Unhappy Old Year

It's been a tough year. My last post was about the murder of a friend's brother. Then there was Superstorm Sandy. It would have been nice if that still held the title of "Biggest Bad Thing That Happened in 2012," but then 20 school children and six adults were slaughtered in Newtown, CT national attention rightly shifted to that horrific event. All mass shootings are sad and horrible, and I'm not saying anything profound by pointing out that the ages of most of the victims made this one feel worse. At least it did to me. I didn't cry in 1999 when the victims were my age. I didn't cry in 2007 when 32 people were killed at Virginia Tech. But I sure as hell cried this time. I know I'm not alone in this, and that's why this will be a watershed event in American history. Things will change. They have to. I don't care what your political opinions are. Things must, and will change.

This was only the second time I can remember crying while driving. The first time was when my mother called to say she was taking our dog for his last walk to the beach before putting him to sleep. I was on my way to work and I reassured her that Winston was suffering and she was doing the right thing. As soon as I hung up- alligator tears. Wet steering wheel.

This time, I was on my way home from work, listening to news reports from Newtown. Just imagining the pain of parents who'd lost their children, thinking about how they probably had their kids' Christmas presents hidden in their attics, and the emptiness that they'll always feel, especially around the holidays, was enough to bring me to tears. Not quite wet steering wheel tears, but silent, stoic tears. Strong men also cry. I'll end this section by wishing, as our whole nation has, that the families who lost their kids can find some shred of comfort to hang on to.



But I was always going to write about the storm, because how could I not?  It's been almost two months since it hit, and by all accounts, the progress at my beloved Jersey Shore has been astounding. More than that, the resolve and the attitude that my friends and family have shown in the face of life-altering circumstances has been inspiring, but not surprising. When shit goes down, you really find out who people are, and my people are awesome.

It was strange watching the events unfold from 3,000 miles away. It went from making good old fashioned storm jokes, to "woah, this is a big one" to "I hope there isn't too much damage" to "holy shit, my quiet little neighborhood is on national TV because it's pretty much been wiped out." It's a helpless feeling.

In the days that followed, after I knew everyone was safe, things started to sink in. It felt like a loss. Like, you're fine for most of the day, then you remember how bad it is and how the people you care about the most are hurting. I thought about how many of the homes and landmarks and the scenery that had been burned into my brain over my whole life, the little things I took comfort in whenever I went home may no longer exist the next time I visit.

I've written before that I don't really know where I'm from because I moved around a bunch growing up. This makes my mother feel guilty. It's ok Mom. But the storm made it abundantly clear that I am from the Shore. It's the place I feel most connected to because it was the constant, no matter what my permanent address may have been over the years.


Another wake up call- My mother asked us to send her a coat because she didn't realize how long she'd have to be away from home and didn't bring a heavy one with her. We made arrangements to send her a coat (along with a bunch of other clothes to be disbursed among our family and friends) but it hit me all of a sudden, "My mother doesn't have the coat she needs right now." That was surreal. I saw some friends comment on Facebook that it was crazy seeing the benefits and fundraisers on TV because they were for US. This happened to US. What a crazy perspective. I don't mean to sound trite, since the residents of Newtown are certainly experiencing this grim reality, but again, it was kind of surreal.

Tomorrow, I fly home for the first time since the storm and everyone has said that pictures won't prepare me for what I'll see. I'm sure they're right. Amazing work has been done, but so much more work remains. But I've never been more excited to go home, and never more anxious either. I think the hugs will be a little tighter this year, the smiles a little wider. There will probably be tears too, but I think they'll be more stoic than alligator. And there will be alcohol. So much sweet alcohol. Can't wait to see everyone. Merry Christmas.

The epitome of "bittersweet," the theme of this trip home.

Officer Brad Fox

Hi gang. Hope you had a good summer. I haven't written since July, huh? I suck. Wait, no I don't. Negative self-talk is just that, negative. Too much of it can lead to self-fulfilling prophecy of poor performance and an unfavorable self-image. It's better to correct your mistake, and move on. Dont' dwell on your errors or short-comings.

A quick update on that July post- I wrote a private Facebook message to Jay a few weeks ago, and as of this morning he has not written back. I sure hope it's because he doesn't check FB regularly. It has to be, right? If someone came out of the blue and had possession of a very personal piece of your, uh, personal history, wouldn't you respond? Anyway, I'll let you know if I hear from him.

