknown key ingredient. The one difference between this team and the others in recent history was that they were peaking. They had earned a home playoff game and in every possible scenario it would be their only home playoff game thus making this game the last game played in the drab, dismal Schaefer... Sullivan...Foxboro Stadium. As horrible as it was a venue, it held a vault of beer soaked memories that could never be replaced by a state of the art stadium. Going to Foxboro Stadium was like going to a football game in the town of Bedrock circa 2500 BC. Touch football in the rock strewn, gravel parking lot. The smell of meat cooking on ridiculously huge grill fires. Drunken fights at 11:00 AM, two hours before kick off. Blood and beer.

The week leading up to the game my buddy Billy and I had been scouring the net for tickets to the game. Billy is a hard drinking , hard living guy who bought his father's roofing business back in the 90's and was my golf partner. He had bought season tickets back when Kraft bought the team, but had sold them recently to a vendor of his. We had gone to lots of games together, but were on a mission from God to go to this game. We wanted to experience one last game like cavemen, drunk, eating meat and watching fights. On Friday afternoon I found some tickets for $200 a piece and immediately called Billy, excitedly. He had already gotten us tickets from a vendor, for free.

Yoo-hoo!!!!

Saturday we got on the road at 11 AM. packed with beer and a crock pot full of meatballs and sausage. The game was an 8PM start, but we had a plan. Drink. Check into our hotel we booked knowing it was going to be a late, drunken evening. Spend the afternoon in Providence drinking. Get on our cold weather gear and head to the game. Things pretty much held to plan.

During our ride down the Mass Pike the snow had already started falling as predicted, but was not yet sticking to the frozen pavement. It wisped back and forth across the road blown around by the speeding cars. We checked into our hotel in Attleboro on Route 1 about 5 miles from the stadium at 1PM. We plugged in the crock pot and hopped back in the car for the 15 minute ride to Providence and its warm, inviting stripper bars. The snow was still light as we made our way into "Club Fantasies". We opted for this joint on the recommendation of the front desk clerk at the hotel over the infamous "Foxy Lady". There is nothing like sitting in a warm, cozy stripper bar with 50+ naked women prancing about while drinking beer and shots of Jaegarmeister as the snow piles up outside. Its like Apres Ski without the Apres or the ski. Billy and I sat at the bar for the most part occasionally heading into "The Pit" (a squared off section next to the main stage) for a $5 sample table dance(an R-rated version of the $25, X-rated, private table dances done upstairs. We had lost time while in the joint and when we walked out sometime after 5 PM it was into "white out" conditions.

It took us 45 minutes to make the 15 minute ride back to the hotel. We put on our "long johns" and waterproof gear, gathered up the meatballs and french bread and headed toward the stadium. My Bonneville handled surprisingly well in the snow and the trip to the stadium went smoothly. We stopped at a liquor store 2 miles from the stadium and Bill went in. He came out with 12 nips of Grand Mariner. We pulled in to the stadium parking lot and there were no discernible parking spaces. The snow was at least 8 inches deep. I had plugged the crock pot into my a/c converter which plugged into my lighter on the way to the stadium from the hotel, so we expected some steamy, hot meatballs to go with our beer. No go. The converter not only shorted the lighter, thus making our meatballs cold, it shorted out half the electrical system including the defroster, heater and inside lights. We sat in the car eating luke warm meatball grinders washed down with ice cold beer. 45 minutes before game time we filled our pockets with beer and nips of Grand Mariner and headed for the gates of the stadium. At the gates there were ticket takers and droves of security. I thought for sure we would have all of our booze confiscated. I handed the ticket taker my ticket and got a token pat down by a disinterested security person. I know he must have felt one of the five beers I carried in in my jacket pocket or one of the six nips I tucked in my socks. I turned to Billy as we headed to our seats in Section 216 and said "I guess Kraft is trying to save money on demo and is hoping someone brings in a bomb". "I'll drink to that" he said as he hoisted a Grand Mariner in a mock toast.

The scene at our seats were something that could not be duplicated by the best of Hollywood's special effects artists. Snow was falling sideways under the dim lights. The grounds crew was walking back and forth over their respective yard line snow blowing the line so you could see the yardage. Players were warming up mainly by running in place or doing jumping jacks as to not get injured before the game even started. A fog was enveloping the stadium caused by the breath of 60,000 strong anticipating the kickoff.

The game developed slowly. The only scoring in the first half was a Raiders touchdown, Gannon to Jett. In the third quarter the Russian born Sebastian Janikowski and the South Dakota born Vinateiri, both seemingly oblivious to the weather, accounted for dueling field goals with Janikowski winning 2 to 1. With the Pats down 13-3 the crowd got restless. Our half of the stadium, on the Pats sideline, spontaneously started chanting "We want Drew" in response to Brady's inefficiency. Drew was warming up on the sideline and seemed to zip the ball a bit stronger as the pleas for his entry became louder.


Then there was the forth quarter.

Brady appeased the masses by driving the ball down field early in the quarter and ran one in cutting the Raiders lead to 3. Miss cues on both sides ensued. With under two minutes to go Brady dropped back to pass and was being tackled when the ball popped loose. The crowed groaned collectively as a Raider pounced on the ball. I started yelling hoarsely, drunkenly "His arm was going forward, they are going to reverse it." I repeated it a number of times while people stood in dead silence or headed sullenly for the exits. Some guy a few rows in front turned around and told me to shut up. Just as I was about to dive over a couple of rows to fulfil the trifecta of booze, meat and blood the ref said the play was being reviewed. I suddenly went from drunk "belligerent" guy to drunk "knows what hes talking about" guy. The call was reversed and everyone was hugging, high 5-ing and kissing like it was New Years Eve. The guy that told me to shut up even gave me a high 5 which I reciprocated as hard as I could.

Brady took advantage of the second chance, but couldn't get us within "chip shot" range which on a night like that would've been inside the ten, if that. He got us to the 30 with just under 30 seconds to go. The snow seemed to pick up in intensity when Vinitieri was lining up the field goal attempt. As the ball lifted off the ground into the falling snow I immediately sunk my head. The trajectory of the kick was way too low to travel 47 yards and I didn't want to see it miss. As I stared at the pile of beer cans and bottles of Grand Mariner, covered with snow, piled at my feet the roaring erupted. The kick carried just enough over the cross bar to tie the game at 13 - 13. Every hair on my body was standing on end. People were falling over their seats. For two straight minutes everyone in the stadium was bouncing in unison, screaming and laughing.

This never happens to us, we never get the breaks.

The ghosts of Ben Dreith, Buckner, Piersall, "The Fridge", Desmond Howard and Bucky Dent who had been lingering over the moment retreated hastily from the joy and ectasy rarley experienced on a January night in New England.

