Author: fifteenkey (Page 94 of 95)

At the start of a short business trip this week, my friend Barb told Paul (my boss) and I how “fun” it was to travel with her. I had no idea…The fun included:

• a 4 ½ hour delay going to Chicago
• a 4 hour delay coming home, including a plane change due to electrical problems
• a Ford Explorer tailgate being closed on my head
• witnessing Gary Sheffield assaulting a homeless child in a wheelchair at Fenway Park (OK, I made that part up. The fan was at fault and Mr. Sheffield showed incredible restraint by not bitch-slapping the clown.)
• getting lost trying to find our office in Schaumburg
• 2 airport bagels
• 2 bloody mary mixes
• 2 bags of carbs

If not for Barb calling our corporate travel office 37 times during the ordeal, we might still be there.

I’ll admit, we did have some fun. We always joke and laugh with the people we work with, and the team in our Chicago office is filled with good ones. We enjoyed a nice meal at Maggiano’s and then chatted over a beer while watching the love-fest at Fenway. Aside from the welding we enjoyed, one moment stood out for me. Lost, and at the top of a highway exit we stopped at a red light while waiting to navigate the overpass so we could reverse directions. At the light, there was a lone Canadian goose standing and looking around, something like this:

I wondered what the goose must be thinking:
“Hey, nice Explorer, pal.”
“Maybe it was a left at the Taco Bell?”
“The wife is gonna be very upset.”
“I always get lost trying to find this exit.”
“I still can’t believe I didn’t score Springsteen tickets.”
“Damn, my arms are tired!”

One final note on the fun. Upon exiting Logan Airport Friday near midnight, I discovered my primary route home, the Massachusetts Turnpike, was closed.

Yesterday the Red Sox received their 2004 championship rings and raised the banner noting it. Joe Torre’s Yankees, most of them anyway, took it all in from the visitor’s dugout. It was a gesture of respect and appreciation not unexpected from a group led by Mr. Torre.

“I’d never watched one. I was a little jealous, but they deserve it,” said Yankees captain Derek Jeter. “You respect what they accomplished. You know how hard it is to do.”

Also showing class and humor, Mariano Rivera flashed a big smile and waved when introduced, as the Fenway faithful gave him a long, loud cheer, contrasting the boos he received from Yankee fans last week.

“I didn’t know they loved me so much,” said the future resident of Cooperstown.

One recent morning I awoke to a dreadfully disturbing image that has me thinking about the bridges we cross as we walk through our life toward the future. My son Kyle and I were on an immense, soaring bridge, high above a body of water. For some reason, a complete section in front of us was missing like those in the SF-Oakland Bay Bridge after the Loma Prieta earthquake in 1989. “The Broken Bridge” has been the subject of paintings, including one by the Dali.

In my surreal dream, it looked something like this:

I didn’t know why, but we had to get across the gap to the other side and all we had was a wooden plank, like a 2” x 10”. Kyle was terrified, but I convinced him to cross after I put the plank across the span. He fell. I woke up.

In the days that followed, it stayed with me and revealed its meaning. The bridge with the break represented the path to Kyle’s future after I’m gone. Some people have burned the bridges to their future. Others have damaged theirs with bad decisions that make for a perilous, but still achievable crossing.

Others still, have glinting new bridges in front of them. All they have to do is walk across.

Through no fault of his own, Kyle has some more building to do before he can cross his bridge to a bright future. It’s my job to help Kyle build passage over his obstacles. I read to Kyle and we do phonics games on the PC. He already recognizes many of the words representing the things he loves: Harry Potter, Titanic, Jaws, Hook… We have a goal that Kyle will read me J.K. Rowling’s 7th Harry Potter book. I figure we have a little over two years to get there. We will. Before I leave this world, I’ll see my son standing on the other side of his bridge, smiling.

This was fun.

Congratulations, Leo!
Your IQ score is wicked high! (Actually there was a number.)
The test results told me, “your Intellectual Type is Visionary Philosopher.” Then they put a picture of this dude:

It continued, “This means you are highly intelligent and have a powerful mix of skills and insight that can be applied in a variety of different ways. Like Plato, your exceptional math and verbal skills make you very adept at explaining things to others — and at anticipating and predicting patterns. And that’s just some of what we know about you from your IQ results.” Then they wanted to sell me the rest, but that was enough. I’d say it’s very accurate…

This week PBS has been showing Ken Burns’ Baseball. The documentary is presented in nine “innings,” encompassing over 100 years of baseball history. Today I caught part of the 6th and 7th innings, covering the 40’s and 50’s. The 6th inning opens with the incredible season of 1941 when “Joltin” Joe DiMaggio hit in 56 straight games and Ted Williams hit .406. The film explores the game with vintage photos, old footage and interviews with players and fans.

The 7th inning presents the historic cross-town rivalry between the Brooklyn Dodgers and the New York Giants. In 1951, after the Giants erased a 13 game deficit by winning 37 of their last 45, the teams were tied and a three-game playoff would decide the National League pennant. The teams went the distance and entering the 9th of game 3 at the Polo Grounds, the Giants trailed 4-1. By the time Bobby Thompson came to the plate, it was 4-2 with 2 runners on and one out. Dodger reliever Ralph Branca got ahead on a first pitch fastball. Narrator John Chancellor then said, “Branca’s next pitch was a fastball too.”