Today, I want to write about something horrible that happened. There's no smooth way to segue into this.

Brad Fox was a police officer in Plymouth Township, PA and the older brother of my college roommate, Jim and he was killed in the line of duty on September 13th. 

The last time I "wrote" about this, it didn't go as well as I would have liked. It was a text message to Jim saying how sorry I was and that I was glad to have met Brad. Those parts were fine. But I also said something about finding peace in the memories of his brother. This was literally the morning after it happened. The wound was far too raw to be talking about memories. That's like seeing a guy get his arm chopped off and immediately wishing him luck with physical therapy.

Jim wrote me back a few days later, thanking me for the message. I'm don't think it bothered him. Jim always sees the best in people (unless they're a NY Rangers fan). But I was annoyed at myself. The news hit me pretty hard and I should have waited a few hours for the shock to wear off. I wonder if part of me thought that since I'd experienced the sudden loss of my father, I was extra-qualified to offer condolences and should do it right away.  I know my intentions were good, but no two losses are the same. There's no Loss Club that you join where you automatically know how someone else feels.

Before becoming a cop, Brad was a Marine and served two tours in Iraq. When we met a few years ago, I remember thanking him for his service and saying something about how I could never do it on account of me being a complete pussy. He chuckled at my civilian guilt, but then he said something to the effect of, "It's a job, like any other." I didn't agree with him, but I really admired his outlook and his bravery. He didn't flaunt it. He wasn't one of those asshole Marines. You know the type. 

To survive war, only to be victimized in his own country is disheartening to say the least. Here's the account of his death. But if there's a bright side to this tragedy, it's the incredible support that the Fox family has received. Jim told me it's been more than they ever could have expected. Here's the official Facebook page if you'd like to learn more.

Oh, How Times Have Changed

If you lived in or visited Penthouse C at 75 Jackson St in Hoboken, NJ between October 2006 and January 2009 or if you've been to my current residence, the subject of this post will be familiar to you. If you don't fall in to  any of these categories, I encourage you to read on nonetheless. You might find it interesting.

But first, a story no one has ever heard. Because I'm going to make it up right now. And, begin.

Friday, May 9th 1986 was a fine spring day in New York and Jay had the world by the balls. At least to the extent that a junior analyst could. The previous year, his firm had somehow escaped major penalties relating to a massive check-kiting scandal, and the Crash of '87 was still about a year and a half away. As far as Jay knew, this was a new beginning for banking giant E.F. Hutton, but it was actually much closer to the end. Something did begin that night though, and it would change his life. Whirlwind romances can do that.

After work, he and a few of the guys on his trading desk made the short trip from their office at The World Trade Center down to South Street Seaport to unwind with a few too many. Unlike most of his peers in those days, Jay had no appetite for cocaine. He'd tried it, sure. Who hadn't? But even as the drug tightened it's grip on the world of high finance, it just wasn't something he enjoyed.

So when his buddies went off for a toot, he found himself alone with his beer. This ritual was taking place on most Friday nights now and sometimes on the odd Thursday and it always involved Jay being forced to abide the deluded rants of the coke fiend. Or fiends, in his case. Usually he'll drink enough gin to tolerate them, but tonight he'd only had a few beers and that just wouldn't do the job. A quick cab ride back to WTC, the PATH train to Grove Street Station in Jersey City and with luck, he could be in his apartment in less than a half hour. He stood up to finish his pint, and in doing so, bumped into a woman causing her to spill her chardonnay. Their eyes met. They were in love. Her name was Leslie.

Over the next year, the young couple would run in all directions. They ate mussels in Leslie's hometown of Palm Beach Gardens, Florida. They went to the dog track. Back in Manhattan, they visited the newly opened AT&T InfoQuest Center where they learned about microchips and fiberoptics, among other things.

In November they scored the hottest ticket in town: Steve Winwood at Madison Square Garden for the Back in the Highlife tour. Jay hosted his annual Christmas party. They went ice skating, they went to the Guggenheim, they saw a performance by The Paper Bag Players (Maybe one of them had a nephew or niece or something). They celebrated Valentine's Day '87. They played with a dog. They nursed one another back to health. It was a magical love affair and truly an unforgettable year.

