The culture of losing has become deeply embedded in the Cleveland sports fan’s psyche. We are a town dominated in attention and affection for the perennially putrid Browns. Trends point to the affection waning, but the attention, vitriolic or otherwise, is still pervasive. The team has given absolutely nothing to its fans in return for their devotion since it came back in 1999. It’s been two outliers of winning seasons and a ton of terrible football. This is in the NFL, the league with the most socialist financial model, and the most consistently level playing field. Market size matters not in today’s pro football, but the Browns have not been able to field even a respectable team for all of their resurrected existence. By any objective or subjective measure, they suck.
The Tribe is to be admired for frugal chutzpah, but even last year’s joy ride didn’t even amount to a winning season. They are trying though, hampered by an owner’s shallow pockets and a half-filled stadium. I am predictably optimistic about their chances in 2012, but really wouldn’t be surprised by anything. A lot has to go right for the Tribe. Grady Sizemore must channel his inner Ponce de Leon and show some of his early twenties form. Shin-Soo Choo has to shake the shame of his lost year. The pitching staff has to stay healthy and very productive. In a league with superpowers in Anaheim, Boston, New York, and Texas, and big budgets in Detroit and Chicago, the Tribe must emerge from the flea market ready for the runway. Considering these inherent disadvantages, you have to give it to Shapiro, Antonetti, Acta and the gang for competing.
Which brings us to the active bunch, the Cavaliers. They have the least tradition of the Cleveland franchises but the most recent relevant success. They also, more recently, endured one of the most brutal stretches of basketball in NBA history. Considering this dichotomy, it is understandable that many casual fans don’t know what to make of this current team.
Conventional wisdom, at least the sports talk radio version, is that the team has to be VERY bad again, to get another top draft pick, and continue the long rebuilding process. They are spunky now, but darn them, these wins are costing us ping pong balls.
This is a twisted side effect of being a Cavs fan in a Browns world. The Browns have conditioned us to think that we are always several years away, and the day the tailgate grills burn most optimistically is in April. On draft day. I am sorry, but this is pathetic, and the Cavs don’t have to act this way. They are a .500 team through 12 games, and their longest road trip of the season is now in the rear view mirror.
Are they an NBA title contender? No. Can they contend for the playoffs in the Eastern Conference this year? The answer is decisively yes. Should they try to contend this year? Even more decisively, yes.
John Hollinger of espn.com has a sabermetric ranking system for all teams. It factors margin of victory, strength of schedule, recent performance, and other factors, and it has proven to be a better predictive tool than anecdotal human rankings. Through just over ten games, which is admittedly a small sample size, here are the teams in the Eastern Conference that rank above the Cavs: Philadelphia, Chicago, Miami, Atlanta, Orlando, and Indiana. The Sixers have been a huge surprise. The other five teams were in the playoffs last year and will probably make it this year. Chicago and Miami, seemingly, should rise to the top of this group.
Beneath the Cavs are New York, Boston, Milwaukee, Toronto, New Jersey, Charlotte, Detroit, and Washington. New York and Boston should be better, but their fatal flaws of age and attrition (Boston) and sheer dysfunction (New York) could very plausibly derail either one or both of these teams. I honestly think all the rest of these teams are worse than the Cavs, though could see Toronto or Milwaukee being frisky.
So realistically, the Cavs could be leapfrogged by one of the supposed contenders (say New York), and be in a three way fight for the eighth playoff seed with a geriatric Celtics team wheeling out Paul Pierce and Kevin Garnett on the third night of a back to back to back, and fellow upstart to be named later, say the Cavs current nemesis Toronto. So what? Well, fighting for the eighth seed isn’t anything special is it?
Let’s now assume Miami is the one seed. That is worth fighting for.
The shortened schedule works in the Cavs favor. They have been playing ten deep, with none of the starters averaging huge minutes. They are a seriously flawed team to be sure. Their starters at the wing positions are replacement level players. Another grinder of a competent big man would be a huge plus.
But this team has Kyrie Irving. And he is the real deal. I learned my lesson the hard way about getting overly attached to a preternaturally gifted teenage basketball player selected first overall by the Cavs. So I say carpe diem. Let’s live in the now, and enjoy the five or however many years we have with this guy. He is special, already the best player on the Cavs. He is not perfect. His defense is not very good. His conditioning has occasionally seemed to be an issue. But he is tremendous with the basketball. He can score inside and outside, is money from the line, and has shown flashes of being a really dynamic playmaker and facilitator.
Byron Scott has the right approach to coach this team. I know he wants to develop this squad, but each one of his wins and losses still counts against his record. He is not the kind of guy to call off the dogs for drafts picks. But he is the right guy to coach Irving and this team. His playing and coaching pedigree is perfect for this young group. His credibility is further enhanced by his poise. He seems to be a pretty good game coach too, trying to develop consistent rotations but not afraid to adjust for match ups or a hot hand.
And this team has the perpetually underrated Anderson Varejao. More than anything, it was his injury that served as the catalyst for the Cavs cataclysmic 26 game losing skid last season. When he plays, he is energetic and productive. His contributions are reflected in the stat sheet and in those less quantifiable hustle plays. He is third in the league in rebounding, and undoubtedly among the leaders in flailing limbs, incredulous smiles, and awkward finishes.
Antawn Jamison has been scoring. I will be the first to say if a reasonable offer comes along for him, the Cavs should take it. Jamison is a nice enough guy and does carry a large amount of the scoring burden for the Cavs. His "usage rate", basically a shot that measures ball hogging, is very high. He is also old (36), and can't guard wings or bigs. His benefit to this team is artificially enhanced by old school stats like points per game.
On the flip side of that is Alonzo Gee. Gee is a bull of an athlete. His game is unrefined, although it is clear that he has worked on his outside shot. This is a guy I would like to see continue to get extended minutes. His finishes at the rim pass the eye test, and his strength, speed, and quickness should enable him to become a plus level defender.
Ramon Sessions has been an excellent second point guard. He can get to the line, and is money at the line. His shooting is spotty, but he is a willing distributor, leading the team in assists. He brings energy and poise to the second unit, and his play has a more “veteran” feel now. Boobie Gibson has also filled a veteran role, the sniper guard off the bench. Until today’s win over Charlotte, his shooting has been consistently good.
And Tristen Thompson has been a revelation. Our pessimistic disposition had written off the fourth pick in the draft as a bust before he had played a game. Terrible pick in a terrible draft was the whispered notion. The engaging Thompson has been active and more league-ready than many of us thought. He blocks shots like a man and can already finish ferociously. You also get the sense with him that he is a willing student who hasn’t even scratched the surface of what he could possibly do with his long, athletic frame.
Omri Casspi hasn’t been very good. Anthony Parker is going to be workmanlike and not a whole lot more. He is an admirable pro though, and you can’t help but think his approach to the NBA work and lifestyle is providing a good model for the youngsters to emulate. Samardo Samuels, Semei Erden, and Ryan Hollins are all average to deficient big men right now.
So where are we? We have a team with some young guys who are going to get better. We have a good coach. We have players filling legitimate roles. We are a team with as many flaws, but probably not more, than the Eastern Conference also-rans we will be dueling with. So instead of trying to find out what this team’s floor is, let’s see if we can’t raise the roof. I know that nothing would be more satisfying than to welcome Miami into the Q and try to make LeBron melt with our collective angst, hurt, and pride in Cleveland. And even if we don’t make it, don’t you think fighting for a playoff spot will help more in the development of our young players than tanking it for a handful of slots in next year’s draft?
George Bernard Shaw and later Robert Kennedy once said, “some men see things as they are and say ‘why?’ I dream things that never were and say, ‘why not?’” The Cleveland Cavaliers, 2012. Why not?
Monday, January 16, 2012
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Two Young, Too Soon
The plan was hatched in a McCarthy’s bar booth on a random weekday night. Let’s go to Chicago and watch the Browns play. Just out of college, working sporadically on moving trucks during the non-busy season, I had a lot of time on my hands. I was back in Lakewood, living in my mom’s basement, which had become a de facto party hub for my Lakewood buddies.
The plan seemed good. Four of us were in. George, the renowned artist and noted basketball ball hog, he was in. I call George a ball hog but I was willingly complicit in his exploits. Most of my recreation basketball career was spent giving him high picks and seal screens so he could get off his shot. George was a good shooter, and a straight shooter in life. He would have a few beers with the boys, but you would be lucky to hear a curse word out of him. He could laugh at himself though, and his do-gooder ways provided plenty of fodder.