Over time was anti-climactic. We won the coin toss, drove the field and AV made a chip shot right in front of us to win the game. As Lonnie Paxton was making snow angels below the stands were a sea of euphoria. People were screaming, jumping, cackling, hooting, hollering and even crying. I stood there like a lifeless spector not making a noise, but soaking in the sights and sounds of the moment until Billy bear hugged me bringing me back from my daze. No one left their seats for an hour. Every fan stayed there listening to the post game interviews being broadcast over the loudspeakers, drinking smuggled booze and telling tales of this game and games prior. It was like an Irish wake, drunken and raucous, but touching.

We made it back to the Bonneville about 2:30 AM, but didn't get out onto Route 1 until after 3AM. We passed out at our hotel immediately. I woke up at 7 AM to take a piss. As I stood over the bowl, still drunk, I noticed that my right hand was killing me. I inspected it figuring I must have slept on it the wrong way, but the palm was black and blue. I sat on the end of my bed flummoxed, then it hit me. As I walked out of the stadium I high fived at least 1000 people on my journey out of the stadium.

We got on the road by 10 AM. At home I alternated between worlds on my couch while watching the Steelers and Rams win. Every time I closed my eyes I could see the breath rising and the snow falling. It was a mid-winter nights dream.

Summer Doldrums

Blogging doesn't feel natural in the summer.

Holed up in the house in mid-January during a raging snowstorm seems like the ultimate time to pound out some quality blog posts. But in mid-August when summer is waining and there are lakes to swim in and golf courses to be played on, blogging seems like work. In my first ever post I promised that I would not blog unless I have something interesting to write and lately I've been more interested in doing things instead of writing about things I've done.

Since my last post I have been playing lots of golf, including a horrible showing in my club championship. I have also pitched about 5,000 baseballs to my boys in the backyard. I have made a tour of my old stomping grounds in Boston, including a visit to my mother's gravesite on her birthday. Lastly I've been keeping track of my brother Greg's legal troubles down in the mountains of North Carolina. Plenty of fodder for future posts.

Soon the weather will turn and life will slow down a notch. Until then I am going to squeeze in as much summertime fun as I can until Labor Day. Then, back to the grind.

756

April 8, 1974. I was a skinny, energetic nine year old who was counting the days until his first game playing organized baseball in the Hyde Park little league. Baseball had recently replaced hockey as my favorite sport. We were having dinner at my Aunt Carol's triple decker apartment just off of Washington Street in Roslindale. As usual in those days (and these days as well) I was engrossed with anything concerning baseball and someone breaking the all time home run record was a huge deal. After scarfing down dinner I made my way into the parlor and sat on the couch to hopefully witness history. I didn't know until I was older that this event was bigger than one great ballplayer eclipsing another. I wasn't aware that Mr. Aaron endured death threats, feared for his families safety and was a physical and mental wreck due to his pursuit of the "Babe". This was about baseball, pure and simple.

I am now 42 and baseball is not just about baseball. The innocence that the game once held is gone. Baseball, since its beginning has been played by men. Men drink, gamble, carouse and swear. Until the past thirty years it was a game played by average men, of average size, coming from middle or lower class households. Most players had to have a job in the off season just to make ends meet. Being a ballplayer was a hard life. Every boy thought he could be a ballplayer someday because there was no class distinction and when the color barrier was broken as long as you were the best of the best you would have a place in the game regardless of where you came from.

Reporters understood that it was career suicide to tear down the "working class hero" facade that enveloped the game. You couldn't read in the paper about the Babe's drinking binges or any players private indiscretions. Men were men and it was accepted that when you get 25 men traveling the country for eight months "stuff" was going to happen. No one cared about the integrity of the men off the field it was the integrity on the field that counted.

Enter 2007.

Who would have thought thirty years ago that you go to a ballpark and pay $85 to see 18 millionaires run around and play a game that may not be legitimate. Use of HGH, steroids, greenies have grown with the outrageous salaries. Why do the players get outrageous salaries? Because the owners make outrageous profits. Why do the owners make outrageous profits? Because the fans dole out the money. Why do fans dole out the money? Because they love to see home runs. How do they see more home runs? By the players taking more HGH, Steroids and amphetamines.



It no longer matters if what players do on the field is legitimate. We hear about players stints in rehab, domestic problems, Vegas trips and stops at stripper bars, but no one cared until Barry Bonds got close to the home run record that many baseball players no longer look like humans, but cartoon characters. No one cared that McGwire, Sosa and Bonds went from svelte, athletic rookies to pumped up, acne covered side show freaks.

Hypocrites.





























Mr. Bonds has accomplished an incredible feat for the ages. The perseverance, longevity and skill that it takes to hit 756 home runs is beyond comprehension. The only one in my mind between the 755 that Mr. Aaron hit and the 756 that Mr. Bonds hit is the adversity each man endured on his journey. Mr Aaron feared for his life in the year preceding his pursuit of the Babe due to something he couldn't control, the color of his skin. Mr. Bonds has endured tremendous adversity, but all of it self imposed. If he never was implicated in the BALCO affair and he was able to accomplish this feat without the use of performance enhancing drugs, then today there would be nothing but accolades coming his way.

I still remember the black and white images of Aaron running briskly around the bases after belting 715. The only thing different visually from that home run than any other of that time was the two fans that ran the bases next to him and the flashing "715" they showed on the scoreboard. He did his job and humbly went to his dugout.

The irony is when Bonds hit his historic bomb he stood at home plate for a few seconds to savor his accomplishment then raised his arms triumphantly. A little humility would have helped to endear him to his critics.

I hope that by the time A-Rod breaks the record circa 2015 that we worry more about the integrity of the game on the field than the players lives off the field.

At The Beach

Hot. Dry. Sunny.

The weather could not be better for early August on the southern coast of Maine. My wife, two kids and I walked slowly over the Ogunquit River Footbridge toward the beach. We were weighed down with beach chairs, boogie boards, towels as well as the rest of our beach gear. As we made our decent down the stairs to the beach we surveyed the shoreline for a spot by the water. The tide was high so space on the beach was tight. We found a spot where the tide had peaked and the sand was dry. I set up our umbrella, chairs and towels while my wife played with the boys in the gentle waves.

I lay back in one of the chairs and closed my eyes. With my eyes closed my other senses heightened. I could smell the suntan lotion of the twenty something girl with the cute rear lying on a towel behind my chair. I could feel the hairs on my chest stiffen while the slight off shore breeze blew intermittently over my darkening torso, giving me occasional relief from the beating sun. I could hear the faint sound of the Sox on the radio, gulls crying, and the voices of my boys frolicking in the waves with their mother. I fell asleep.

I woke up cold. The beach was empty. The air was thick with moisture and it was now overcast. I looked toward the water where my wife and kids had been playing. My four year old son was laying at the waters edge. I ran to him, but my wheels were spinning in the sand. The harder I pumped my legs the slower I moved. His lifeless body rolled back and forth in the sea foam moving with the rhythm of the ocean. I finally reached him and pulled him up onto the beach away from the water. He was cold. I blew into his mouth. He remained lifeless. I picked him up and hugged him tightly, crying.