  

















Yes, I know the story gets a bit rushed after they meet. First, it's a whirlwind. Second, it's based on a piece of art (with plenty of poetic license thrown in). As you can see, it's made up of many elements. To highlight each one would have made for quite a long tale and that's not really what this is about. This is more about the story behind the story. And another one behind that.

My roommates and I found the piece on October 1, 2006. I remember the date because it was the day we all moved in together and we were walking home after celebrating. It was with the trash on the curb, but it was wrapped in plastic. That and the period specific red frame caught our eye. One of us said, "We need some art. Grab it." We hardly looked at what it was.


When we got back to The Penthouse, we were amazed. This thing was crazy. What a bunch of random stuff.

Sorry for the glare.

Almost every person who visited our place for the first time was fascinated by it. We spent hours studying it, and I swear that I still find new details. Needless to say, I was able to claim it when we all moved out in January 2009. I was just kinda like, "I'm taking the art," and no one really argued. I don't even remember if I was the one who spotted it in the street that day. 

So now it hangs above the dinner table in our apartment, and is often the subject of alcoholically enhanced conversations and I'm very glad it does since it's pretty much the only interesting thing we own. Besides the pole.



Epilogue
We found Jay on Facebook. That's not a sentence that would have made sense in 1986. Not even the InfoQuest Center could have predicted the way social media would change our society. 

He and Leslie didn't make it. He's married to someone else and has three daughters. We figure Leslie made this for him and he lugged it around for 20 years before he finally decided to get rid of it. 

I can't decide if I want to contact him. I'm incredibly curious, but I don't want to risk somehow ruining the mystique. What do you think I should do? What should I say to him, if anything? Let me know in comments or on FB.

Meet the Mets

In honor of the team's 50th anniversary this year and because I feel like it, I'm writing about the New York Mets.

People sometimes inquire about my allegiance to the Mets. "Why the Mets?" they ask. "The Mets suck." they state. The genesis of my fanhood is their World Series win in 1986. I was in kindergarten, but I remember. Kind of. I definitely remember my old man leaving the house for one of the World Series games wearing a trash bag as a poncho. He must have owned an actual rain coat, so I don't know what the trash bag was all about. I always thought he went to the famous Game 6, but the only day that precipitation was reported during a Mets home game during the Series was Game 7. Maybe he saw the Mets win the Series. All I know is he brought be back this pennant.

However, there's another story I always give to explain/defend my Mets fanhood. One day I got called out of my first grade class at Ridge Elementary to find that my dad had surprised me with tickets to that day's game at Shea. He said "We're going to the game, son!" or something to that effect. I remember being ecstatic. My first Mets game!

(Full disclosure- This was not my first baseball game. I was brought to a Yankees game a few years earlier. I was way too young, and it was way too loud and I hated it. I cried. So that's why I hate the Yankees, I guess. Interestingly, I also cried at my first New York Giants game because my dad underestimated the bathroom line and left me alone in my seat for like a half hour. I freaked out, but it did not effect my love of the team. You never know with kids.)

Back to the Mets game. I remember it being hot. Really hot. I remember the ice in my soda melting almost immediately. I remember both of us being surprised that one of the Pittsburgh Pirates (the Mets' opponents that day, and my dad's favorite team) was wearing long sleeves under his jersey. I remember we sat on the third base side, but not sure what level. I want to say we sat in the Inner Field Box, but it easily good have been Outer Field Box. I know it wasn't the Loge level. I remember bragging about "box seats" to my friends. Box seats were a big deal. I remember seeing Straw up at bat! Number 18! That was my dog. I would go on to write a report on him in 4th grade, not long before he was traded to the Dodgers. But I don't remember who won, or any details from the game itself.

I believe we sat in the circled section.

It bothers me that I don't know what game it was. I've investigated it before, but not that thoroughly. Kind of like homosexuality. Wait, what?

But now it's time to get thorough! About figuring out which game I went to, that is. So I was in first grade from September 1987 to June 1988. Since again, it was hotter than hell that day, we can rule out it being at the end of the '87 season. In 1988 the Pirates made their first trip to Shea for a three game set from June 20-22. Was I really in school that late in June? I must have been. I cross referenced the New York weather for that period, and sure enough, it was hotter than ballz. I ruled out the game on the 20th since the high temp at LaGuardia was a mere 85 degrees. The next two days would reach 95 and 98 respectively so that means it was either June 21st or 22nd.

