(FOOT)BALL OF CONFUSION

Never having been even close to fitting into the role of “good student,” I was completely taken aback when I actually got into a college upon wrapping up a less than mediocre high school performance. What could Waynesburg College have been thinking when I was accepted. It was a small Presbyterian run college in the corner of Western Pennsylvania, West Virginia and Ohio. There were 31 African Americans and 9 Jews on the campus and, in 1965, the 40 of us were barred from the “greeks” so, a lot of us hung out together. I like to tell people that we had our own fraternity/sorority called the GDI's, God Damn Independents, and everyone wanted to come to OUR parties but, we barred them. I don't remember much about the school except hating it immensely, hitchhiking to Pittsburgh a lot to listen to live jazz in the clubs in the culturally iconic Hill District instead of going to geology class and, of course, a few special people. I had a friend named Bo. We would go to the jazz clubs and drink sloe gin and ginger ale. Yeah......I know. I will never forget his philosophy of life. “Fuck it!” He would say, “When I was born, the doctor slapped me and I said – fuck it.” and “If at first you don't succeed – fuck it.” While riding with Bo one afternoon, I noticed that he was driving the wrong way down a one way street and I told him so. He responded with, “Fuck it – I AM going one way.” I couldn't argue with that logic and off we went. I don't know whatever happened to Bo. He's not on Facebook. There was a girl I was crazy about so I will allow her some anonymity. Her mother ran a boarding house for Pitt students and she had a boyfriend at another school. We became friends but I was always a little let down about that boyfriend at the other school. I found her on FB recently and she has done quite well. She became an attorney with a successful practice in Pittsburgh and had a wonderful marriage until her beloved husband passed a few years back. She is having a good life and that's really nice to know. One of my best friends was Dave Smith. At Christmas break, Dave and I went back east together and spent a little time at his mom's house in New York before I headed back to my folks place in Connecticut. I never went back to Waynesburg after that break and I lost track of Dave completely. I was trying to transfer to Uconn but got drafted. The Vietnam war was in full swing in 1966....I was gone. Dave played football for the Waynesburg Yellow Jackets and, as I found out not too long ago, went on to play pro ball. He was drafted by the Steelers as a wide receiver in 1970 and stayed with them until '72 when he went to Houston. He had a pretty impressive record of 109 receptions, 1,457 receiving yards and 7 touchdowns. Then after a year with Kansas city in 1973....HE was gone. Dave doesn't have a Facebook page so, I googled him. All I could find was his Wiki page which didn't tell me any more than I've just told you and some football cards on the images page. Oh wait, there was this one thing. I was taken to a site called - “The 50 Worst Screw-Ups in Sports History” and at number 46: “Dave Smith's Spike Heard 'round the World” - Few remember receiver Dave Smith for his three years of NFL service and 109 receptions. Most do remember him for his performance in the Oct. 18 Monday night game against the Chiefs in '71. After catching a pass from Terry Bradshaw, Smith ran for the end zone, ready to celebrate ferociously. But as he approached the pylon, Smith raised the ball and began to pump his arm losing the pigskin in the process. The rock continued rolling into the end zone. Touchback........ Career defined.” Dave Smith.....my friend.....college football star........potential pro football great........oops!