Brian, “Techno”, was in. Brian had just finished up at Mount Union. He was about to start a good career in the medical industry. But when we hatched the plan to go to Chicago, he was just a grinder living day to day with an upbeat attitude and no car insurance. We were playing a lot of ball together in those days too. A high school football pass rusher, a college baseball player, and a recreation hoops scorer, he was pretty all-around.
And Casey was in. The funniest guy any of us knew. Casey had been mischievously cracking heads up since birth, I presume. He had a condition from birth that distorted one of his arms and limited its use. I never once heard him complain about it, and he would be damned if it was an issue for anyone. He would still play football, swing a baseball bat, shoot a deep three. He was inspirational that way. We spent a lot of time lounging during self directs shooting the shit in high school. You can not overstate how funny he was.
Saturday, day before game day. We carjacked my mom’s car, and we were off to Chicago. George was fresh as a daisy. Techno and I were a little bleary eyed. I picked up Casey, and he hadn’t gone to bed from the night before. No matter, he could get a little shut eye in the car. I made it to the Windy City in way less time than it should have taken, the speedometer analogous to our level of excitement and anticipation. From the start, we should have slowed down.
We checked into a downtown hotel, four men to the room. Casey was a hetero dude, and in high school had one of the prettiest girlfriends in the school, but he was a true homoerotic all star. “Look at that guy, he’s hot,” Techno shot out as we crossed a downtown Chicago street resplendent with metrosexual men. “I think I am getting a boner,” I offered. “Heavens to Murgatroy, I’m getting a boner thinking about you getting a boner!” Casey closed. George shook his head and fought a smile. The party was on.
Pizza and beers. More beers. Some cab rides. Casey split off from the crew for a while. We knew he was getting into some things that we weren’t, but I wasn’t judging him either. A couple hours later, he came back to the bar we were in, with a story from a housing project that seemed lifted from a CSI episode. We cabbed back to the hotel, two or so in the morning. We had to wake up early the next day, get down to Soldier Field, and scalp some tickets to go to the game. George and Techno snuggled into one bed, me and Casey in the other. At four in the morning, Casey’s snoring woke me up, as did the need to piss for about seven straight minutes. I hopped back into bed. At half past seven, I woke up again. This time there was no snoring. I looked at Casey’s face. It was blue. I knew right away.
“George, check his pulse!” “Call 911!” “What the hell is going on?” George and Brian shot out of bed, knowing the dark gravity of the situation immediately. The paramedics came. They took him out. A policeman ushered us to the hospital. A homicide cop interviewed all three of us independently. I called my mom. The hospital told us what we knew, he was dead. My mom’s cousin Joe picked us up and took us to breakfast. We drove home to Cleveland. Four in the car on the way out, three on the way back in. The ride was silent, the soundtrack was the game we didn’t attend on low volume. The Browns had built a lead and a crescendo of excitement, before falling apart late and losing in dramatic fashion. Morbidly, I could only think this was fitting.
So that was that. Any threads of innocence that I was grasping onto had been frayed. We all lost the funniest guy we knew. The feelings of guilt, anger, and sadness were overwhelming for weeks. What could I have done? I knew he was partying too hard. Then I would get mad at him, like why the hell did you do this to yourself Casey, you were too fucking smart for this. Then I would just miss him, and the way his brilliantly crafted sense of humor, a style that matched self deprecation and mischief with a quick witted trigger, could disarm any situation and turn it into a cavalcade of laughter.
Fast forward ten years, and while the memory has never left me, the pain of it had certainly subsided. Every now and again something would remind me of Casey. I went back to Soldier Field this past January. I would hear a dirty joke, and think of how Casey could have invariably one-upped it.
My friend, and one of Casey’s best friends, Ryan, called me last week. “Very bad news, call me back.”
Another one of our old boys, and one of Casey’s BOYS, was gone. I don’t want to speculate on how it happened too much. Unlike with Casey, I wasn’t there. But it is safe to say that it was too much, and it killed him too soon.
And Eric’s passing pushed all the old memories of Casey’s death right back to the forefront. Eric and I spent a lot of time in our late teens and early twenties together. He was on the softball team for a couple of years. We golfed at Little Met. We played video games in his parents TV room. He was, much like Casey, a flat out funny man. Indeed, Eric and Casey were very close, and I know Casey's death had hit Eric hard. Despite the pain from his friend's death, it seemed that with Eric, an Austin Powers’ “Yeah, baabay,” was the perfect salutation for any occasion.
But I knew of some of his demons. We drifted apart. He had joined the military, and some were saying that he really straightened out. I was hopeful for him, but never completely sure. And then, he too, was gone.
Without melodramatizing the situation, this was a tragedy with scary symmetry. It was two friends, two dynamic senses of humor, two teammates, two classmates, two rivals, and two unique souls ultimately felled by their vices. And it is too bad, and way too soon.
RIP Eric. And here’s to you, too, Casey. The memories housing the belly laughs from the friends you left behind will be your everlasting legacy.
The plan seemed good. Four of us were in. George, the renowned artist and noted basketball ball hog, he was in. I call George a ball hog but I was willingly complicit in his exploits. Most of my recreation basketball career was spent giving him high picks and seal screens so he could get off his shot. George was a good shooter, and a straight shooter in life. He would have a few beers with the boys, but you would be lucky to hear a curse word out of him. He could laugh at himself though, and his do-gooder ways provided plenty of fodder.
Brian, “Techno”, was in. Brian had just finished up at Mount Union. He was about to start a good career in the medical industry. But when we hatched the plan to go to Chicago, he was just a grinder living day to day with an upbeat attitude and no car insurance. We were playing a lot of ball together in those days too. A high school football pass rusher, a college baseball player, and a recreation hoops scorer, he was pretty all-around.
And Casey was in. The funniest guy any of us knew. Casey had been mischievously cracking heads up since birth, I presume. He had a condition from birth that distorted one of his arms and limited its use. I never once heard him complain about it, and he would be damned if it was an issue for anyone. He would still play football, swing a baseball bat, shoot a deep three. He was inspirational that way. We spent a lot of time lounging during self directs shooting the shit in high school. You can not overstate how funny he was.
Saturday, day before game day. We carjacked my mom’s car, and we were off to Chicago. George was fresh as a daisy. Techno and I were a little bleary eyed. I picked up Casey, and he hadn’t gone to bed from the night before. No matter, he could get a little shut eye in the car. I made it to the Windy City in way less time than it should have taken, the speedometer analogous to our level of excitement and anticipation. From the start, we should have slowed down.
We checked into a downtown hotel, four men to the room. Casey was a hetero dude, and in high school had one of the prettiest girlfriends in the school, but he was a true homoerotic all star. “Look at that guy, he’s hot,” Techno shot out as we crossed a downtown Chicago street resplendent with metrosexual men. “I think I am getting a boner,” I offered. “Heavens to Murgatroy, I’m getting a boner thinking about you getting a boner!” Casey closed. George shook his head and fought a smile. The party was on.
Pizza and beers. More beers. Some cab rides. Casey split off from the crew for a while. We knew he was getting into some things that we weren’t, but I wasn’t judging him either. A couple hours later, he came back to the bar we were in, with a story from a housing project that seemed lifted from a CSI episode. We cabbed back to the hotel, two or so in the morning. We had to wake up early the next day, get down to Soldier Field, and scalp some tickets to go to the game. George and Techno snuggled into one bed, me and Casey in the other. At four in the morning, Casey’s snoring woke me up, as did the need to piss for about seven straight minutes. I hopped back into bed. At half past seven, I woke up again. This time there was no snoring. I looked at Casey’s face. It was blue. I knew right away.
“George, check his pulse!” “Call 911!” “What the hell is going on?” George and Brian shot out of bed, knowing the dark gravity of the situation immediately. The paramedics came. They took him out. A policeman ushered us to the hospital. A homicide cop interviewed all three of us independently. I called my mom. The hospital told us what we knew, he was dead. My mom’s cousin Joe picked us up and took us to breakfast. We drove home to Cleveland. Four in the car on the way out, three on the way back in. The ride was silent, the soundtrack was the game we didn’t attend on low volume. The Browns had built a lead and a crescendo of excitement, before falling apart late and losing in dramatic fashion. Morbidly, I could only think this was fitting.