He rubbed my back and said "Don't cry daddy." I looked him in the eye and asked him "Where is mommy and Peter?".

"They walked into the water and kept going. I tried to get them, but the waves knocked me down and I drowned" Matthew said with no emotion.

"You didn't drown honey, you are hear with me, alive" I assured him.

"No dad, we're dead!" he insisted.

"We are alive Matthew! Look at the clouds, breathe the air, look at the waves."

"You died trying to save me." Matthew stated matter of factly.

I carried him back to the umbrella and blankets, laid him down and towelled him off. An orange-red maple leaf blew onto the blanket next to Matthew. I picked him up, snug in his towel and carried him toward the foot bridge. I looked out at the ocean one last time, the fog was rolling in. The sky looked like it does in late Autumn, as if it could snow at any time. The fog had traveled down the inlet enveloping the end of the bridge near the parking lot. "I love you Matthew" I told him as we headed into the mist.

(I had this dream last night. It was my first night home after long, but satisfying week on vacation in Maine.)

I Love Those Crazy Bastards

Endangered Coffee recently posted his job history on his blog. He has rocked quite a few jobs throughout the past few years. In comparison, with the exception of side jobs like bouncing, bartending, dishwashing, selling drugs, amongst others, I've only had four "real" jobs since 1981.

This December I will be entering my 19th year in human services. It could be argued that I've been in human services for 26 years. My first "real" job was at Camp Howe in Goshen where I worked for five summers as a cabin counselor, Boy's Unit Head, Boating Director and Recreation Director. The next "real" job I had was working for the Hampshire Regional YMCA from 1986 through 1989. I was a director for their after school programs as well as running their youth sports programs, Y basketball league and summer sports camps.

In November of 1989 I was sitting around with my friend Eric and his Dad, Eric drinking beers. At the time I was attending college at Westfield State, struggling to make ends meet. I was voicing my displeasure about working at the Y, sick of the kids, the parents and the low pay. Eric and I had worked together there for the past few years and as fun as it was playing touch football, "duck, duck, goose" and finger painting each weekday afternoon we were going nowhere fast. His dad was the co-owner of a human service agency in Springfield that specialized in running group homes for the mentally retarded. After we polished off a case of beers and listened to us griping for a couple hours he offered me a job working for him in one of his homes.

"Work with the retards!!" I laughed. "Those fucking dudes freak me out!".

"I have a new program opening up with Traumatic Brain Injury survivors. They aren't retarded. It would be good to have someone like you to work with these guys, take them to Sox games, show them around town; I'll start you at $8.00 an hour"

Not retarded. More money. Sox. Thus the beginning of my career working in residential group homes.

I spent 10 years working for Eric at Brown & Sullivan. Within a month working there I became a manager. In my tenure there I ran various group homes as well as getting my certification as a Drug and Alcohol counselor (stifle your laughter) and counseling mentally retarded people with their addictions (talk about a losing battle). While there I also used my brawn and street smarts working with gang members in Hartford and did outreach with clients with mental health issues. The last three years there I even managed a group home with mentally retarded clients. I learned that some people who look retarded are more intelligent and "with it" than many people walking around the street who "look" normal.

Eric left Brown & Sullivan and soon after I went to another agency who had gotten many of our residential contracts. I am in my ninth year at ServiceNet Inc. I've come full circle and am back directing group homes for brain injury survivors. Sometimes I feel like I am still at summer camp while at work. The staff are called counselors, we have lots of fun activities surrounded by hours of boredom and there is lots of drama (staff and clients alike). Eric had a philosophy that if you find out what makes a person happy and make the effort to help them be happy, then negative behaviors subside. I still adhere to that philosophy. I run my progams as if I were one of the clients. Just short of having keg parties with hookers I try to provide enough fun activities (trips to the Cape, Sox and Pats games,etc..) to give the clients I work with incentive to be better. The better they act the less people will stigmatize them and only then can they make steps toward inclusion. Actually I wouldn't have done this work for nineteen years if it weren't for the trips to the Cape, Sox, Pats etc...its not for the mid-five figure salary.

I often think about doing something else for a living. Opening a bar, managing a golf course, opening a business of some kind. I have over 50 former or current clients and I could see myself hiring one or two of them to work for me. I still keep in some kind of contact with many of them.

A few years back on New Years Eve my phone rang. It was the first client I had ever worked with in Human Services in that Tramatic Brain Injury house Eric pushed me to work in. He told me that he missed me and thanked me for everything I had done for him. I asked him if he was drunk and why was he being so mushy. He said he was sober, but was reflecting on all of the trips and experiences we shared while he was in my care. He was now living at home with his mom and missed doing the fun things we used to do. I wished him a happy new year and he did the same. I lay in bed in the early hours of the new year reflecting on my conversation with Andy, my career choice, perseverating over Matt Dillon's line in "Something About Mary?", "I love those crazy bastards."

One Word Meme

Plez, the man whose blog ideas I pilfer more than any other, borrowed this meme and posted the answers on his blog. I tried to do this in "word association" style and answer with the first thing that popped into my head.

Welcome inside my head!! (please excuse the mess, I didn't have time to clean up)!

Use ONE WORD for each answer.

Yourself: tired

Your Partner: mommy

Your Hair: graying

Your Mother: sad

Your Father: selfish

Your Favorite Item: Driver

Your Dream Last Night: perseverative

Your Favorite Drink: Guinness

Your Dream Car: Mercedes

Your Dream Home: soon

The Room You Are In: bedroom

Your Fear: failure

Where You Want To Be In Ten Years: alive

Who You Hung Out With Last Night: family

You’re Not: skiddish

One of Your Wish List Items: beach-house

The Last Thing You Did: ate

You Are Wearing: boxers

Your Favorite Weather: autumnal

Your Favorite Book: Bradbury

Last Thing You Ate: Chicken

Your Life: lucky

Your Mood: optimistic

Your Best Friend: wife

What Are You Thinking About Right Now: fuck

Your Car: Grand Cherokee

What Are You Doing At The Moment: relaxing

Relationship Status: happy

What Is On Your TV: MSNBC

What Is The Weather Like: humid

When Is The Last Time You Laughed: A.M.

My Picks At The Break

On April 2nd I made my picks for the 2007 MLB season. A little over half of the games have been played in Major League Baseball this season. The trends are being set and the cream is rising to the top. Lets take a look at some of my predictions.


American League:
East: Red Sox
Central: Twins
West: Angels
Wild Card: Toronto

The Sox and Angels are looking good. The Twins aren't dead in the water, but at 45-43 they are going to have to turn it on in order to catch Detroit or Cleveland. Toronto is 8 1/2 games behind Cleveland for the Wild Card and needs to jump over 4 teams to get the nod.

