Category: Uncategorized (Page 19 of 95)

I stepped gingerly into the creamy, lunar-like dust hoping to keep my mandals clean. Yes, mandals. They seemed like a good idea at the time. After all, Joyce has a house down the Cape, but sadly I think she’s at the top of the mandal-haters list, at least mandals that even partially expose my “ugly” hobbit-like toes, but that’s not really important right now…

Standing behind home plate where I had for untold innings long past, all the dimensions snapped into focus. It’s funny how every baseball field has a mound rubber that’s 60’ 6” from home plate, yet depending on the park and its surroundings, the distance can seem to deviate. At familiar Moulton Field in Wakefield, all the infield dimensions seem a little smaller.

Maddy and Kyle were with me, but the time warp bubble I was in made me oblivious to Kyle’s boredom and Maddy’s fascination with the lunar surface. Melancholy mused me at the awful condition of the field while I flashed through the years… At age 13 during my Babe Ruth League tryout, I experienced my first bafflement of a well thrown change-up, courtesy of then 14 year old Mike Boyages. On July 3, 1975, I suffered a fractured zygomatic arch, courtesy of some kid from rival Melrose who crushed my face with his knee as I turned to block home plate. Dude was out, but unfortunately so was my eye nearly from its socket. Around ’87 or ’88, playing for “the Highlife” of the Wakefield “Men’s Twi-League,” I blasted a ball into a centerfield tree for a bases clearing double. Yeah, the luck of it was that if not for the well placed maple, my effort would have been a 370’ out… Behind the plate was the place though… Catcher is the best position on a diamond. It’s the only spot where the entire game is in front of you and you’re in every play. I caught a good game, and one of my favorites was another Highlife tilt when I caught a young rookie in his first visit to “the show,” Paul Gonnella. Which brings me to why this 51 year old was standing behind home plate yesterday at Moulton Field.

My peeps and I were there to attend the “Gonnella Family Reunion” at Wakefield’s “West Side Social Club,” adjacent to that park where we collaborated or clashed with base and basketballs. Sadly, number one son (chronologically only the other 4 would strongly attest…) my best bud Michael was stuck back in Arizona and wasn’t in attendance, but Mark, John, Peter and Paul were there. Yeah, that’s right: Michael, Mark, John, Peter and Paul, and saints they were not… Somehow “Mrs. G” survived five sons, well, six including me. I think I ate every night’s dinner at the Gonnella’s during high school… It was great to see Mr. and Mrs. G and my Italian brothers. Mark and I chatted for a while, as did Mark’s wife of 27 years (!!!), Shelley. Yeah, they met during our Arizona days, and aside from a few grays and some crows counting, they both look great. Shelley actually became family when she killed as AC/DC’s bassist Cliff Williams in our “air-band” battles of the early 80’s in Tucson. I made the rounds with all the bro’s and of course my second parents. We all missed Mike, but that didn’t stop any of us from torturing Dillard about the tats, the Harley, the lo-carb diet and the “Ho Chi Minh” goatee… Dude, we only wish you were there for it in person!

I felt so at home. Mrs. G was all over Maddy and Kyle, just like a great grandmother. Mr. G kept calling me “Number Six,” and all the brothers were imploring me to visit them in Miami, SC, Raleigh and even Harwich. It had been over ten years since I’d seen many of them, but it was as if those years were never lost. Although the Gonnella’s are not my genetic family, in this case, Mrs. G’s spaghetti sauce is much thicker than water.

I can’t believe I never bitc… uh, blogged about it, but back in 2008, I had to part with $2,040.64 to repair a defective transmission in Megan’s 2001 Toyota RAV4. Although it was pretty well known a defect in the cars “ECM,” or “Engine Control Module,” sent bad information to the tranny and caused it to fail, Toyota was sending its customers the wrong signal in the form of an extended middle finger by refusing to take ownership and cover the repair.