So that was that. Any threads of innocence that I was grasping onto had been frayed. We all lost the funniest guy we knew. The feelings of guilt, anger, and sadness were overwhelming for weeks. What could I have done? I knew he was partying too hard. Then I would get mad at him, like why the hell did you do this to yourself Casey, you were too fucking smart for this. Then I would just miss him, and the way his brilliantly crafted sense of humor, a style that matched self deprecation and mischief with a quick witted trigger, could disarm any situation and turn it into a cavalcade of laughter.
Fast forward ten years, and while the memory has never left me, the pain of it had certainly subsided. Every now and again something would remind me of Casey. I went back to Soldier Field this past January. I would hear a dirty joke, and think of how Casey could have invariably one-upped it.
My friend, and one of Casey’s best friends, Ryan, called me last week. “Very bad news, call me back.”
Another one of our old boys, and one of Casey’s BOYS, was gone. I don’t want to speculate on how it happened too much. Unlike with Casey, I wasn’t there. But it is safe to say that it was too much, and it killed him too soon.
And Eric’s passing pushed all the old memories of Casey’s death right back to the forefront. Eric and I spent a lot of time in our late teens and early twenties together. He was on the softball team for a couple of years. We golfed at Little Met. We played video games in his parents TV room. He was, much like Casey, a flat out funny man. Indeed, Eric and Casey were very close, and I know Casey's death had hit Eric hard. Despite the pain from his friend's death, it seemed that with Eric, an Austin Powers’ “Yeah, baabay,” was the perfect salutation for any occasion.
But I knew of some of his demons. We drifted apart. He had joined the military, and some were saying that he really straightened out. I was hopeful for him, but never completely sure. And then, he too, was gone.
Without melodramatizing the situation, this was a tragedy with scary symmetry. It was two friends, two dynamic senses of humor, two teammates, two classmates, two rivals, and two unique souls ultimately felled by their vices. And it is too bad, and way too soon.
RIP Eric. And here’s to you, too, Casey. The memories housing the belly laughs from the friends you left behind will be your everlasting legacy.
Friday, October 28, 2011
Baseball is Amazing
The scene is still clear in my head, because that's where it originated anyway. I was eight years old, the summer of '87, alone but with 80,000 people cheering my name. My mission was more profound than a finding a cure for cancer or eliminating world hunger. I was ending the Indians' World Series drought, live from Cleveland Municipal Stadium, transposed to my grandparents side yard in Madison, Ohio.
I threw the tennis ball in front of me, and took a mighty hack with the Bombat designed for softball, dented by fierce hacks at Roland Beach down the road a half a generation before me. My aunt Susan would buy me a bat later that summer, one with a prettier complexion and truer barrel, but this old thing would do for the time being.
I cleared my bony hips early and extended my toothpick thin arms, aluminum mating with rubbery felt. I was a pull hitter, a power hitter, and this baby was gone. The ball soared towards the maple in front of the ditch, but I didn't even need to look. This might as well have been hit in the opening between the blue bleachers and the red and yellow seated concourse on the Lakefront, the rare air only Doby, Mantle, and Joe Carter ever hit balls to. Herb Score was already butchering the home run call on the radio, his mangled prose high poetry from the Mahoning Valley to the Maumee Bay.
The home run trot was fast and stoic. I hadn't yet adopted the Albert Belle stutter step gait around the bases. The bird house was first base, the big tree was second, the thorn bush was third, and the spot where the grass didn't grow any more because that's where I pretended I was a baseball player was home.
Last night's World Series game six took me closer to the magic of that make believe moment more than any I can remember. It was the magic of baseball and it was all in your face. There ain't no clock in baseball. But there is timeless magic, when a boy can live out his ultimate fantasy, and it can all be real. David Freese, a man a couple years younger than me, a boy that grew up just outside St. Louis pretending to hit game winning home runs in the World Series for the hometown team, hit a game winning home run for the hometown team. Preceding that for Freese was a bottom of the ninth triple misplayed by Texas' outfielder Nelson Cruz (prompting a late night text session with a friend that produced the nicknames Nelson Keller and Suri Cruz). And preceding all of these heroics was a dropped pop up. He was the goat of the hour. And then he was an instant icon.
I will be tuned in tonight to game seven, although its result will be meaningless, save a small wager or two amongst friends. I don't need any more proof, however, that the greatest game needn't be measured in Nielson ratings, ticket receipts, or jersey sales. America's game is measured in moments, and baseball produces moments more consistently and poetically than any of the rest. Last night's game produced more tension-filled, memorable moments than any game I can remember.
Baseball brought me home, to that place where the grass didn't grow any more because that's where I pretended I was a baseball player.
I threw the tennis ball in front of me, and took a mighty hack with the Bombat designed for softball, dented by fierce hacks at Roland Beach down the road a half a generation before me. My aunt Susan would buy me a bat later that summer, one with a prettier complexion and truer barrel, but this old thing would do for the time being.
I cleared my bony hips early and extended my toothpick thin arms, aluminum mating with rubbery felt. I was a pull hitter, a power hitter, and this baby was gone. The ball soared towards the maple in front of the ditch, but I didn't even need to look. This might as well have been hit in the opening between the blue bleachers and the red and yellow seated concourse on the Lakefront, the rare air only Doby, Mantle, and Joe Carter ever hit balls to. Herb Score was already butchering the home run call on the radio, his mangled prose high poetry from the Mahoning Valley to the Maumee Bay.
The home run trot was fast and stoic. I hadn't yet adopted the Albert Belle stutter step gait around the bases. The bird house was first base, the big tree was second, the thorn bush was third, and the spot where the grass didn't grow any more because that's where I pretended I was a baseball player was home.
Last night's World Series game six took me closer to the magic of that make believe moment more than any I can remember. It was the magic of baseball and it was all in your face. There ain't no clock in baseball. But there is timeless magic, when a boy can live out his ultimate fantasy, and it can all be real. David Freese, a man a couple years younger than me, a boy that grew up just outside St. Louis pretending to hit game winning home runs in the World Series for the hometown team, hit a game winning home run for the hometown team. Preceding that for Freese was a bottom of the ninth triple misplayed by Texas' outfielder Nelson Cruz (prompting a late night text session with a friend that produced the nicknames Nelson Keller and Suri Cruz). And preceding all of these heroics was a dropped pop up. He was the goat of the hour. And then he was an instant icon.
I will be tuned in tonight to game seven, although its result will be meaningless, save a small wager or two amongst friends. I don't need any more proof, however, that the greatest game needn't be measured in Nielson ratings, ticket receipts, or jersey sales. America's game is measured in moments, and baseball produces moments more consistently and poetically than any of the rest. Last night's game produced more tension-filled, memorable moments than any game I can remember.
Baseball brought me home, to that place where the grass didn't grow any more because that's where I pretended I was a baseball player.
Monday, September 12, 2011
Now Where? 9/11 Ten Years Later, aka Getting the Train Back on the Tracks
Ten years and here we are. There are two and a half wars going on in Muslim nations. Our national economy has stalled and our fiscal pre-eminence is wavering. These are gently massaged facts, but they are mostly facts nonetheless. It doesn’t paint a pretty picture.
And much, not all, but much of our forever altered place on the global stage can be attributed to our national reaction in the days, weeks, and now full decade that followed Al-Qaeda’s devastating attack on our country. I don’t think it’s an unpatriotic thing to say we’ve failed. It would be unpatriotic to believe that we can’t do better.
There are many great stories of heroism, courage, and selflessness that emerged in the minutes and hours following the greatest strike on our country’s shores. I am not trying to discount this in the least. The first responders and people on the hijacked flights that risked and lost their lives deserve the honor of being properly mourned and respected. All of those who lost loved ones or knew of people who did deserve sympathy.
But this is a referendum on our reaction to the events of September 11, 2001. I don’t think it’s wrong to say that we whiffed at our opportunity to set an example of how a civilized, democratic, free, and diverse nation should act in the face of an unspeakable tragedy. We took the aggressive and at times bigoted approach, and this is mirrored in our policy decisions as well as our national attitude over the past ten years.
Our national cry to remain “united” was drowned out by the forces that believed protecting our shores and our way of life could only be attained by dividing our citizenry. Let’s face a few facts; the perpetrators who blew up our buildings believed in an extreme bastardization of Islam, so yes, to an extent, they were Muslims. Let’s also own up to the fact that between 8 and 10 million Muslim Americans, and as many as a billion Muslims worldwide had absolutely nothing to with the events of September 11th.