By the time the decade ended, the clubs would continue their rivalry in California.

Speaking of rivalries, the Red Sox begin defending their world championship tonight in the Bronx. Let’s hope they’re still playing each other again in mid-October.

“Dad, why is it fifteenkey?” The simple answer is that it’s from an Uncle Tupelo song called “Fifteen Keys” from the bands last full-length recording, 1993’s Anodyne.

Anodyne was the first “alt-country” record dropped on me ten years ago by pal Jeff. As I write this, it’s chilling to think it may be ten years to the day or pretty damn close. What Jeff didn’t know is that he was handing me a life-preserver that helped save me for the next few years while adrift on a furious sea of inner-conflict and guilt. Anodyne, defined by Wikipedia as a painkiller, echoes those themes, as during the time of the recording the band was also coming apart at the uh, seams. (Note: That is so bad I refuse to edit it.)

The words of the songs in Anodyne are an enduring part of me now, and still often an effective prescription. So, Megan, that’s why it’s fifteenkey. I love you. Dad.

In addition to ten year old pictures and very liberal use of the term “curvy,” Internet dating is complicated by time and distance. Not enough and too much. Just tonight I received an email from a woman. Actually, it was a “courtesy reply,” which means you can blow someone off without actually writing a reply. This one read, “Thanks, but we live too far away from one another.”

I’m thinking I need a “teleporter” like on Star Trek. “Hey, Scotty, beam me over to “45butlook30’s” house, willya?”

Actually, in June of 2002, a team at the Australian National University managed to send a message using the same principles as the Star Trek teleporter. Now granted, I’m a little bigger than a message, but technology moves fast. They used a process called quantum entanglement, which coincidentally is just what I’m looking for.

Like any technology, this one would need a disaster recovery plan. I’ve been on several dates where I’ve wanted to be able to quickly extricate myself from the situation. This would work. I’d simply disappear. No uncomfortable chit-chat. No tab. Nothing but a sound.

Todays sunshine, warmth and disappearing snow brought me back to a happy time.

Appearing with a wanting smile and two mitts, both mine, the question was, “Dad, can I pitch some to you?” It seemed curious timing, as that morning I had begun my annual spring ritual of jogging to lose my “winter coat.” As a result, my aching legs had very little interest in the squatting position. “Yeah, sure,” I responded, and out to the street we went. The sun was bright and higher in the sky than it had been for all of that long winter when snowfall set all time records. On this day, small rivers, trickles of melting snow glistening in the sunlight, ran swift, carrying away the remains of unending winter storms. “Okay, just work on your control first,” I suggested, as the first offering sailed over my head on its way down the hill. My heavy, lifeless legs resisted the chase, but eventually carried me to the now wet, sandy ball. “Sorry Dad” was barely audible from up the street. “It’s alright,” I assured as I trudged up the hill and back into a squat. “WHAP,” the ball smacked firmly into my glove for a strike. “SKIT-WHAP,” the ball skipped low and slapped firmly into my thigh for a ball. “Sorry, Dad” again came lowly from up the street. The catch continued for awhile; the kid working on the mechanics of pitching, the old man working on leaden legs and the positive aspects of pain. Then the hurler’s throwing hand stayed in the glove too long before the ball arrived. Suddenly, the little face contorted as if every finger had been crushed. Limping toward me, I wondered why a limp was accompanying an injured finger… Anyway, after hearing just how bad it hurt and wiping away a few tears, it was back to business. To help ease the pain I advised, “It’s a good idea to wait until you catch the ball before you put the other hand in there.” The look returned indicated no amusement. The session continued. Finally, an errant pitch rolled into some bushes on the other side of the street. As I leaned down to retrive the ball, the wonderful scent of green filled my senses. The vision of fishing that ball from the bushes and smelling the season of spring brought me back years to those early spring games of catch as a youngster. Back to a time when playing catch was all that mattered. As I walked back and tossed the ball to a beautiful young lady named Jessica, I realized that at times, it’s still all that matters.

I do take requests, and this one is from my son, Kyle. He asked me to do a story about one of his favorite movies, Jaws. One of our favorite scenes is when Chief Brody (Roy Scheider) is scooping chum off the back of the boat. With the camera facing down toward the stern where the chief is working, he turns toward the bow of the “Orca” and shouts, “Hey, why don’t you come down here and chum some of this shit.” Suddenly, the massive Great White bursts up out of the water toward the Chief. He lurches back and is scared shitless.
In a classic understatement, he says, “We’re gonna need a bigger boat.” Thanks to Kyle for that great story idea.

While that was my sentiment earlier this week, today I’ve been thinking about the situation of Terri Schiavo apart from the maze of legal efforts and political exploitation. If she were the child who spent her first nights of life sleeping against your beating heart, could you just let her die? If she, as a toddler, ran into your arms each day you came home from work, could you just let her die? If that toddler broke down crying at hearing a song about a lion’s father dying, and blurted, “I don’t want you to die,” could you just let her die? If she sang like an angel and could elicit laughter with acting, could you just let her die? If there were even the slightest hope that someday medicine could light up her creative mind, could you just let her die? If she were your daughter, could you?