I was right on about the Yankees and if Steinbrenner was the Steinbrenner of 1978 Torre would've been fired in April. Right now he probably wishes Billy Martin's kids froze him, like Teddy Ballgame's kids did, so he could bring him back for the tenth time. Since that's not an option Joe T will be there until the end of their miserable season.

Matsuzaka is still in the running for the Cy Young, but will need a strong, almost flawless second half, in order to beat out teammate Josh Beckett, Dan Haren or Jeremy Bonderman. Big Papi will have to hit a few walk offs to garner any consideration for MVP; it looks more like A-Rod or Ordonez.


National League:
East: Mets
Central: Cubs
West: Dodgers
Wild Card: Diamond Backs

The Mets are eking it out over Atlanta. The Dodgers are in a dogfight with the pitching rich Padres with Arizona right there for the Wild Card. Chicago has been my biggest bust, but is still only 4 1/2 games behind the surprise of the year Brewers for the NL Central crown. LaRussa hasn't been fired or in rehab (yet), but as I predicted the Cards are dead in the water.

Zambrano is not having a bad season, but will not win the Cy Young unless Peavy, Penny and Sheets shit the bed. Soriano will not win the MVP, period. I like Chase Utley and Prince Fielder, but Matt Holiday should win it if he can keep up the torrid pace he set in the first half.

I will stand by my picks. You can't change your cards in the middle of a hand, so the only way to judge my picks is to add them up in October. If I had to grade my picks I'd give myself a B+, but I have an over inflated ego so they are probably really only a B.

I still think the Red Sox will be having a parade in late October.

Go Sox!!

Cross Dressing

I went to Fenway Park on Sunday wearing the shirt pictured above.

Now I know what it feels like to have Double D's.

People were staring at my chest all day.


When I got out of my car behind the B.U. bookstore I completely forgot that I had put that particular shirt on that morning. We made our way through Kenmore Square and over the bridge that spans the Mass Pike. That's when the reactions began. Chuckles, snickers, head shakes and full out laughter. At first I thought I might have spilled coffee on myself or that I had a stray booger hanging in the wind. I checked my nose and then my shirt. Bingo! The "Jesus Hates The Yankees" shirt was drawing the same reaction from the crowds at Fenway that I had when I saw it in a record store in Hyannis just days earlier. Shock, hilarity, fun.

Buying that shirt was out of character for me. I usually dress in boring circa 1981 prep school attire, plain jeans, polo shirt, khaki's, oxford shirts and most definitely plain t-shirts. I may occasionally wear a shirt with a Red Sox logo or the name of a vacation spot, but never something so campy. We had Green Monster(standing room) tickets and by the time we made it to Gate E I had become a minor celebrity. Once I realized that the people pointing at me and laughing were doing so because of my shirt (I think) I started having fun with it. Folks from L.A., New York and Chicago asked to have pictures taken with me and my shirt. It wasn't all fun and games. For every ten gut busting laughs was a look of condemnation and disgust. One dad, who was I assume Catholic because of the eight kids he had in tow, looked me up and down as if I were a "puppy who just shat on the rug" (Sean Penn, Mystic River). An elderly woman told me I was going to hell. I nodded in agreement and assured her that my trip to Hades wasn't going to be for wearing the shirt. She looked around at the crowd around us and said "Well, you're not alone!". Frickin' Codger.




Its amazing to me that wearing that shirt was almost more of a Fenway highlight for me that the fact that I was up on the Green Monster for the first time in my life. I don't know if I'll ever wear that shirt again. It was $18.99 well spent, but contrary to my wife's belief I don't like to be the center of attention. If I happen to be the center of attention while spinning a yarn or throwing around some blarney, fine. But being the center of attention for what I am wearing, the staring, the gawking, makes me feel cheap. I'd rather have people like me for my mind, but occasionally I can see myself slipping into my revealing T, just to see the reactions.

The Longest Day

5:30 AM, June 23, 2002.

The first full day of Summer.

The longest day of the year.

The last memory I had of the alcohol soaked evening before was the sound of Jabe and Marcus cackling incessantly in between tokes while lounging on the deck. That was only three hours earlier. The morning was foggy, as most mornings are during early summer on Cape Cod. The fog is especially thick in Chatham where we were renting a house for two weeks for our clients with mental retardation. I have been organizing vacations for my clients for years. These trips are usually the highlight of the year for these clients whose usual day consists of: waking up, being shipped off to a day program to seal envelopes or break sticks under the guise of having a meaningful "job", come home, eat dinner, go to bed. The staff also look forward to these trips. Staff usually make slightly more than the person who mans the counter at Drunkin Donuts with 100 times the responsibility. With most of my staff being poor this is usually the only chance they have to spend a week in a house on the Cape.

Lying in bed listening to the sound alternate between the lapping of the waves and the pounding in my head I had a decision to make. I could lie there and hope to fall back asleep, knowing that we had a full day ahead sightseeing in Provincetown and going to a reggae show at the Beachcomber in Wellfleet. I could also go down to my car, drive five minutes to Chatham Seaside Links and walk nine holes in hopes of sweating out some toxins and clearing up the fogginess. I teed off around 6AM.

The Seaside links is a small, hilly golf course a couple hundred yards from Chatham Harbor. I couldn't see the water through the soupiness. First hole. I striped my ball down the middle of the short par four. I found my ball two feet from the green. I chipped my ball to six inches then tapped in for a birdie. As I bent over to retrieve my ball from the hole I violently heaved. I turned around instinctively to see if anyone saw my dry heaving, but there was nothing to see, it was covered in the soup. The next eight holes were a blur. I dragged myself to the car and lamented my decision not to lay in bed.

I returned to the house at 7:30 AM, no one was up yet. I had expected Tim, one of the staff who was not completely wasted the night before, being the designated sober person, to be up getting breakfast ready. I threw a couple pound of bacon on the griddle and made a pot of coffee. Like ghouls from Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video, staff and clients alike were drawn from their crypts by the smells emanating from the kitchen. Everyone ate breakfast on the deck, replaying the previous evenings events.

All were in agreement that the highlight of the evening was when Tim ( who is a cross between Barry White and Urkel) smooth-talked the hottest girl in the bar to dance with each of our clients. Dancing with the girl was the highlight of the evening for the clients. The highlight of the evening for the staff was confronting some young posers, primped and tanned, who were making some off color jokes loud enough for us to hear at the expense of our "men". "I can't believe you are jealous of some retarded guys" I said to one of the youngsters as I stepped directly into his line of sight. Marcus added "Yo Sully, that guy couldn't even talk to that girl never mind touch her" as the hottie was spinning one of our guys around, swing dance style. The kid took an abbreviated step toward me, but must've thought twice after sizing up the situation. He had six plus of his buddies with him. I had me, Marcus, a hostile black man in an all white bar. Jabe who, when not working for me, was a bouncer who actually looked forward to tossing drunks out onto their heads. Sammy, a thick necked, mild mannered Puerto Rican who can bench 300 lbs and Tim who still had a menacing stare from his days as a pimp in Springfield back in the eighties. As I stepped in to give the young man a firm "talking to" a girl that was with their group started yelling at the youngster. "You aah such a fukin' losah...those retah ded guys aah wicked cute". By this time the bouncers had taken notice of the scene. Having worked the door myself I commiserated with the big man on how tough it was dealing with drunks and explained the situation. He had a "talking to" with the youngster. He and his crew left, embarrassed and defeated. After breakfast everyone went back to bed to rest up for the day.