My ultimate point is that our very reactionary reaction was so insular, volatile, and lacked any hint of foresight, that it has forever weakened our place on this planet. More than anything, to be American was an attitude- an attitude that transcends and supersedes any supposed cultural identity wrapped in traditional Judeo-Christian tenets. The attitude was “can do”, “live free”, and “we’re number one.” The Patriot Act and ballooning of our hidden top-secret “intelligence”(used loosely) infrastructure (covered exhaustively
by PBS in its expose among other things, have turned our
government, once proudly transparent, into a disgracefully shady and backroom operation. You know, like how the bad guys operate. This is a damned shame.
And let us not forget what these decisions have done to our ultimate might, our standing in the world from the perspective of other nations. This reverence of America, from mimicking our governments to striving to attain our prosperity to putting our pop stars at the top of your pop charts, this global admiration has abandoned us to a great degree. A president who liked blowies while working once said that America leads best when it leads by the power of its example rather than the example of its power. This is rhetoric, but it's brilliant, and it's true.
It’s a truly remarkable thing to consider that a nation of 300 million could be the gold standard in a world of over 7 billion. But that’s who we were, and I believe that’s who we can be again. We weren’t revered the world over strictly because we had the finest military on the globe. (Which we do- but our fighting forces have also proven they are not equipped to battle ideologies instead of nation-states, and are more equipped to fight than to nation-build.) We were looked up to because of how we lived. Free and rich. The diverse land of opportunity. This is not to portray the pre-9/11 USA as some sort of utopia. We had plenty of problems. But post-9/11 America has lost sight of what really matters. Peace and prosperity is where it’s at, and we’ve been at odds with this ethos for ten years.
So we eschewed the peaceful route, and this has also derailed our train on the prosperity express. I can think of a few better ways to spend a few trillion dollars than to blow up Arab nations and try to rebuild them as lovers of those who blew them up. I’ll even leave it up for debate. Progressives could argue that this money could have been spent on schools, infrastructure, and green economy initiatives. Conservatives could argue that this money could have been returned to the tax-paying public, or used for investing in American businesses and research. Fact is, they are both right. We’ve lost too many people in the global community, diminished our standing on the international stage, and spent far too many dollars waging unwinnable wars.
I can hear people asking now, “what were we supposed to do, not fight back?” I’ll answer that question with a question. “If someone punches you in the face, do you punch their distant cousin in the face?” Fact is, we ended up getting Osama and many of his top lieutenants in operations conducted outside the scope of our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.
So as we move forward in the next ten years after the first ten years after our nation’s great tragedy, let’s look forward instead of in reverse. How can we do better? That is a far greater question than to ask- How do we get revenge? Revenge is fleeting and panders to the most simplistic of human emotions. Peace, prosperity, and setting the example of how to attain it is everlasting and actualizes our place as the most sophisticated mammals this big ball of matter has ever seen.
We will never forget. But when we look back, let’s make sure we don’t forget who we are, and not let the cowardly actions of a devious few dictate how we conduct ourselves as a proud nation, united in our pursuit of peace and prosperity.
So I'll stand tall and strong, like the pillar of the American Dream that stands firm and true holding my deepest beliefs as an American citizen; We can do better and We will do better. We are Americans, and that's what We do.
And much, not all, but much of our forever altered place on the global stage can be attributed to our national reaction in the days, weeks, and now full decade that followed Al-Qaeda’s devastating attack on our country. I don’t think it’s an unpatriotic thing to say we’ve failed. It would be unpatriotic to believe that we can’t do better.
There are many great stories of heroism, courage, and selflessness that emerged in the minutes and hours following the greatest strike on our country’s shores. I am not trying to discount this in the least. The first responders and people on the hijacked flights that risked and lost their lives deserve the honor of being properly mourned and respected. All of those who lost loved ones or knew of people who did deserve sympathy.
But this is a referendum on our reaction to the events of September 11, 2001. I don’t think it’s wrong to say that we whiffed at our opportunity to set an example of how a civilized, democratic, free, and diverse nation should act in the face of an unspeakable tragedy. We took the aggressive and at times bigoted approach, and this is mirrored in our policy decisions as well as our national attitude over the past ten years.
Our national cry to remain “united” was drowned out by the forces that believed protecting our shores and our way of life could only be attained by dividing our citizenry. Let’s face a few facts; the perpetrators who blew up our buildings believed in an extreme bastardization of Islam, so yes, to an extent, they were Muslims. Let’s also own up to the fact that between 8 and 10 million Muslim Americans, and as many as a billion Muslims worldwide had absolutely nothing to with the events of September 11th.
My ultimate point is that our very reactionary reaction was so insular, volatile, and lacked any hint of foresight, that it has forever weakened our place on this planet. More than anything, to be American was an attitude- an attitude that transcends and supersedes any supposed cultural identity wrapped in traditional Judeo-Christian tenets. The attitude was “can do”, “live free”, and “we’re number one.” The Patriot Act and ballooning of our hidden top-secret “intelligence”(used loosely) infrastructure (covered exhaustively
by PBS in its expose among other things, have turned our
government, once proudly transparent, into a disgracefully shady and backroom operation. You know, like how the bad guys operate. This is a damned shame.
And let us not forget what these decisions have done to our ultimate might, our standing in the world from the perspective of other nations. This reverence of America, from mimicking our governments to striving to attain our prosperity to putting our pop stars at the top of your pop charts, this global admiration has abandoned us to a great degree. A president who liked blowies while working once said that America leads best when it leads by the power of its example rather than the example of its power. This is rhetoric, but it's brilliant, and it's true.
It’s a truly remarkable thing to consider that a nation of 300 million could be the gold standard in a world of over 7 billion. But that’s who we were, and I believe that’s who we can be again. We weren’t revered the world over strictly because we had the finest military on the globe. (Which we do- but our fighting forces have also proven they are not equipped to battle ideologies instead of nation-states, and are more equipped to fight than to nation-build.) We were looked up to because of how we lived. Free and rich. The diverse land of opportunity. This is not to portray the pre-9/11 USA as some sort of utopia. We had plenty of problems. But post-9/11 America has lost sight of what really matters. Peace and prosperity is where it’s at, and we’ve been at odds with this ethos for ten years.
So we eschewed the peaceful route, and this has also derailed our train on the prosperity express. I can think of a few better ways to spend a few trillion dollars than to blow up Arab nations and try to rebuild them as lovers of those who blew them up. I’ll even leave it up for debate. Progressives could argue that this money could have been spent on schools, infrastructure, and green economy initiatives. Conservatives could argue that this money could have been returned to the tax-paying public, or used for investing in American businesses and research. Fact is, they are both right. We’ve lost too many people in the global community, diminished our standing on the international stage, and spent far too many dollars waging unwinnable wars.
I can hear people asking now, “what were we supposed to do, not fight back?” I’ll answer that question with a question. “If someone punches you in the face, do you punch their distant cousin in the face?” Fact is, we ended up getting Osama and many of his top lieutenants in operations conducted outside the scope of our wars in Iraq and Afghanistan.
So as we move forward in the next ten years after the first ten years after our nation’s great tragedy, let’s look forward instead of in reverse. How can we do better? That is a far greater question than to ask- How do we get revenge? Revenge is fleeting and panders to the most simplistic of human emotions. Peace, prosperity, and setting the example of how to attain it is everlasting and actualizes our place as the most sophisticated mammals this big ball of matter has ever seen.
We will never forget. But when we look back, let’s make sure we don’t forget who we are, and not let the cowardly actions of a devious few dictate how we conduct ourselves as a proud nation, united in our pursuit of peace and prosperity.
So I'll stand tall and strong, like the pillar of the American Dream that stands firm and true holding my deepest beliefs as an American citizen; We can do better and We will do better. We are Americans, and that's what We do.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
The Long Road Here
My dad is about to die.
That statement alone invokes a powerful reaction, no matter who says it. But when your definition of what “father” means is so fractious and elusive, it calls to mind more than what generally meets the eyes. Even the eyes confoundedly staring back at me in the mirror.
Everyone’s relationship with their parents, and really by extension, their personal narrative, is unique. Mine is unique on steroids. I’ve gone most of my life without contact with my biological father. I carry the last name of my mother. Save for a couple intervals between age 15 and 23, I’ve really had no contact with him.