I have a vague recollection of seeing #16 Doc Gooden. Maybe that's just wishful remembering, but I'm going with it. So that means it was the game on 6/22/88, a 3-0 Mets victory! I feel so much better now. I hope you do too.

I love men. G Men that is! And my dad!

It's been just over a year since I wrote about professional team sports and exactly a year since my dad died. It's hard to believe it's been that long since both these things occurred. Let's revisit them today.

As you must know, (televised) sports are a big part of my life, so for it to have been this long since I wrote about them is astounding. 

Or is it? While I haven't written about sports, I've read about them almost every day. Earth to Matilda, there is a lot of brilliant sports writing on the internet. So brilliant, it made me think, "What's the point of me writing about them?" This negative attitude was partly compounded by the unearthing of a story I wrote in 8th grade that is on par with my most recent prose, in  both style and complexity.

The other problem is the three teams I pretend to know anything about (Giants, Mets, Liverpool FC) are three of the most well covered and passionately supported teams in their respective sports. You could read about these teams in hundreds or even thousands of other places. In fact, the whole internet is saturated with inane blogs about God knows what, just like this one. So why write anything at all? Why do anything at all? It's all been done. 


Ah ha! Ah ha! 


That's the point. It hasn't all been done and said. The world changes every second and there's always another point of view. There's always another story to be told. Plus, I crave the spotlight, however dim. So let's go for it!


Last year, I predicted that the Giants would defeat the Eagles at home 31-24, clinching the NFC East. Of course, that was the Matt Dodge punting to DeSean Jackson game, and the Giants went on to squander their next to chances to make the playoffs.

Well this year we're in baby! 

Side note: Who runs New York?? Woo! I went to Giants/Jets on Christmas Eve and the vibe at MetLife was fairly good natured. At least before the game, since both sets of fans secretly felt like their team kinda sucked. It was slightly less good natured after the game when the Giants faithful got their swagger back. It really was great to shut Rex's fat mouth.

He's actually doing a Globtrotters-style slide dribble with Felix Jones as the ball.

Anyway, after beating Dallas, which was just as sweet, we're in baby! A year ago, I wrote that the Giants were running the ball and rushing the passer well. This year, we're rushing the passer well! Yes, the pass rush disappeared for about 5 games after a strong start, but it's back now. This can be attributed to the return of Osi (he's still good!) and the continuted growth of the man-child, Jason Pierre-Paul. What can I say about JPP that hasn't already been said? He's an athletic freak who had a huge breakthrough about half way through the season, and now he'll play in the Pro Bowl. And guess what: HE'S STILL LEARNING! He's sharpening his instincts like an adolescent wolf who just joined the hunt. 

In other team news,

Eli: Elite

Cruuuuuz: Sick

Nicks: Still sick, despite the drop against da Skinz and the way he holds the ball like loaf of bread when he's running.

Rookie FB Henry Hynoski: Sooo fucking sick. You see those first down catches and a hurdle against the Cowboys?

Bradshaw/Jacobs: Not too sick this year, but they're showing signs of sickness. I've been really unimpressed with new center David Baas and the run blocking overall. O-Line, LB, and the secondary need help. Even without the injuries that have crushed these areas, they need upgrades.

Following a similar game plan from last week, the Giants will beat the Falcons 27-20 on Sunday. Then on to Green Bay! Woop! Woop!


We'll save in depth analysis of the Mets and LFC for another time. I'm too depressed to talk about the Mets, but the Pool cruised to a 5-1 victory over Oldham Athletic in the FA Cup today, with captain Steven Gerrard scoring from the penalty spot and Steward Downing netting his first goal for the club.


In a silky-smooth segue, the old man passed a year ago yesterday (1/5). I can't talk about, or think about, or play sports without thinking of him. I mean, I can, but you get my point. There's a strong connection!

It's been kind of a weird year. I was pretty pumped on 2011, but got thrown off track, early on. I can't believe it's been over a year since I heard his voice. Here's something that sucks: I had old voicemails he'd left me, and I was going to listen to them when I was ready. But then I updated my phone and *poof! they were erased! Bummer! So I never got to hear those again. I didn't mourn Steve Jobs for this reason. Also because I never met him. I know he made great products, but dang.


So dad, I miss you. You're with me every time I play golf and despite iTunes updates, I can still hear your voice.