Over the couple years since, I’ve received emailings from other frustrated customers who had pooled together in an effort to move the beast, but Toyota never budged, not even last summer when other quality issues put the company in the headlines and hurt their yen for big profits. Until yesterday when the email told of a letter from Toyota extending the warranty on the 2001-2003 RAV4’s! I haven’t received one, but a related article in the New York Times extends coverage on the topic:

“Under pressure from the California Air Resources Board, Toyota said on Tuesday that it was extending the warranty nationwide on automatic transmissions and electronic control modules on almost one quarter of a million 2001–3 RAV4s and offering to reimburse owners who had already paid for repairs.”

So, it looks like our association will now cost Toyota $2,040.64. Oh, I’ll take the money, but the relationship is irreparably damaged. Actually, it’s already cost Toyota $26,556 in potential new car sales (my Acura instead of a comparable Lexus later in 2008) and untold future amounts. You see, after that horrible customer experience, I will never buy another Toyota product and I’ll tell everyone I know about it, including you 4 readers…

The crying was real and broke my heart. She’d lost someone dear to her and there was nothing I was going to be able to do about it. Or was there? She had passed out in the back seat, tear streaks still moist on her cheeks. I did try to find her friend, but our searching came up empty. From the Timberland, I literally crawled to search under armor, but it seemed a cold case. “Flounder” was lost somewhere in the “Bob’s Store” and Big Papi wasn’t bringing him back. I was well aware this was a traumatic event and there was no way I wanted responsibility for a future moment when Maddy shrieks to some therapist, “MY PAPA COULDN’T FIND FLOUNDER!” A mild tremor at the thought coursed my body and it confirmed a drastic measure was required: intervention. I took the rural routes along 31 and 140 until I reached Berlin. No, Massachusetts, not Germany. Madison was still groggy, and as I brushed her hair from her post-nap eyes, dried yogurt announced itself. Not surprisingly, simply breaking the plane of the Disney store brought Maddy back and a stuffed “Flounder” brought back her smile. I threw in an “Ariel” nighty because I’m her grandfather and that’s what I do. Now shopping can tire a woman out, so we hit up the food court for a slice. A merry-go-round now sits at center court… I’d say the intervention was a success. For today.

The film director’s burden can be heavy. Aside from handling budgets, unions, unexpected flatulence during a quiet scene, the elements (weather, not the periodic table…) and petulant “stars,” the creative process itself is most daunting. There are times the director must encourage, cajole, and yes, even demand breathtaking performance from actors in order to weave his or her story. This is one of those times…

[Note the smiling “agent” shows up at the 1:58 mark…]

This song takes me back to the old “Youth Activity Center,” or “YAC” in Wakefield. It’s the place we’d go most weekend nights and the primary activity was hanging out before, but mostly after killing a few beers with our pals. It was in a basement of some old town building just off the lower common. Dillard and I would usually thumb from Greenwood and then inevitably be late getting home for our 11:00 curfew. Some cool townspeople ran the place, but I’m not sure I’ll remember them all right now. Freddie Roberto was usually there, as was Richie Wood. Richie was considered “very cool,” but once called a ball on the nastiest knuckler I ever threw in a Babe Ruth league game. It started out headed right at the hitter, who bailed out like I threw cheese at his chin, then the floating orb darted down and right over the plate. Perfect strike. Later at the “YAC” Richie apologized and admitted, “I missed it.” That was cool.

Upon arrival any night or Sunday afternoon at the YAC, it was usually not apparent my buddies were in the house. Dillard and I would have to shuffle back into the bowels of the men’s room where Freddie would be holding court. Of course the men’s room was where “Chico” and “Fitzy” dashed wearing nothing but paper bags on their heads during the “streaker” craze around 1973. Anyway, only after discussing the current state of the football team and other weighty issues like détente between the US and Russia would we emerge to mingle with the masses. My memories aren’t well lit right now, and neither was the YAC, but the place was lined with tabled booths on 3 sides, featured a pool and ping-pong table, and had a jukebox on the 4th wall, near the entrance. There are only two songs I remember the spew out of that thing; I guess that makes them unforgettable. The first was Zep’s “Whole Lotta Love.” It’s obviously a great song, and was the only top 10 single for the band in the US. It also features one of rocks great guitar riffs that would reverb endlessly because Glenn Forbes would kick the jukebox repeatedly so the record would skip and repeat the riff. Yeah, good times.