Act One, Before Painful Realization:
Before the initial relationship attempt with my dad, I had an idealized notion of what he could still be. What we could be. I was a fairly observant lad, if rambunctious and deviously defiant. And I observed the hell out of other fathers. I absolutely idolized my mom’s dad, Big Bob Hagan. I had more uncles with kids, my cousins, than anyone. My best friend had a sweet father. I envied all of these relationships.
And it’s what I didn’t have, what I could never get. It’s just that for a while I thought I could. The years would go by, the unasked questions were answered, and the unanswerable questions were asked. Still, despite the void, I felt I could fill that void, and fill it with my “real” father.
I didn’t know my dad but I knew who he was. I knew some of the bad things that afflicted him, and some of the qualities that made people gravitate toward him. I had a few pictures. For several years, I knew where he lived. But I didn’t know him.
I was in a “don’t ask, don’t tell” mode when it came to explaining the situation during my childhood. My closest friends knew. Many classmates kind of knew. New friends either didn’t know, or knew and were courteous enough not to press me. Still, there were many moments when the situation came to the forefront. I dealt with it in various ways, with differing levels of absolute honesty. No matter how I dealt with it, it was accompanied with pain.
I longed for a normal relationship with my dad more than a little girl longs for a pony from Santa Claus in every movie ever made that has an interaction between a little girl and Santa Claus. More fragile than the typecast little girl, my pony never showed up under the tree.
Act Two, Strained Reconciliation
At 15, I started trying to get to “know” my dad. He came to my family’s cottage, and we watched a Notre Dame football game. I had always loved Notre Dame for one reason and one reason only; my grandpa Big Bob liked them and watched them play football every Saturday. He liked them because they stood for the Irish working class or something, but by the time I liked them it was a fairly privileged and prestigious school, and wasn’t exactly leading the charge for the disadvantaged. No matter, we were a Notre Dame duo, me and Grandpa Bob.
Coincidentally and ironically (I think they both work here), my dad went to Notre Dame.
Act Two is filled with attempts to recreate and recapture father-son moments. But from that initial meeting onward, the powerful feeling of resentment grew. “What the fuck were you doing?” “How could you not make an attempt to raise your son?” Those questions are not easily answered, especially when the visualized notion of who your dad was becomes a tangible image of what he was not.
But still, an attempt was made, and I think it was an honest attempt, especially on his part. He gave me a car (a 1989 Nissan Sentra, a legendary car around Lakewood High School in the late ‘90s). We played some golf. We even played a game of catch, the time-honored signature father-son activity.
Here I must digress. I was already pretty good at catch. Which means I had, subconsciously or not, filled a few of the voids on my own. My uncle Jim would play catch with me for hours on end. My aunt Monica’s ex-husband Dennis worked on my throwing motion. My mom’s boyfriend Norm took me to the Dawg Pound from the age of nine, and we were a world-renowned heckling duo during sparsely attended Indians games at the old stadium, and I watched every American league middle infielder intently, including the incomparable Omar Vizquel, first with the Mariners.
So when I first played catch with my dad, the resentment built. “This was your job, motherfucker, and you suck at it.” Blooming with youth, and brimming with piss and vinegar, I seized this as an early symbolic opportunity. I quickly realized he wasn’t awesome at catch. Although my most dominant pitching days were in fifth grade (struck out four batters in an inning, think about it), I had a decent arm. “I’m going to give you the hardest fastballs I have.” And so I did. He struggled to gather the first one. But I saw the competitor in him, the exact fucking same competitor I have in me, emerge. His easy smile turned to a concerned growl. He threw the ball back as hard as he could.
I caught it in my bare hand.
Now it’s my turn again, and I wish I had a radar gun on this one, because I’m rather certain it’s the hardest ball I’ve ever thrown (for the record, the highest I ever recorded was a somewhat pedestrian 75 mph at an Indians game with my cousin Timmy in tow. Who knows how accurate those guns are? That reading was probably high). He wasn’t coordinated enough to catch it cleanly in his glove hand. It bounded off his wrist and made a loud noise. He cringed hard, and quickly tried to act like it didn’t hurt at all. Game over.
That’s the last time we played catch.
Act Three, Here Comes the Nation
I made it through college, admittedly only because I had just enough inherent academic talent to overcome a lack of direction and inspiration. I also drank a lot in college, and may have enjoyed smoking a few doobers on back porches. I guess that experience is not so different than that of many other college students. But I would occasionally write the passionate paper, and ace the test when I needed a 96 for a C+ for the term. I scooted through in four years, and harvested up a bushel of great friends.
I also started giving up on the idea that my father was my dad.
Right after college I worked for my uncle Tim for a year, another of the men on my Mount Rushmore of father figure icons. We bullshitted our way through every county of the state of Ohio during his run for governor. We were comforting doses of keeping it real for each other. He knew his personal assistant slash driver should be a little more professional, and I knew I should be doing more than trying to find him a good Krispy Kreme. But he also knew he wasn’t going to win, and I wasn’t gonna give him any shit, nor feed him any packaged spin that his dutiful professional handlers had to. I was gonna hang out with him and drive 87 mph to our next stop. It was a good experience for me, albeit one I “should” have taken more from. I took plenty though, it was a year on the road with the Bull.
This brought me back to the early formative years, Act One, and all the male influences that influenced me in a real way and not just in fantasy. Tim and Jim, my mom’s oldest brothers, I already mentioned. My uncle Billy was in Connecticutt, but he was cool, and had his own sense of how to navigate a life. Bobby was a hard ass, a tough guy with passion and street smarts. Jack was a reporter and a writer, funny and often deadpan, contemplative but often seeming outwardly emotionless. Chris was a jack of all trades, and liked to have fun. He taught me how to sail. Jeff was the youngest of my mom’s brothers, a hipster and an intellectual, and an occasionally roommate in his post-college years. He was the older brother that I picked on, not vice versa, and his commitment to not being a bad person precluded him from putting my snot-nosed ass in my place.
Yeah, my mom had seven brothers and six sisters, so this list is long. Jimmy, Katie’s wife, was a tall hulk of an athletic man, burdened by his own intellectual prowess. Jeff, Maggie’s ex, was the gruffest of the gruff, but would take all the kids to play putt-putt and played a mean game of pepper. Anne’s husband TJ was a farmer and a free-thinking, and hired me to work at his moving company when I was a teenager. Almost 15 years later, I’m still there, and he’s entrusted me with a big chunk of the operation. I even developed a kinship with my Aunt Mary’s temporary husband Ebe, an Iranian man with an early knowledge of computer games. I once borrowed a Farsi-English dictionary from the library in order to connect more with this mysterious and friendly looking Persian.
My friend Zak’s dad always welcomed me in their home, and treated me with the kindness and the gentle firmness of a graceful man who knew I was growing up without a dad. Many other friends had cool dads too, and I’m pretty sure most liked me well enough.
So here I was, starting life on my own. Rent, bills, going to work, playing ball, trying to make out with chicks. I learned all of these lessons and more, some more successfully than others, without emulating my dad for any of them. I didn’t want to have him anymore. I had me, god-damnit, and a mother that struggled and did a damn fine job. And I had a composite image of a father, a mosaic of personalities and perspectives. It’s just that none were mine.
Act Four, Current Situation
I found out a few months back. My dad was terminally ill. The forgiveness of my mother and her brothers has it that they had forgiven him much more than I, and they’d been in a lot more contact with him than I had. I got the call at work from my uncle Chris, his best friend of the brood. I took the news in stride, rationally, with concern, and with humor. I took it like a god-damn man. I told my cousin John, a confidante and business partner, and then walked into the break room and sat down. He walked in a couple minutes later. He knows me just about better than anyone, and can read my soul without saying a word. I looked at him. I started crying.
And that was it. Back to work. Kick some ass. Comment on a picture on Facebook. Play a little ping pong.
And I’ll be gosh darned, I was fine. I was really feeling fine. I really didn’t talk to many people about it. I decided to open up about it to a newer friend on a weekend fun trip a couple months ago. I thought, why not? I’ve got nothing to hide, and I’ve long been done covering up for who I am. I’m ok, if a little eccentric, as I am. It felt good. The reception I was given was compassionate and non-judgmental. The reaction was more of intrigue than anything. Hell, I have a story to tell. Nothing wrong with a little catharsis. But the words of a friend at the end told me what I had to do.
“Matt, you should go see him.”
Maybe I knew it myself, but the words of another person, someone removed from the situation but one that was listening to my story, gave me a new perspective. I really should go see him.