The next few hours were a blur. I tried to sleep down at the beach, but the sound of kids playing and seagulls squawking awoke me each time I started to fade. At 12:30 PM we loaded up and headed 30 minutes north to Provincetown. Sammy was driving the van along with Tim and our "men". Me, Jabe and Marcus followed in my Bonneville. Tim and Sammy were the designated sober people today as they would be driving with the clients. We cracked open some beers in my car. Jabe took a percocet I had hanging around since my wife had surgery weeks earlier. Within ten minutes he asked if the car was upsidedown.

The afternoon in Provencetown was spectacular. The fog had burned off by 2 PM and the sky had a hazy blue hue. We ate, shopped and people watched. Me, Jabe and Marcus went to a bar on the water down by MacMillian Wharf . The rest went to get Ice Cream. We left the bar after a couple of Bud Lights. On the way out of the place a dude walking in looked me up and down and said "mmm, hmmm, yummy". Gay or not, its nice to be appreciated. I gave him a high five and caught up with Jabe and Marcus who were moving quickly toward the town center.


We arrived at "The Beachcomber" around 5 PM. The "comah" is located on a sandy bluff about 75 feet above Cahoon Hollow beach overlooking the Altantic Ocean. The haze and heat we endured while exploring P-town had been replaced by crisp, cooler air fueled by a slight on-shore breeze. By this time Tim had joined me, Marcus and Jabe as "off the clock" leaving Sammy in charge of the men. Sammy and the men headed inside the club while the rest of us hiked down the steep path to the beach. Down by the water Marcus pulled out a "J" and after numerous attempts trying to light it in the breeze got it sparked. We sat in a semi-circle looking out at the water and decided that we were currently in the best location on the planet. With a new found spring in our step we glided back up the path toward the sound of the reggae music.

"Yellowman", a Jamaican reggae star known for having yellow hair, light skin and half his face missing from cancer, was starting his first set. We entered through the outdoor bar section of the club and could see the yellow one swaying to the ska beat on stage while the audience was bouncing in rhythm. Marcus and I headed into the sea of bodies moving and grinding while Jabe and Tim opted for the cool breeze and openness of the outdoor bar. The smell of sweat, booze and ganja was an intoxicating mix; I was lost in the hypnotic beat. As I exited the dance hall to the outdoor bar I could see the beginnings of the full moon peak above the horizon. I gathered the whole group and we went to the edge of the bluff to watch the moon rise. Once the moon escaped from the horizon it appeared to sit on top of the water, floating in the waves. A tanker heading out to sea appeared below the moon as it headed up into the darkening evening skies. We all went back to the club where Yellowman was intensely thrashing about the stage as if he were having a seizure. The crowd pulsed as he wailed on.

The show ended about 10PM. Sammy gathered the men and headed back to the beach house. The rest of us lingered at the outdoor bar opting for fruity, girly drinks with enough suger to temporarily neutralize the sedative effect of the day's drinking. Now that the show was over the outdoor bar became crowded. Bodies pressed against one another, some cute and inviting, others just sweaty and drunk. We maintained a semi-circle at one end of the bar looking out over a dune. The moon had risen just over the dune and the wispy dune grass was silhouetted against the luminous sphere. We again decided that this was the best location on earth.

At 10:45 we decided to head back to the beach house. At the Orleans rotary I decided that instead of heading south off the rotary toward Chatham we would head 25 minutes west toward Hyannis. There would still be some action there, even on a Sunday night. The bars in Hyannis weren't as promising as I had anticipated. We drove down Main Street, slowly, assessing the possibilities. After cruising Main Street twice we decided to head to a bar in neighboring Yarmouth that would not have the excitement we were looking for, but would be a place we could get a final drink before heading back to the beach house. It was now midnight and we had not had a drink, except for sharing two beers we had stashed in the car, since leaving the "Comah".

We entered "Molly's" and immediately bellied up to the bar. Ben was there again. Ben had probably tended bar there every day since the place opened. He spoke in a thick nasally Irish accent having had his nose broken a number of times as semi-successful prize fighter in his youth. His claim-to-fame was fighting on a Hagler under card. "What'll it be fellers" lilted the brawler. The black guys drank Johnnie Walker. The white irish-american guys had a Guinness. The bar was empty except for a table with two guys and two girls. Jabe struck up a conversation with one of the girls. She was cute. She had smooth, milky skin dotted with a few freckles. Her strawberry-blonde hair was the perfect complement to her complexion. I detected a mild brouge.

At first there was lighthearted banter flowing between Jabe and the girl. At some point while the rest of us talked amoungst ourselves at the bar their conversation turned . She, not being as drunk as we, mistook Jabe's sarcasm for arrogance and rebuffed his advances. Jabe had his ego bruised and all it took was a sideways look from one of the guys to set him off. "What are you looking at" he barked at the guy. "Not much" said the guy. I immediately headed toward the car knowing what was to come next. As I pulled the car around Marcus ran up to my drivers side window "Sull, pop the trunk. You got a crow bar or a golf club in there?". "Get in" I bellowed like a father who is disgusted by his sons childish behavior. Tim appeared on the passenger side door and got in. We pulled up to the front door just in time to see Jabe face to face with the guy. Jabe was barking at him, then suddenly spit his gum in the guys face and walked away. A sense of relief washed over me as he poured himself into the backseat of my Bonneville. "I'm too old for this shit guys" I said as we took a right out of the parking lot for our 20 minute ride down Route 28 toward Chatham.

The ride back to Chatham was dead quiet. Marcus and Jabe were passed out in the back seat, while Tim and I stared at the road ahead. We returned to the beach house at about 1:30 AM. Tim disappeared into his room in the basement. Jabe and Marcus headed out to the deck to smoke and recap the days events. I settled down into my bed. From the deck floated the pungent smell of smoke and the sounds of hushed laughter.

Tiny Dancer

On Saturday my 4 year old son Matt had his first experience performing in front of a crowd. He wasn't wearing a baseball uniform and cleats. He wasn't wearing shoulder pads and a helmet. He didn't have on knee pads and soccer shorts. He was wearing a pink bow tie, a sky-blue vest, white pants, shirt, and ballet shoes.

Late last summer my wife asked me what I thought of Matt taking dance classes on Saturday mornings. My first reaction was "ok". I pictured big, steroid enhanced football players taking ballet to hone their balance and agility. I remembered that Jerry Rice and Emmit Smith were graceful on "Dancing with the Stars". I figured that it will be good for his physical and social development (1 guy and 15 girls in Tu-Tu's is more my fantasy than his, but good for his socialization none the less). She signed him up.