The memory tune is a “Star Trek” transporter room, atomizing me back to the YAC every time I hear the Billy Preston opening keyboard, the nasty Mick Taylor wah-wah solos and Jagger’s guttural yelps. Then there’s both Mick’s and “Keef” on the haunting background vocals. That’s the thing. That chorus. Yesterday on the commute home, I analyzed it, sang it, and loved its construction. Each refrain of the chorus starts off with one “Doo,” followed by three sets of “Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo.” I love words and they don’t always have to have deep meaning. Sometimes they can just be Doo Doo.

“Doo…
Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo
Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo
Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo, Doo”

[For the record (and for Barb), this is my 763rd post. One more than Barry Bonds 762 career home runs. I have no comment on how performance enhancers may have contributed to my impressive stats.]

On Sunday while I was whisking my best girl down to the Cape for a 21 hour mini-vacation (unsuccessfully interrupted by creepy crawling mildew), my lovely daughter Megan illegally unethically hijacked my Facebook account and wrote:

“Leo Daley<— Cried at Toy Story Three. Dad, stop logging onto FB on my MAC!”

In a clear case of piling on, “Work Joyce” (as opposed to “Play Joyce”) commented:

“Sobbed at Toy Story Three. On the other hand, I’m a post-menopausal mother-of-two. What’s your excuse again?”

Due to popular demand, I’ll tell you why, yes, I cried at “Toy Story 3.” I sniffled (it was borderline not even a cry) because there were (mostly) men (toys) in mortal danger, and they faced that peril like men (toys) with the same manly (toyly) courage that made me cry in “Saving Private Ryan.” OK, that’s only partly true. Mostly, what pulled my heartstrings was the possibility I might lose these characters as a connecting thread of my life with my children. There was also a part featuring Andy and his mom that that made me think of Joyce and her son Nick, but she hasn’t seen the movie yet and this ain’t no plot busting blog, but this is.

Three years and six days ago, I posted “72films,” which were not consciously ordered, but curiously 4 of the first 15 jerk tears from my ducts:

• Field of Dreams – “Dad, wanna have a catch?” The idea of “connecting” with your dad after a life of distance…
• Brian’s Song – “I love Brian Piccolo. And tonight, when you hit your knees, please ask God to love him.” I sometimes project myself onto the screen and “live” the film. The idea of losing my best friend when I was 12 was overwhelming.
• It’s a Wonderful Life –“Strange, isn’t it? Each man’s life touches so many other lives. When he isn’t around he leaves an awful hole, doesn’t he?” Most days we go through this life not thinking of the impact we have on others. Being reminded that someday there will be that awful hole swarms the senses.
• Forrest Gump –“I miss you, Jenny. If there’s anything you need, I won’t be far away.” Oh, man. This special man who absolutely “knows what love is” finally gets his Jenny… then she dies.

Of course movies aren’t the only times I’ve cried, but I’ll simply say those other times involved losing people I loved, even temporarily, or thinking I might. Looking forward, I also see life-affirming experiences and tears of joy, but I’ll just stay right here in this blubbery moment.

So what’s my excuse? I love my life and the people in it. I feel it. I try to blend myself across a wide palette of creamy perception and colorful emotions that allow me to experience its unbounded dimensions. Crying cleanses the soul’s canvas anew for creating life experiences of increasing breadth and depth. Or maybe, as some of the people I love would say, “you’re just a mush.”