And now it’s reached that point. I talked to another friend on the phone tonight, this one from college, who had been delivered my story in a piecemeal fashion over the years. I talked to my uncle Chris again for a while.
“Do what you gotta do Tiger,” he encouraged.
There’s no script for this. But I think I’m going to be good.
I’m going to drive down and see him this Saturday. I don’t think he will have anything profound to say, because I don’t think he can speak above a whisper. I know I won’t have anything dripping with gravitas coming from my mouth. But he’ll feel better seeing me, I know. And I’ll feel better seeing him. Hey man, no hard feelings, you've made me who I am.
And I ain’t going nowhere.
That statement alone invokes a powerful reaction, no matter who says it. But when your definition of what “father” means is so fractious and elusive, it calls to mind more than what generally meets the eyes. Even the eyes confoundedly staring back at me in the mirror.
Everyone’s relationship with their parents, and really by extension, their personal narrative, is unique. Mine is unique on steroids. I’ve gone most of my life without contact with my biological father. I carry the last name of my mother. Save for a couple intervals between age 15 and 23, I’ve really had no contact with him.
Act One, Before Painful Realization:
Before the initial relationship attempt with my dad, I had an idealized notion of what he could still be. What we could be. I was a fairly observant lad, if rambunctious and deviously defiant. And I observed the hell out of other fathers. I absolutely idolized my mom’s dad, Big Bob Hagan. I had more uncles with kids, my cousins, than anyone. My best friend had a sweet father. I envied all of these relationships.
And it’s what I didn’t have, what I could never get. It’s just that for a while I thought I could. The years would go by, the unasked questions were answered, and the unanswerable questions were asked. Still, despite the void, I felt I could fill that void, and fill it with my “real” father.
I didn’t know my dad but I knew who he was. I knew some of the bad things that afflicted him, and some of the qualities that made people gravitate toward him. I had a few pictures. For several years, I knew where he lived. But I didn’t know him.
I was in a “don’t ask, don’t tell” mode when it came to explaining the situation during my childhood. My closest friends knew. Many classmates kind of knew. New friends either didn’t know, or knew and were courteous enough not to press me. Still, there were many moments when the situation came to the forefront. I dealt with it in various ways, with differing levels of absolute honesty. No matter how I dealt with it, it was accompanied with pain.
I longed for a normal relationship with my dad more than a little girl longs for a pony from Santa Claus in every movie ever made that has an interaction between a little girl and Santa Claus. More fragile than the typecast little girl, my pony never showed up under the tree.
Act Two, Strained Reconciliation
At 15, I started trying to get to “know” my dad. He came to my family’s cottage, and we watched a Notre Dame football game. I had always loved Notre Dame for one reason and one reason only; my grandpa Big Bob liked them and watched them play football every Saturday. He liked them because they stood for the Irish working class or something, but by the time I liked them it was a fairly privileged and prestigious school, and wasn’t exactly leading the charge for the disadvantaged. No matter, we were a Notre Dame duo, me and Grandpa Bob.
Coincidentally and ironically (I think they both work here), my dad went to Notre Dame.
Act Two is filled with attempts to recreate and recapture father-son moments. But from that initial meeting onward, the powerful feeling of resentment grew. “What the fuck were you doing?” “How could you not make an attempt to raise your son?” Those questions are not easily answered, especially when the visualized notion of who your dad was becomes a tangible image of what he was not.
But still, an attempt was made, and I think it was an honest attempt, especially on his part. He gave me a car (a 1989 Nissan Sentra, a legendary car around Lakewood High School in the late ‘90s). We played some golf. We even played a game of catch, the time-honored signature father-son activity.
Here I must digress. I was already pretty good at catch. Which means I had, subconsciously or not, filled a few of the voids on my own. My uncle Jim would play catch with me for hours on end. My aunt Monica’s ex-husband Dennis worked on my throwing motion. My mom’s boyfriend Norm took me to the Dawg Pound from the age of nine, and we were a world-renowned heckling duo during sparsely attended Indians games at the old stadium, and I watched every American league middle infielder intently, including the incomparable Omar Vizquel, first with the Mariners.
So when I first played catch with my dad, the resentment built. “This was your job, motherfucker, and you suck at it.” Blooming with youth, and brimming with piss and vinegar, I seized this as an early symbolic opportunity. I quickly realized he wasn’t awesome at catch. Although my most dominant pitching days were in fifth grade (struck out four batters in an inning, think about it), I had a decent arm. “I’m going to give you the hardest fastballs I have.” And so I did. He struggled to gather the first one. But I saw the competitor in him, the exact fucking same competitor I have in me, emerge. His easy smile turned to a concerned growl. He threw the ball back as hard as he could.
I caught it in my bare hand.
Now it’s my turn again, and I wish I had a radar gun on this one, because I’m rather certain it’s the hardest ball I’ve ever thrown (for the record, the highest I ever recorded was a somewhat pedestrian 75 mph at an Indians game with my cousin Timmy in tow. Who knows how accurate those guns are? That reading was probably high). He wasn’t coordinated enough to catch it cleanly in his glove hand. It bounded off his wrist and made a loud noise. He cringed hard, and quickly tried to act like it didn’t hurt at all. Game over.
That’s the last time we played catch.
Act Three, Here Comes the Nation
I made it through college, admittedly only because I had just enough inherent academic talent to overcome a lack of direction and inspiration. I also drank a lot in college, and may have enjoyed smoking a few doobers on back porches. I guess that experience is not so different than that of many other college students. But I would occasionally write the passionate paper, and ace the test when I needed a 96 for a C+ for the term. I scooted through in four years, and harvested up a bushel of great friends.
I also started giving up on the idea that my father was my dad.
Right after college I worked for my uncle Tim for a year, another of the men on my Mount Rushmore of father figure icons. We bullshitted our way through every county of the state of Ohio during his run for governor. We were comforting doses of keeping it real for each other. He knew his personal assistant slash driver should be a little more professional, and I knew I should be doing more than trying to find him a good Krispy Kreme. But he also knew he wasn’t going to win, and I wasn’t gonna give him any shit, nor feed him any packaged spin that his dutiful professional handlers had to. I was gonna hang out with him and drive 87 mph to our next stop. It was a good experience for me, albeit one I “should” have taken more from. I took plenty though, it was a year on the road with the Bull.
This brought me back to the early formative years, Act One, and all the male influences that influenced me in a real way and not just in fantasy. Tim and Jim, my mom’s oldest brothers, I already mentioned. My uncle Billy was in Connecticutt, but he was cool, and had his own sense of how to navigate a life. Bobby was a hard ass, a tough guy with passion and street smarts. Jack was a reporter and a writer, funny and often deadpan, contemplative but often seeming outwardly emotionless. Chris was a jack of all trades, and liked to have fun. He taught me how to sail. Jeff was the youngest of my mom’s brothers, a hipster and an intellectual, and an occasionally roommate in his post-college years. He was the older brother that I picked on, not vice versa, and his commitment to not being a bad person precluded him from putting my snot-nosed ass in my place.
Yeah, my mom had seven brothers and six sisters, so this list is long. Jimmy, Katie’s wife, was a tall hulk of an athletic man, burdened by his own intellectual prowess. Jeff, Maggie’s ex, was the gruffest of the gruff, but would take all the kids to play putt-putt and played a mean game of pepper. Anne’s husband TJ was a farmer and a free-thinking, and hired me to work at his moving company when I was a teenager. Almost 15 years later, I’m still there, and he’s entrusted me with a big chunk of the operation. I even developed a kinship with my Aunt Mary’s temporary husband Ebe, an Iranian man with an early knowledge of computer games. I once borrowed a Farsi-English dictionary from the library in order to connect more with this mysterious and friendly looking Persian.
My friend Zak’s dad always welcomed me in their home, and treated me with the kindness and the gentle firmness of a graceful man who knew I was growing up without a dad. Many other friends had cool dads too, and I’m pretty sure most liked me well enough.
So here I was, starting life on my own. Rent, bills, going to work, playing ball, trying to make out with chicks. I learned all of these lessons and more, some more successfully than others, without emulating my dad for any of them. I didn’t want to have him anymore. I had me, god-damnit, and a mother that struggled and did a damn fine job. And I had a composite image of a father, a mosaic of personalities and perspectives. It’s just that none were mine.