Every Saturday from September 'till June Lori, Matt and Peter(my 2 year old) would leave the house at 9:30 AM until 11:30 AM. I savored the few hours without anyone in the house. I mowed the lawn or cleaned out the garage or slept. The only time I gave any thought to him "dancing" was when I brought him to class when Lori had to work on a few Saturday's. Even then I never saw him dancing. Parents waited outside while the class was in the studio. There were a few "parent observation days" and I attended one, but it consisted of 10 minutes at the end of class where in there was some stretching, ballet moves and a quick "Itsy Bitsy Spider". Non-eventful.

In May Lori told me that Matt had to go for a fitting for his recital costume.

Oh Shit!

Recital.

I suddenly remembered that Lori had said that there would be a recital. I had never given it a second thought. My solitary Saturday mornings had come with a price. My son dancing in front of an audience. I privately thought I won't have a mini Tom Brady or Big Papi, I've got a Billy Elliot.



She brought home his costume a week before the recital.

She had him try it on.


The sound of my balls shriveling up on the vine and dropping into my drawers was audible.

He was cute, but I would think he was cute if he was wearing rags, wiping my windshield with a newspaper with his fingerless gloves, hand out waiting for a tip.

I had a work retreat on the Cape from Thursday until Saturday morning. I headed off then Cape at 6:30 AM. to be sure I had plenty of time to be ready for his 2PM stage debut. During the ride home I realized that this would be his first "event" besides birthday's and his baptism. This would be his first tangible accomplishment.

We entered the foyer of the building on Mount Holyoke College where the recital was being held. There were dozens of girls ranging in age from 3 to 18 milling about the halls nervously waiting for their turn on stage. We entered the theater and there were hundreds of people there for the show. Matt's group was on tenth so we watched the first seven acts from our seats in the back of the theater. There were a few boys in some of the numbers, few meaning three. Lori brought Matt backstage and got back with one act to go before his debut. His group made it out onto the stage with the lights down.

The lights came up and there he was, on stage. The music started. They did a four minute number which consisted of a montage of "Itsy Bitsy Spider", "Wheels on the Bus" and "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star". At first he looked so serious, following the teachers direction from the pit in front of the stage. Then for a while he was following the routine by memory as he gazed out into the darkened audience. I watched every move intently. When the act was over I realized that I must have had a huge smile on the whole time because my cheeks ached. Lori went back and got Matt from backstage and brought him out to the foyer were I, along with my sister-in-law with her daughter Jillian and Lori's co-worker and her daughter, was waiting for him. As I waited for him to arrive in the foyer I felt like I thought I would after he pitched his first no-hitter or scored his first touchdown. When I finally saw him he looked so grown up and worldly, as if his 4 minutes on stage had given him a booster shot of poise and confidence.

He could play soccer this Fall, but all they do at his age is run around the field in a bunch, like a clump of beetles. He could play T-ball in the Spring, but he would most likely be bored; he can already hit balls pitched around 30 miles an hour.

I wonder what routine his dance class will be doing next year?

My Former Life

I've led lots of different lives. For fifteen years I played 100+ softball games a year traveling all over in tournaments. For ten years I played 100+ rounds of golf per year, going on golf trips and playing in golf leagues. During all of that time I drank tons of beer, did lots of gambling and had lots o' fun.

For the past four years I've been "Dad".

I am not going to lie and say "being a Dad is the best thing I've ever done". I won't lie and say "I don't even remember what it was like before I had kids, what did I do with myself?". Anyone who tells you that stuff is completely full of shit.

I love being a parent. I revel in my sons' accomplishments like the other day when my 4 year old son hit a baseball over the fence into his grandpa's yard 60 feet away. I beam with pride when my 2 year old speaks in full sentences that even strangers can understand. But I miss sleeping. I miss golf. I miss my former life. I remember exactly what I did before I had kids and my wife similarly recalls our grand life before kids.

My wife and I lived what I call "reverse retirement". We had double income, no kids and for a long time, lived the "life of Riley".

My typical June weekday went as follows:

6 AM - go to the gym

7:30 AM - leave the gym

8 AM - eat breakfast at home, read the newspaper

9 AM - go to one of my "group homes" to check on the clients and do some work.

10:30 AM - go to the golf course and play 9 holes

Noon: - Eat lunch at the course

1PM - Go home, take a nap

3 PM - Go back to the golf course, chip and putt until I play in one of my three leagues. Call work to check in.

4-7 PM play in my league.

7-9 PM drink beer.

9-11 PM Hang with my wife (maybe some lovin'), sleep.

Weekends were all about me and my wife sleeping in till whenever, going out to brunch, taking weekend getaways, golfing, movies, dinner.... hedonism at its finest. We vacationed liberally and spent money friviously.

My buddy Billy came over for coffee this morning and I was discussing my former life. Billy and I used to play golf every day and spent many a morning drinking coffee commiserating about our hangovers. He reminded me of a morning five years ago not unlike today, sunny and warm, when over coffee I was complaining about how stagnant things had become for me and my wife. I thought my marriage was in trouble. I kevetched about wanting kids and a house etc..

So I've decided that its great to look back on the good old days, but "the good old days weren't always good, tommorrows not as bad as it seems" (Billy Joel, "Keeping the Faith"). My life is great, probably as good as its ever been.

I will still long for those days of 36 holes of golf on the "Vineyard" and sleeping until 10:00 AM., just as twenty years from now I will long to hear the sound of my boys playing in the yard, to smell maple on their breath after eating pancakes or to feel the warmth of the four of us snuggling in bed on a chilly winter morning.

Cuba Libre

I am sitting on my bed, listening to my kids play in the living room, drinking coffee and watching the Today Show. Matt Lauer is in Cuba and espousing on the pros and con's of the Socialist regime that has been in place there since Fidel came out of the jungles in 1959. A number of politicians have been on the show this morning condemning Castro and proselytizing the spread of democracy. I am sitting here thinking, why does every government in the world have to be a democratic government?

I am not naive. In order for capitalism to flourish we need to have the least of amount government involvement possible and the form of government that is ideal for the spread of capitalism is a democratically elected government. Its all about money.

If we want Cuba to be a democracy, shouldn't we open up trade and tourism and let the lure of US currency wash their socialism out into the Caribbean?

The answer is yes.

You can't force a country to become a democracy (see: Iraq). You have to win over the peoples minds and spirit with the promise of peace and prosperity (eg: USSR) The Cuban people already have been exposed to American culture through the airwaves and first hand reports from family and friends living in Florida. I guarantee that within a year of dropping the embargo that has been in place against Cuba for the past 47 years the current regime will fall and we will have a strong ally in the Caribbean.