Many of us have scrap book mind fragments of family dinners long digested. I can’t really recall any including my Dad, but there was that one Sunday and I know we ate at a restaurant. That was cool. It would be nice to have some footage of this one. I’d love to hear my Nana (checkered dress) Lily’s voice and the banter between her and my mom (to Nana’s right)… Megan recently worried aloud that “dinner at Nana’s (mom’s) may never be the same.” Oh, the table beneath the fake, plastic ceiling beams will be the same, and the 1980’s vintage glass cabinet of stacked, black audio components will still draw Maddy’s curiosity, but the spirit in the room may be forever changed.

This week I pulled out the videocam for a series of interviews with my little blond ambition, and when I hooked up the series of wires, corsets and pulleys to download the directorial magic to PC, a still representation caught my eye. While I lack tangible moving pictures of most family dinners past, we do have this one, and it moved me.

[From left to right, Katie’s friend, Katie (Uncle Dave’s daughter), mom’s sister Auntie San, Anne (Uncle Dave’s wife), Mom, nephew Ryan, mom’s sister Auntie Bev, mom’s brother Uncle Dave, Kyle, Megan… and a guest appearance from Maddy)

The initial filament fire for this post occurred at church when Father Tim proclaimed, “Let us offer each other a sign of peace.” Peace. It’s such a simple word, yet a profoundly elusive state. As I kissed her, I remember thinking, “I really want peace for her.” It’s all relative, I know. I lack the capacity to delve into the complex forces against world peace, so I’ll stay very local. We don’t live in Kandahar province, so our “peace” is unlikely to be shattered by the shrapnel of an IED, yet we’re constantly bombarded with conflict from work, family, friends, handymen, commuting, shopping, television, radio… life…and death. Our inner peace can even be invaded by our own thoughts of doubt, shame, guilt, insecurity, anger, the Yankees…

My good friend Michael signs all his emails, “peace.” It’s a nice valediction and so preferable to “Best.”  Really? “Best?”  What does that even mean? It seems insincere, cool and trite business-speak. “Peace” is so warm, like a hot chocolate with those little marshmallows, but you can’t really use it in business for fear the recipient would coldly think, “freakin’ hippie.” Speaking of hippies, I still remember reading a Sports Illustrated article around 1974 about Bill Walton and his 88 game winning streak UCLA Bruins. I was a Walton fan [Michael was “Wilkes” to my “Walton” as we thrashed different combinations of our brothers in 2 on 2 action at 67 Greenwood Avenue. Of course, we were in high-school and they were like 6th graders, but that’s not important right now…] and when the article ended with a description of big Bill “flashing the peace sign,” I was captured by the coolness.

OK, back to church where the coolness of circulating blades are 300 feet above the congregation… It always seems a little uncomfortable scanning the radius of your pew position for strangers to do the “peace be with you” drill. Are we just not comfortable with “peace?” Do we subconsciously believe uttering the word is somehow a sign of weakness? I’m sure Dick Cheney does. I knew this post was doomed when I pecked the five letter title… I guess like many things we desire in this life, “peace” is aspirational. I love John Lennon’s song, but every time I hear, “Give Peace a Chance,” I think… “nice song, but a pipedream in this world.” I guess the best we can do is “think globally, act locally,” and do all we can to bring peace to those close to us.  Maybe that could get around.

Peace.

I miss the World Cup competition. Since discovering the beautiful game over a few pints in a London pub in 2001, I’ve looked forward to it every 4 years. Other than Joyce’s son though, I really have no one to talk to about it. Nick plays and will do so at UVM beginning this Fall, but even so, I can’t help thinking that every time I open my yapper about it up he’s thinking, “Oh. My. God. I can’t believe this guy is bringing up soccer again…” Anyway, without any buddies to talk futbol, I’ll just talk to myself about it here…

Top Ten reasons Futbol (Soccer) rocks

1. The field is called “the Pitch.” – I love that! It makes more sense than “gridiron.” The pitch at Old Trafford in Manchester, England is the Yank, uh, Fenway Park of futbol in the UK. It seats 75,957 fans and has the nickname, “Theatre of Dreams.” Old Trafford has been home to the Premier Leagues legendary Manchester United since 1910, except for an 8 year span beginning in 1941 when it was BOMBED DURING WWII! That’s history.