9 /11/01

Remember where YOU were on 9-11-2001? Of course you do. We always remember where we were and what we were doing during what seem, at the time, to be earth shattering events. Catastrophic weather, space shuttle disasters, assassinations and the like. I am very clear about days of note during my life time. The assassinations of JFK, MLK, RFK and John Lennon, the Challenger explosion, the deaths of Elvis and Michael Jackson. Times in history that are etched in our memories in their magnitude and scope. 9-11, however, stands out for me as the all time worst day of my career. I have been on the air during a number of “bad days” and always made it through them with fairly little effort, and, so it appeared on that fateful day on 2001. The morning started normally. My partner at the time, Lori and I met in one of the production rooms an hour before the show to share the “prep” we had individually done and map out our “breaks” for that day. We didn't always follow the map, in fact, we rarely did, but, it was always nice to have a plan and we did this every morning. The show was going well that morning. We had done a couple of silly, preproduced “bits” and were preparing for a hearty game “Stump the Chumps” while “Today's Hits and Yesterday's Favorites” graced the virtual turntables and permeated the airwaves, when Lori went to the room we all referred to as the “Dead Break Lounge” for another cup of coffee. She never made it to that end of the hall. There was a TV between the beak room and the studio and she saw a plane hit a building. She ran back into the room to tell me what she had just seen and we went on the air with it. “It looks like a small plane has accidentally flown into one of the World Trade Center towers,” we reported, adding, “As soon as we have more information, we'll bring it to you.” Next song. And then............it all hit the fan. Once second plane hit the WTC, everyone began to realize what was happening. We were watching chaos unfold in front of our eyes and we weren't sure what to do. Obviously, the first thing was to suspend all the music and try to explain something that we didn't understand any more than those listening. We became a “clearing house” for all the info we were getting from other sources and as we attempted to disseminate what were seeing on the TV in the hall, people began to call in droves. We were inundated with emotion and opinion and realized that, perhaps we should try to, at least, serve as the voice of some semblance of reason. We tried to calm fears and explain, to the best of our ability, what we knew. It wasn't very much. At one point, I said, “I have been doing radio for many years and for the first time in my career, I can't think of anything to say.” I was at a complete loss for words. It was pretty unprofessional, but, it was also a very real moment. Shortly before our shift ended, the decision was made to switch all programming over to our parent company, ABC, whose capable news team took over the task of explaining the unexplainable to listeners who wanted answers. Our shows for the remainder of the week were music free and we continued taking phone calls, giving the listeners an outlet to vent and discuss. Each morning, for 5 hours, we handled call after call after call while, as I stated earlier, trying to be the best “voice of reason” we could possibly be. I went home after our show on Friday, proud of the way we had handled a very intense and tough week. I was proud of our professionalism in the face of disaster and I held my head high. Until I got into bed to take my daily nap. That's when the magnitude of what had happened over the prior week hit my like a brick. We had been in the same position as every other American. We were angry and confused and had been a sounding board for all of our listeners for days, absorbing all their anxiety and emotion. I curled up into the fetal position and began to sob. And that's where and how I spent the entire weekend. I finally stopped crying on Sunday night and was able to return to the air on Monday, but, by that point, the world as we knew it had changed forever.

IT'S A BIRD, IT'S A PLANE, IT'S...POP

MY dad, despite being born in a rough section of Brooklyn at the dawn of the depression, was the kindest, most even tempered human being I've ever known. And I've been all over this country and to a few pretty nifty foreign locales. I've met a lot of different folk but my dad will always sit firmly at the top of my list of “who I wanna be when I grow up.” Let me give you an example of the kind of person I observed as a young idiot trying to figure out life: My dad was a furniture salesman and a very good one. When he came home from WW11 he got a job at a stationary and office supplies store in Hartford,Ct. called Plimptons. He was there for more than a decade and after he had established himself as a top salesman, the store sold to Litton industries. Suddenly, dad was jobless with a family of 4 to support. He never changed his daily routine, though. He would wake up at 7am, shower, put on a shirt and tie and walk across the room to pick up the phone and “go to work.” He made looking for gainful employment his full time job. He did this for a few month until he realized that he had built quite a nice reputation with furniture manufacturers, so he decided to try and become an independent manufacturers rep which he parlayed into a nice business with showrooms in New York, Chicago, Hartford and Boston. It was during this time of rebuilding his life that he was shopping for a new suit at his favorite men's clothing store in Hartford. While he was looking at shirts, he spotted an old associate from Plimptons who had lost his job the same time as my dad but had not been as fortunate in the aftermath. He was still looking for work and wanted to dress appropriately. My dad was aware of his situation and saw him looking at a $100 sport coat. Somehow, my dad knew the guy only had $50 so, he pulled the salesman aside, slipped him two 20's and a 10 and said, “Tell him the coat costs $50” and then went back to looking at shirts. I tell this lovely story to show just what kind of man my dad was. This was not an isolated incident. This was how he treated everybody on a daily basis which became quite evident when too many people came to his retirement party. The room was filled to overflowing and the fire marshal had to be called. People liked him......a lot. I'm not sure anyone ever saw my dad lose his temper. For a guy who was brought up in tough surroundings, he was a lamb. For a guy who ate spaghetti with tomato sauce made from ketchup and hot water (a little more water if you wanted soup), he always understood the importance of keeping nourishing food on the table. He gave us a great life. Of course, I can say all of that now. I'm a grandfather and he's been gone for about 22 years but I didn't always know how I truly felt. That came with time. I was very rebellious and a pretty snotty and annoying teenager. On this particular Saturday, I was being my typical obnoxious self, bugging my mother for something I wanted and didn't need. She, of course, was trying to explain her reasoning when I mumbled something to the effect of, “Geez, why do you have to be such a bitch.” That was the first and only time I ever saw my dad fly. Fists balled up like Superman from the comic books, he took off from mid hallway and soared like an exquisite bird across my entire room, landing on top of me, accentuating each swing with a new word: “Don't.....you.......ever......call.....your.......mother.......that......again.” Chivalry was not dead that day but I was about as close as I'd ever been. My dad then walked into the other room, sat in front of the TV and put on the ball game, satisfied that he had let me know right from wrong in no uncertain terms. He was confident that the lesson I was taught that day would last me a lifetime. It did. I never called my mom (or any woman) a “bitch” again.....ever! And I never saw my dad fly again. But that day, I watched him glide with the grace of a swan. It was a lovely flight but the landing hurt like hell.