Democracy speaks for itself. There is no need to continue to push democracy as an unknown ideology. The US is far from being the moral compass for the world so should stop trying to be the world's police force. Maybe we should become more introspective as a country and try to fix the things in this country that have eroded the populace's faith in the democratic system. If we want to be the beacon of hope for these countries that have yet to embrace democracy, then we should show those countries we do a better job at educating our children, caring for our sick and feeding our hungry than they do. Until we are in the top 5 in education, health care and people living above the poverty line then we should concentrate more on building our own nation, than nation building.

Cuba libre?

Someday.

When its people see the US as allies and not oppressors.

Top 5 Records Part II

Yesterday I assigned myself the task of picking my Top 5 songs in three different categories. Since I don't work in a low traffic record store like the guys in High Fidelity and have all day to think about minutiae, I had to ponder my lists while on the cardio machine at the gym, while pitching baseballs to my sons and during meetings at work. My head is spinning from all of the memories and emotion these songs elicit. Here we go!

Top 5 Beach Songs:

I had to take all Reggae out of the equation because it would completely dominate my Top 5. Props to Jimmy Cliff, Bob Marley, Shaggy and Sean Paul!!

5. Pulling Muscles From A Shell - Squeeze

Difford and Tillbrook were the best songwriters of the late 70's and early 80's.
Innuendo? Most definitely.

"But behind the chalet
My holiday's complete
And i feel like william tell
Maid marian on her tiptoed feet
Pulling mussels from a shell"

4. Margaritaville - Jimmy Buffett

You can't have a summer song list without Buffett.

"blew out my flip-flop
Stepped on a pop-top
Cut my heel had to cruise on back home
But theres booze in the blender
And soon it will render
That frozen concoction that helps me hang on"

3. Beautiful Girls - Van Halen

"She was seaside sittin, just a smokin and a drinkin on ringside,
On top of the world, oh, yeah.
She had her drink in her hand; she had her toes in the sand and whoa,
What a beautiful girl, ah, yeah."

The lyrics say it all!

2. Good Vibrations - The Beach Boys

Beach Boys and Summer, enough said.

Time to dose out.

"I, I love the colorful clothes she wears
And the way the sunlight plays upon her hair
I hear the sound of a gentle word
On the wind that lifts her perfume through the air"

Sounds like Brian Wilson discovered "X".

1. Under The Boardwalk - The Drifters

You can imagine yourself at the beach with all the sights and smells and whats better than "on a blanket with my baby is were I'll be".

Top 5 Songs While Having Sex:

Each song has to be under 3 minutes...just kidding.

There are so many songs about sex that this category was the toughest. Prerequisites? A driving beat, screeching and dudes with long hair.

5. Feel Like Making Love - Bad Company

Driving drum beat exacerbates Paul Rodgers plea for some lovin'.

4. Just A 'Lil Bit - 50 Cent

Nasty. Luther Campbell type nasty.

3. Give It Up To Me - Sean Paul

"So back it up deh..So pack it up yeah
Cause I wanna be the man that's really gonna have it up and mack it up and
Slap it up yeah...So what is up yeah...You know you got the sinting inna me pants a develop and a swell up and
Double up yeah...So gimmie the work yeah cause if you no gimme the work the blue balls a erupt yeah..
So rev it up deh gal gwaan try you luck deh cause when you stir it up you know me haffi measure up yeah."

Those reggae artists know how to f***.

2. Slow 'An Easy - Whitesnake

"So take me down slow an easy,
Make love to me slow an easy
I know that hard luck an trouble
Is coming my way,
So rock me til Im burned to the bone"

Ouch...but it hurts so good! (by the way John Cougar never came close to this list)

1. In the Evening - Led Zepplin

Robert Plant squealing always gets me ready to rock!! Personal favorite of the wife and I. Good times.....

Top 5 Songs At My Funeral:

Every one at one time or another imagines what it'll be like at their funeral. If you want something other than organs and hymns and uncontrollable sobbing, then get your playlist together now! Every wake should be an Irish wake!!!

5. Angel - Sarah McLaughlin

It would be awesome if she would come and sing it live, in church. She has the sweetest voice. Imagine being her kid and getting sung to every evening.

4. Ave Maria - Chris Cornell

The Catholic boy in me doesn't think its a funeral until "Ave Maria" is sung. Cornell has one of the best voices and this rendition is haunting. You can find it on one of those "Very Merry Christmas" compilations wherein rock/pop stars do XMas tunes.

3. Funeral For A Friend/Love Lies Bleeding - Elton John

The organ in the beginning of the song sets the somber tone. Its an instrumental until the upbeat "Love Lies Bleeding" starts.

2. Golden Slumbers/Carry That Weight/The End - The Beatles

This song montage was used in the funeral scene of the crappy "Sergent Pepper's Lonley Hearts Club Band" movie with the Bee Gees and Peter Frampton. The songs are on "Abbey Road".

1. That Lonesome Road - James Taylor

JT sang this at John Belushi's funeral. The lament and regret in this song is palpable. If its good enough for Belushi, its good enough for me!

"Walk down that lonesome road all by yourself
Dont turn your head back over your shoulder
And only stop to rest yourself when the silver moon
Is shining high above the trees

If I had stopped to listen once or twice
If I had closed my mouth and opened my eyes
If I had cooled my head and warmed my heart
Id not be on this road tonight

Carry on

Never mind feeling sorry for yourself
It doesnt save you from your troubled mind

Walk down that lonesome road all by yourself
Dont turn your head back over your shoulder
And only stop to rest yourself when the silver moon
Is shining high above the trees"

More Top 5's another time.

Top Five Records

I read a post by Plez back in March where in he was asked by another blogger to produce a list of his top 7 songs of all time. He cheated and put his ipod on shuffle and let technology pick his favorites. I did the same and came up with this list:

Alison - Elvis Costello
Reasons - Earth, Wind and Fire
Shimmer - Fuel
I'll Be Around - The Spinners
I Was Brought to My Senses - Sting
Foolish - Ashanti
Turn Your Lights Down Low - Lauren Hill & Bob Marley
Bonus Track: Sunday Morning - Maroon 5

Although I like all of the songs on this list (or else they wouldn't be on my mp3) I can't say that they are all in my top 7. This got me thinking, how can you pick a top 7 list? The answer: you can't!!

In the movie High Fidelity John Cusack is a record store owner who hangs around with his two employees (Jack Black and some other dude) all day and think up top 5 lists of songs by category (top 5 break-up songs, top 5 songs at a funeral, top 5 songs by Latin artists, you get the point). Shortly after reading Plez's post I caught High Fidelity at 3 AM during a bought with insomnia. I decided that you can never have an overall top 7 because music is tied to so many other factors that your top 7 one day will be different than the top 7 another depending on mood, season, weather, activity etc..

7 seems like too much work, so here are some top 5 lists to attempt:

Top 5 Beach songs

Top 5 songs to play while having sex

Top 5 songs at your funeral

What are some good top 5 lists?

I'll give you my answers in my next post.