2. Players get “carded.” – If you simply display “unsporting behaviour,” that may get you a yellow (warning) card. Be a real dick and the ref draws red from his two card deck and you are “sent off” for the duration and must leave the area and go to a local pub (OK, I made the pub part up, but I’m certain it’s happened often…). My favorite part is when the ref approaches the offending player and raises the card high above him like, “this is an official citation for your unsporting behavior!”

3. Head – You gotta use it if you want to play the world’s game. The Spain-Germany semi-final was decided by a spectacular Carles Puyol header at the 74th minute as the diminutive defender skied above bigger Germans to slam the “Jabulani” ball into the net.

4. Time Waits for No One (Except the Ref) – Once the official time expires on the stadium clock, only the ref really knows how much “extra” time (due to injuries and other delays) is left.

5. Athleticism – Soccer players have to be in superb condition, and average 6-7 miles of running during a match. You won’t see Kevin Youkilis or David Ortiz out on “the pitch” for long… At the World Cup level, these are among the best athletes on the planet.

6. Skill – Some of these guys dribble a ball with their feet with skill equal to Marques Haynes dribbling with his hands and don’t even get me going on the skill it takes to execute a bicycle kick…

7. No timeouts! – The game has two 45 minute halves with no stoppage… That means no commercials, kids! It also means there are no 5 hour Sox-Yankee death marches.

8. Corner kicks – Of course everyone knows the corner kick was conceived under the Sheffield Rules in 1867. It is awarded to the attacking team when the ball leaves the pitch at the end (goal) line (goals are excluded from this rule… duh) after being last touched by a defending player. The attacking team then gets to kick the ball back into play from the corner closest to where the ball exited. The corner kick is a prime goal scoring opportunity and can be a very exciting moment in a match. Skilled “strikers” will often try to “bend” the ball from the corner up and down into a crowd of players fronting the goal, hoping a teammate can redirect a “header” past the keeper.

9. Drama – In the 2010 Ghana-Uruguay World Cup quarter-final, the teams battled 1-1 into a 30 minute overtime when Ghana was swarming the Uruguay goal for a sure decider. Minutes past the 30 minute “extra time” a sure goal by Ghana was denied when a Uruguayan defender stopped the shot with his hands. Ghana was awarded a penalty kick, a 12 yard unabated boot with a 77% success rate. The game, the futbol hopes of the African continent, and a lifetime of glory or infamy came down to one kick by Ghanaian striker Asamoah Gyan. It was a stunning and sad moment to see Gyan clang the ball off the crossbar.

10. Arts and Sciences – To watch a team work the ball down the field, ping-ponging passes that seem to be drawn by magnets from foot to foot, is sports beauty combining precise geometry, law-defying physics, and infinite artistic imagination. Every kick, every play and every game is so different… and beautiful.

Some soccer suckage:
1. Overtime penalty kicks – Teams compete hard for more than 120 minutes (90m regulation plus 30 of “extra time”), then ties are settled by 5 penalty kicks each? Me no likee.

2. Diving – Some players drop like deer in hunting season if just breathed on by an opposing player, feigning certain death to draw a penalty. They roll with contorted faces and writhe in pain like their knee, ankle or testicles have been blown apart. Moments later they’re up galloping like Bambi. That is a blight on the game that has to be addressed.

3. Vuvuzelas – I wake up sweating, nightmaring about paying for World Cup flights, accommodations and tickets, only to have some assjack blow one of those down my audio canal for 90-plus minutes. (Maybe it’s just a South Africa thing…)

Futbol is not the worlds game for nothing. Kick me your comments pro or con…