WHEN IN DOUBT - ACCESSORIZE

I have to admit that, as a fashion maven, I'm a bit of a bust. In fact, I'd say my finger missed the pulse of fashionability by about a mile and a half. I wear shorts, sandals and tank tops. Every day. I own 3 pair of sandals, 5 pair of shorts and a passel of tank tops with a few t-shirts with sleeves thrown in for our “cold' days. I have stopped cutting my hair and I shave on occasion. I own no socks. Being retired in South Florida, I almost feel an obligation to slovenliness. Before I retired, I had a 50 year career where I lived in jeans, t-shirts and sneakers. It was radio not TV. Not that much has changed since. My pants got shorter and I lost the socks. One important aspect of the sartorial arts has, however, not escaped me. For as far back as I can remember, which is about 2 or 3 years old with the exception of a huge gap of time in the 60's and 70's, I have been obsessed with accessories. Let me clarify that. I don't do a lot of jewelry. No plethora of rings and bracelets, no piercings, no antique brooches......I wear a wedding ring (that I got from a pawn shop for $50) and a wristwatch. But I must have, at least a dozen watches. I love watches. I have one Rolex which my daughter bought for me in Switzerland for $35 dollars. Nothing like a good knockoff from the land where they were “born.” It seems so real that it got a compliment from the guy who runs a local jewelry store. I once had a real one, years ago, that didn't look as good. I sold it, also years ago, between jobs to pay the rent. My daily watch is a very nice Fossil with Roman numerals. It's quite a handsome, everyday watch. I have a box full of watches with no bands, no batteries and even one with no hands because they fell off and are sitting at the bottom of the case. I have my grandfather's Bulova from the 1940's and, no, I won't be throwing any of them out. I am obsessed with watches. For some odd reason, I am also obsessed with eye glasses. I have been wearing them since 4th grade when it was, mistakenly determined that my poor grade performance was a direct correlation to my inability to see anything that was put in front of me. They were right......and wrong. I needed the glasses but the boredom with the schoolwork had set in long before the revelation of blindness. As the years wore on, my eyes got progressively worse and by the time I hit high school, I was already semi-fondly being referred to as “Four Eyes.” If I was going to wear them all the time, I wanted them to look decent. I grew as fond of eyeglasses as I had already become of wrist watches. I am obsessed with glasses. My obsessions with watches and glasses pale, by comparison, to the way I feel about hats. That all began when I was just shy of toddler status. My mom was waiting in line at the bank, holding me and standing near her was a family friend who was wearing a fedora. In the late 40's and early 50's, men didn't leave home without wearing one and Mr. Cobb was no different. They said hello and I immediately went for his hat. I have been chapeau obsessed ever since. One of the happiest days of my life was when the doctor told me I had skin cancer and that, after my nose was rebuilt, I should never leave the house without wearing a hat. YES - Drs. Orders! I have a lot of hats. 5 fedoras (one felt and 4 straw), 3 pork pies, 1 cowboy hat, 15 or so “driver” (flat) caps and about 40 baseball caps (5 of them identifying my Vietnam Veteran status). People are surprised when they learn I have hair on the top of my head. It is never out from under a hat or cap. I'm still a bit of a slob. Some things never change and my obsession with watches, glasses and hats has just grown stronger. That will never end. However, when I end, I want people to walk by my casket, look in and say, “Nice hat!”