Act Four, Current Situation
I found out a few months back. My dad was terminally ill. The forgiveness of my mother and her brothers has it that they had forgiven him much more than I, and they’d been in a lot more contact with him than I had. I got the call at work from my uncle Chris, his best friend of the brood. I took the news in stride, rationally, with concern, and with humor. I took it like a god-damn man. I told my cousin John, a confidante and business partner, and then walked into the break room and sat down. He walked in a couple minutes later. He knows me just about better than anyone, and can read my soul without saying a word. I looked at him. I started crying.
And that was it. Back to work. Kick some ass. Comment on a picture on Facebook. Play a little ping pong.
And I’ll be gosh darned, I was fine. I was really feeling fine. I really didn’t talk to many people about it. I decided to open up about it to a newer friend on a weekend fun trip a couple months ago. I thought, why not? I’ve got nothing to hide, and I’ve long been done covering up for who I am. I’m ok, if a little eccentric, as I am. It felt good. The reception I was given was compassionate and non-judgmental. The reaction was more of intrigue than anything. Hell, I have a story to tell. Nothing wrong with a little catharsis. But the words of a friend at the end told me what I had to do.
“Matt, you should go see him.”
Maybe I knew it myself, but the words of another person, someone removed from the situation but one that was listening to my story, gave me a new perspective. I really should go see him.
And now it’s reached that point. I talked to another friend on the phone tonight, this one from college, who had been delivered my story in a piecemeal fashion over the years. I talked to my uncle Chris again for a while.
“Do what you gotta do Tiger,” he encouraged.
There’s no script for this. But I think I’m going to be good.
I’m going to drive down and see him this Saturday. I don’t think he will have anything profound to say, because I don’t think he can speak above a whisper. I know I won’t have anything dripping with gravitas coming from my mouth. But he’ll feel better seeing me, I know. And I’ll feel better seeing him. Hey man, no hard feelings, you've made me who I am.
And I ain’t going nowhere.
Friday, December 31, 2010
The Party's Right Here
I’m ringing in 2011 without a pulsating ringing in my head for the first time in many years. I’ve been thinking about this decision for quite some time now, and I’ve finally swallowed enough emasculating elixir to not only accept this less-than-titillating proclamation, but to also embrace it; I am not doing a damn thing when the ball drops.
It’s not that I’m not invigorated and intrigued by the notion that it’s a new year. I am. The calendar is a wonderful device, a filing cabinet in the mansions of our memories that organizes life experiences and attaches a number to them. Even for a jaded soul like my own, I understand and support the symbolic connotations ascribed the new year; a fresh start, a chance to set goals, perhaps make resolutions, and even erase some indiscretions or mistakes as “in the past.” There’s a redemptive and rejuvenating spirit that follows the literal turning of the page into the next year.
The only difference this year is that I’m not going to buy into the (generally self-prescribed) notion that I have to be pee-my-pants drunk at the stroke of midnight. I don’t have to find somebody to kiss, or in the absence of that, look for male friends secure enough in their sexuality and equally inept in finding a midnight mate, and then jokingly make out with them. Not that I’ve ever done that (in 2003).
I’m just gonna chill. I went to work today. I went out last night for a couple hours. I talked on the phone to an old friend for an hour. Shaving, putting on a nice shirt, putting on a hellacious buzz, and putting on a swag of false bravado in an effort to kiss someone I may or may not like is not going to change the perception I have of my own identity, at least not in the positive. But trying something new, by doing nothing, well that might just set a powerful precedent for my new year.
At this point you can rightfully say the only point that can be made by the decision to get my “sedentary on til the break a’ dawn” (working on a dance for this jig that’s somewhere between the Dougie and a one man electric slide) is that I’m a lazy loser. While there may indeed be merit to that point that could fill many volumes on many shelves, I’m not entertaining that more pessimistic perspective, because hey, this is my blog.
I’m thinking this might just be an opportunity to realize some self-development and growth many years after my body stopped growing (other than the backfat bone, which seemingly doubles in size every year) and my cognitive capacity stopped expanding (in fact, many years of new years style partying may have irrevocably limited my cranial transmission to max out in fourth gear). I’m hoping that the power of the human spirit to constantly evolve may be the only thing that will be enhanced in these years to come. What better way to start a new year than to actually be thinking clearly, and not just thinking about where the Tylenol is and how little energy I can expend to get the bottle into my hand. (“If I can just pull the coffee table towards me a foot, and knock the bottle over with my toe, and collect it with my feet, I won’t have to sit up!... shit, I need water…”)
This doesn’t mean I’m going teetotaler on that ass. The boys on the Myrtle trip will still get a healthy dose of me shirtless in 54 degree tropical weather this March. I’m sure a softball victory or two this summer will demand shots of tequila. And I know I’ll belt some off-key, misplaced lyrics to a few tunes on the jukebox in 2011. But those experiences will be organic. They will be natural parties. I’m just going to stay away from the most clichéd of the galas.
I’m not trying to be preachy with this stance either. Many people, young and old, will blast into the new year with great cheer, and genuinely enjoy the enchantment of the evening. But for me, for this year, it’s all been done, and I’m doing something new. In this postmodern interpretation, the only thing new is nothing.
It’s not that I’m not invigorated and intrigued by the notion that it’s a new year. I am. The calendar is a wonderful device, a filing cabinet in the mansions of our memories that organizes life experiences and attaches a number to them. Even for a jaded soul like my own, I understand and support the symbolic connotations ascribed the new year; a fresh start, a chance to set goals, perhaps make resolutions, and even erase some indiscretions or mistakes as “in the past.” There’s a redemptive and rejuvenating spirit that follows the literal turning of the page into the next year.
The only difference this year is that I’m not going to buy into the (generally self-prescribed) notion that I have to be pee-my-pants drunk at the stroke of midnight. I don’t have to find somebody to kiss, or in the absence of that, look for male friends secure enough in their sexuality and equally inept in finding a midnight mate, and then jokingly make out with them. Not that I’ve ever done that (in 2003).
I’m just gonna chill. I went to work today. I went out last night for a couple hours. I talked on the phone to an old friend for an hour. Shaving, putting on a nice shirt, putting on a hellacious buzz, and putting on a swag of false bravado in an effort to kiss someone I may or may not like is not going to change the perception I have of my own identity, at least not in the positive. But trying something new, by doing nothing, well that might just set a powerful precedent for my new year.
At this point you can rightfully say the only point that can be made by the decision to get my “sedentary on til the break a’ dawn” (working on a dance for this jig that’s somewhere between the Dougie and a one man electric slide) is that I’m a lazy loser. While there may indeed be merit to that point that could fill many volumes on many shelves, I’m not entertaining that more pessimistic perspective, because hey, this is my blog.
I’m thinking this might just be an opportunity to realize some self-development and growth many years after my body stopped growing (other than the backfat bone, which seemingly doubles in size every year) and my cognitive capacity stopped expanding (in fact, many years of new years style partying may have irrevocably limited my cranial transmission to max out in fourth gear). I’m hoping that the power of the human spirit to constantly evolve may be the only thing that will be enhanced in these years to come. What better way to start a new year than to actually be thinking clearly, and not just thinking about where the Tylenol is and how little energy I can expend to get the bottle into my hand. (“If I can just pull the coffee table towards me a foot, and knock the bottle over with my toe, and collect it with my feet, I won’t have to sit up!... shit, I need water…”)
This doesn’t mean I’m going teetotaler on that ass. The boys on the Myrtle trip will still get a healthy dose of me shirtless in 54 degree tropical weather this March. I’m sure a softball victory or two this summer will demand shots of tequila. And I know I’ll belt some off-key, misplaced lyrics to a few tunes on the jukebox in 2011. But those experiences will be organic. They will be natural parties. I’m just going to stay away from the most clichéd of the galas.
I’m not trying to be preachy with this stance either. Many people, young and old, will blast into the new year with great cheer, and genuinely enjoy the enchantment of the evening. But for me, for this year, it’s all been done, and I’m doing something new. In this postmodern interpretation, the only thing new is nothing.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
It's Not You, it's Me. But Actually it's You.
It's been about ten days now since "The Decision," LeBron James' prime time, hour long vasectomy of the Cleveland sports scene and by extension, much of Cleveland's psyche itself. We were in over our heads with him from the beginning, as we were the self loathing and deprecating kid kicking it with the proverbial dime piece. But like many dime pieces who have been revered and shown unrestrained adulation for so long, beneath the beautiful exterior lies plenty of ugly, and more insecurity than you or I, the out-of-our-league Clevelander, could fathom.