"The Bay"

My mother-in-law lives in Bay Saint Louis, Mississippi in the depths of the Deep South. Three of the past four years we visit her during Mother's Day week. She gets us a condo, on the beach, in Gulf Shores, Alabama and we spend the week steps from the Gulf of Mexico. The beach there rivals any beach I've been to in Florida (Florida is only five miles away), California or the Caribbean. The sand is powder white and the water has that iridescent green/blue hue not found any where north of Cape Hatteras. The week is a chance for my wife and her mom to reconnect and its give my kids a chance to get to know their "Nana".






Nana moved down south 20 years ago when her then husband retired from the railroad. After visiting some friends in Mississippi they decided to move there enticed by the mild winters and the low cost of living. Since living there she has been divorced, remarried, divorced again and now lives with her current boyfriend Chuck. She bought the bar she was working in, Benignoes, about ten years ago. When Hurricane Katrina's eye wall passed directly over "The Bay" 21 months ago and sucked most of the town into the Gulf, her house and bar survived intact. For months after the storm, her bar was the only watering hole available for 30 miles in any direction.

We were vacationing in Maine in late August of '05. On Sunday morning as we were getting ready to go to the pool I was watching the news and saw that Katrina was making a beeline for the gulf coast. I told my wife to call her mother. Her mother was in the process of getting out of town. She spent the storm in northern Mississippi and upon hearing that the Gulf Coast was completely destroyed she drove north to Massachusetts. She spent five weeks living with us, getting daily updates from her boyfriend who had gone back to Bay Saint Louis the day after the storm to assess the damage, help look for missing people and slowly start the rebuilding process. When she received word that things were livable (meaning running water, electricity and dead bodies not being found indiscriminately) she asked me to accompany her on the ride back to "The Bay". We drove 14 hours, spent the night in Virginia, then got up at 6 AM so we could make it to her bar for "Happy Hour". As soon as we entered northern Mississippi we could see some wind damage, uprooted trees and downed road signs. As we got closer to the coast the damage increased. By the time we reached the coast it looked like "Nuclear Winter". There were no leaves on the trees, most were bent or broken in half. There were rows and rows of empty slabs were houses once stood. There were parking lots full of tents and trailers housing relief workers. The smell of burning wood was in the air as the only way most could clear the rubble from their lots was to burn it. One lot we drove by a few blocks from her bar was filled with refrigerated trailers I found out was being used to store dead bodies that hadn't yet been claimed or identified. We headed into her bar for "Happy Hour". The bar was full, the silence spoke volumes.

I spent three days there in Bay Saint Louis and with the exception of an occasional drunken ride through town to survey damage I sat in her bar drinking and listening. Stories about seeing lifeless bodies stuck in trees thirty feet in the air after the water receeded back into the gulf. Stories about standing on rooftops for hours waiting for help. Stories about sifting through rubble looking for some semblance of normalcy. The story most heard was that of insurance companies that were not paying claims because people didn't have flood insurance, even though they all had hurricane insurance. The faces of the bar patrons had lifeless, blank expressions, but their eyes had a panicked look as if they were replaying horrific scenes over and over in their head. The eeriest scene I encountered was when I left the bar a half hour before the ten o'clock curfew and drove down some streets near the beach and saw lot after lot of people huddled around barrel fires, some holding shotguns. Its what I imagined it would be like after the apocalypse.

I flew back to Massachusetts out of Gulfport at 6 AM on a crystal clear morning. I had a connecting flight to Haftford from Houston, so we flew directly over "The Bay" on our western flight over the gulf coast. The sun was just coming up as we made our ascent. Flying down the gulf coast you could see damage from the air. When we got to "The Bay" it looked as if God had taken a broom and swept a swath ten miles long and a mile inland directly into the gulf. It was the worst damage discernible by air from Gulfport to Houston which included a flyover of New Orleans which was still covered by water.

21 months later the place is still a mess. Insurance claims still have yet to be settled. There is still an eerie silence where you would expect to hear the sound of hammers and saws. My mother-in-law has done alright. She has opened up a second bar on land that was being leased to another bar by the railroad. The couple that owned the other bar gave my mother-in-law the lease as they were leaving the town for good, never wanting to relive the horror of another hurricane. She rebuilt on site and the new bar is called the "Rusty Rail".

Our visits the last two years since the hurricane have been bittersweet. We travel from one of the most depressing places in the south, Bay Saint Louis, to one of the nicest, Gulf Shores and then back to "The Bay". I like to think that our yearly visits provide a sense of normalcy and stability to my mother-in-law's life. She is talking about buying a condo in Gulf Shores at the same place we go for our yearly visits; that will be her "get away" from the troubles in "The Bay". As long as there are hurricanes, there will never be a sense of normalcy or stability in "The Bay".

A Letter To "The Rocket"

Dear Mr. Clemens,

I was extremely disappointed to hear that you are going to play baseball for the New York Yankees this summer. I was a big fan when you pitched for the Red Sox. I was a season ticket holder at Fenway and saw you pitch many a masterpiece live and in person. I was angry with the Sox management, namely, Dan Duquette, when they let you slip away to Toronto and disrespected you by saying that you were "in the twilight of your career". I rooted for you when you won the 2 Cy Young's in Toronto. I was even happy for you personally when you got your World Series rings with the hated Yankees. Even 2 seasons ago when the Astros were in the World Series I wanted to see you do well. Now I hate your fucking guts!!

I understand why you left the Sox. You felt unwanted. The team from top to bottom was in disarray. There was money, wins and rings to be gained elsewhere. Now the Sox have an exemplary organization from top to bottom, so why won't you return?

Your conditions outlined through your agent were that you wanted to go to the team that has the best chance of going to the World Series and you must think that is the Yankees. As of this morning the "Pinstripes" are 15-16, 6 games behind the first place Red Sox. So much for your conditions. Good luck. When you are done pitching your five innings of 3 hit, 1 run ball the Yankees bullpen is going to blow your lead. You will be lucky to eek out 7 wins if you start pitching in mid June. You are setting yourself up for a big fall.

If you think you are going to come in to save the Yankees and be the hero, think again. You have been pitching in the weak hitting NL Central for the past three years. Your innings have decreased each year. Not only are you going to get racked by the AL, but you are going to pitch in the AL East which is arguably the best hitting division in baseball.

You knew back in March that you were not going to Boston, but you flirted with us in hopes of getting George to up the ante. Well, your plan was successful and you and your "boyfriend" Pettitte can smack each other on the ass all summer. I'm glad you will be wearing a Yankees hat into Cooperstown, you are a Yankee, black and white.

My four year old can name every member of the Sox and he knows most of the Yankees. When we watch you make your first start against the Sox I will make it a point to let him know who you are and that you truly are a traitor.

Brutus, Judas Iscariot, Benedict Arnold, and Roger Clemens.

Sincerely,

David D. Sullivan

PS: Yankees Suck!