HEAL THYSELF

For a good portion of my adult life, I have dealt with issues that have made feeling healthy seem like nothing more than a fantasy. When one disappears, tree more take it's place. To quote a lyric from Mick & the Boys. “Please allow me to introduce myself.” I am a 70 year old Vietnam Vet and 50 year morning radio vet who is now living the stereotype – retired in South Florida. That's the “Cliff Notes” version and, pretty much, all you need to know. In fact, even that much is somewhat irrelevant except as a point of reference. What is necessary knowledge is the fact that I have been dealing with health issues since I was 35 and hospitalized for the first time with heart issues. Over the ensuing 35 years, my health seemed to deteriorate at a faster rate than I could keep up with. More cardiac problems, high cholesterol, “screaming” triglycerides, Diabetes and a blood pressure that I just assumed was that high because of my Jewish genetics. By the time I hit 60, I was taking about 15 pills a day, splitting them up between morning and evening with a few that I had to take twice a day. This is where I was up to about a year ago when I passed out at home and had to be taken, by ambulance to the hospital. I had been dealing with atrial fibrillation, an erratic heartbeat, and its accompanying medications, including heavy blood thinners, for more than 3 decades so a cardiac ablation was suggested and I had it done. They went in through both sides of my groin and froze a few “trigger” areas of my heart so it could go back to a normal beat, which it did with the exception of occasional rogue palpitations. I will preface the remainder of the story by telling you that I smoked my first joint when I was 19 years old and stationed outside of Nashville. It was 1966 and I had a date with a girl from one of the colleges in town. She pulled a joint out of her purse and I started to panic. I didn't, really, know what to do and I didn't want to embarrass myself, so.......I did everything she did. It worked and I really liked it and have been a proponent ever since. But, it was always purely recreational with no thought of medicinal value until recently. I smoked the way I smoked – that was that. While, in my younger years, it served as an adjunct to booze, it eventually became a fitting substitute when I stopped drinking altogether. As a diabetic, a sip of wine can put me under the table and, at 70, that's not where I want to find myself. It's just too hard to get back up. The cardiac ablation was a relative success and the doc told me I could go home the following day. There was just one problem. My blood pressure was extremely high at 200/103 and the only way they would release me was if we could bring it down with the top number below 160. They tried a pill which didn't work. Then they tried an injection of a different BP drug to no avail. For the next three days they gave me pills, shots and combinations of both but I was still hovering around 175 to 190. That's when I became completely fed up and told them that I wanted to release myself and go home. As much as they tried to convince me of the folly of my request, I insisted until the cardiologist said, “Fine, just make an appointment to follow up in a week.” When my wife came to pick me up, I already knew what my course of action would be when I got home. I had recently discovered medicinal strains of cannabis and was beginning to understand how different strains were being bred for different ailments and how curative it actually is. I got into bed and filled my little stone pipe with medicinal weed. I took a few hits and closed my eyes and took a nice, relaxing breath. After a few minutes I pulled out my BP cuff. I took my blood pressure and, for the first time in weeks, it read 118/74. I did the follow ups with my cardiologist and my primary who, now, both reflect in their records that I prefer cannabis to control my blood pressure. I have come off all BP meds except 1 and all of my cardiac meds. What was a 15 pill a day regimen is now about 7 pills a day and those include pills for diabetes and cholesterol which I have in control. Medicinal marijuana is now legal in 22 states including Florida. What was a pure joy for 51 years is now a necessary medicine........and sill a pure joy! I'm feelin' pretty good on a daily basis. Fantasy fulfilled.