There are very few things in life that had given me as much unadulterated joy as LeBron and the Cavs had over the past few years. Like most of us, I viewed the King as our savior, the hometown kid that would satisfy our craving for a winner. Winning would mean more than that, it would mean validation and vindication. Respect. And LeBron was our ticket, so we thought.
But the signs were there from the beginning. He never reciprocated the love we gave him. The powder toss and points to the sky were not his attempts to connect with his hometown fans, it was further patenting of an image, of his (the en vogue term) brand. He was distant and perpetually aloof, treating his hometown hero status as a burden and never an opportunity, and certainly not a responsibility. The Yankee hat at the 2007 Indians playoff game said it all; I'm NOT one of you. His failure to recruit players to Cleveland during his tenure was most damning, and leads to some hurtful speculative conclusions; he didn't want to win in Cleveland.
LeBron never let an opportunity pass to remind people that he was from Akron, not Cleveland. We know now that was less about his affinity for the Rubber City than it was a defensive mechanism to further justify a decision he had made previously and perhaps as soon as the lottery ping pong ball bounced the Cavs' way. He was from Akron, which might as well have been Sacramento, and no geographical connotations could steer you away from the fact that Akron is not Cleveland.
I never thought LeBron was stupid, but now I do. He's a stupid liar with very little soul. The disingenuous claim that he made up his mind the morning of the infamous "Decision" made me throw up in my mouth a little bit. That was a lie, and a poorly veiled one at that. A stupid lie. Whatever, there are a lot of stupid liars. But his absence of remorse, the lack of self-awareness from someone so self absorbed, that's what still gets at me. Don't you get it, dude? You didn't love us, but we loved you, and by all rights you were free to leave. But LeBron didn't view his choice for what it was, the stripping of a less than confident city of one of its last shreds of self worth. He didn't let us down gently, he dumped us in front of all the cool kids, videotaped it, uploaded it to youtube, and set it as our home screen image. It was a celebration of ego, and a final cruel statement; "I am bigger than your measly little city, bitch."
But we dig deeper, and as we realize that the genesis to this decision was closer to his birth than it was July 8th, 2010, it gets all the more troubling. We know he quit on our city, but did he do something that in the world of sports is much more unforgivable than that, did he quit on his team? I'm not completely sure he did, but the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced he might have. If he had bad games and was irritable and insufferable afterwards, that would be one thing, and it would have showed he cared. But his actions and words during and after the Boston playoff series (I'd call it the Boston Massacre but I think that's taken) indicate the exact opposite. He was uber-defensive, saying he spoiled the fans (and indeed he did-- almost as much as we spoiled him).
But enough about him, and back to us. To the bitter end, we were there, and despite all the signs, we were faithful.
(Interlude: Cue REO Speedwagon... "Heard it from a friend, who, heard it from a friend, who, heard it from another you'd been messin around...")
And so he's gone. But like the outmatched boxer refusing to stay on the canvas, or me after Greg Rustad drains another three pointer in my eye, we'll refuse to admit that he got the best of us. Maybe it's merely a product of generations of bad news and ridicule, but Cleveland, ignorant and insignificant on the national stage, doesn't go away. So now we're the drunkard on the rebound, but I'll tell you this, we ain't gonna leave the party.
He wasn't that hot anyways, and his personality sucked. Excuse me, I'm going to sloppily make out with Carlos Santana, Josh Cribbs, and JJ Hickson now. LeBron probably took away our dignity, but I'll take defiant pride and a touch of soul any day of the week. Colt McCoy? You had me at hello, and I'm willing to experiment but do easy on me down there.
Viva la Cleve
postscript: I signed up for twitter a couple days before LeBron did (a national wire story in fact, the headline reading "LeBron Starts Twitter Account"). So stupidly clinging to his every word still, I elected to have his tweets come to my phone directly in the form of a text message. Anyhow, the night of the decision, twisting and turning like the scorned lover I was, I was finally able to fall asleep at about 1am. That is, until my phone beeped at 3:30am. It was LeBron, @KingJames, thanking all of his "fans" for their support as he arrived in Miami. He added insult to insomnia, but whatever. I'll be singing Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone" by the fall. Adios, LeBron, it turns out we hardly knew ye.
There are very few things in life that had given me as much unadulterated joy as LeBron and the Cavs had over the past few years. Like most of us, I viewed the King as our savior, the hometown kid that would satisfy our craving for a winner. Winning would mean more than that, it would mean validation and vindication. Respect. And LeBron was our ticket, so we thought.
But the signs were there from the beginning. He never reciprocated the love we gave him. The powder toss and points to the sky were not his attempts to connect with his hometown fans, it was further patenting of an image, of his (the en vogue term) brand. He was distant and perpetually aloof, treating his hometown hero status as a burden and never an opportunity, and certainly not a responsibility. The Yankee hat at the 2007 Indians playoff game said it all; I'm NOT one of you. His failure to recruit players to Cleveland during his tenure was most damning, and leads to some hurtful speculative conclusions; he didn't want to win in Cleveland.
LeBron never let an opportunity pass to remind people that he was from Akron, not Cleveland. We know now that was less about his affinity for the Rubber City than it was a defensive mechanism to further justify a decision he had made previously and perhaps as soon as the lottery ping pong ball bounced the Cavs' way. He was from Akron, which might as well have been Sacramento, and no geographical connotations could steer you away from the fact that Akron is not Cleveland.
I never thought LeBron was stupid, but now I do. He's a stupid liar with very little soul. The disingenuous claim that he made up his mind the morning of the infamous "Decision" made me throw up in my mouth a little bit. That was a lie, and a poorly veiled one at that. A stupid lie. Whatever, there are a lot of stupid liars. But his absence of remorse, the lack of self-awareness from someone so self absorbed, that's what still gets at me. Don't you get it, dude? You didn't love us, but we loved you, and by all rights you were free to leave. But LeBron didn't view his choice for what it was, the stripping of a less than confident city of one of its last shreds of self worth. He didn't let us down gently, he dumped us in front of all the cool kids, videotaped it, uploaded it to youtube, and set it as our home screen image. It was a celebration of ego, and a final cruel statement; "I am bigger than your measly little city, bitch."
But we dig deeper, and as we realize that the genesis to this decision was closer to his birth than it was July 8th, 2010, it gets all the more troubling. We know he quit on our city, but did he do something that in the world of sports is much more unforgivable than that, did he quit on his team? I'm not completely sure he did, but the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced he might have. If he had bad games and was irritable and insufferable afterwards, that would be one thing, and it would have showed he cared. But his actions and words during and after the Boston playoff series (I'd call it the Boston Massacre but I think that's taken) indicate the exact opposite. He was uber-defensive, saying he spoiled the fans (and indeed he did-- almost as much as we spoiled him).
But enough about him, and back to us. To the bitter end, we were there, and despite all the signs, we were faithful.
(Interlude: Cue REO Speedwagon... "Heard it from a friend, who, heard it from a friend, who, heard it from another you'd been messin around...")
And so he's gone. But like the outmatched boxer refusing to stay on the canvas, or me after Greg Rustad drains another three pointer in my eye, we'll refuse to admit that he got the best of us. Maybe it's merely a product of generations of bad news and ridicule, but Cleveland, ignorant and insignificant on the national stage, doesn't go away. So now we're the drunkard on the rebound, but I'll tell you this, we ain't gonna leave the party.
He wasn't that hot anyways, and his personality sucked. Excuse me, I'm going to sloppily make out with Carlos Santana, Josh Cribbs, and JJ Hickson now. LeBron probably took away our dignity, but I'll take defiant pride and a touch of soul any day of the week. Colt McCoy? You had me at hello, and I'm willing to experiment but do easy on me down there.
Viva la Cleve
postscript: I signed up for twitter a couple days before LeBron did (a national wire story in fact, the headline reading "LeBron Starts Twitter Account"). So stupidly clinging to his every word still, I elected to have his tweets come to my phone directly in the form of a text message. Anyhow, the night of the decision, twisting and turning like the scorned lover I was, I was finally able to fall asleep at about 1am. That is, until my phone beeped at 3:30am. It was LeBron, @KingJames, thanking all of his "fans" for their support as he arrived in Miami. He added insult to insomnia, but whatever. I'll be singing Kelly Clarkson's "Since You've Been Gone" by the fall. Adios, LeBron, it turns out we hardly knew ye.
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