The Old Sport's Page

Hit

Thu, 16 May 2013 02:00:29 GMT

It's a sharp pop at first, and then it's a dull thud as it works its way through plastic and cushions and fabric. It's a muffled jolt that shakes the body's core and shoots out to all its extremities.

It's a transfer of energy, a meeting between two bodies in motion, a collision in an ongoing battle for space to win an ongoing war for dominance.

It's the body check.

Ask any hockey player, any age at any level, from the first game of the exhibition season through Game Seven of the Stanley Cup Final. You'll hear it throughout the playoffs. Listen for it. A reporter will ask a player, How do you guys get in the game after so much time off? Or How will you guys get in the game after so little time off? How will you seize the momentum? Or keep it up? They'll ask questions -- multiple times -- about energy and passion and tempo and style, and the player will answer it the same way almost every time.

Hit, the player will say. Or take a hit.

It doesn't matter which. It makes no difference if a player is the aggressor or the target. There's a pop, a dull thud, a muffled jolt.

It's hockey at its most basic form.

Before Game Six of last year's Eastern Conference quarterfinal between the Flyers and Penguins, Claude Giroux went through the shooting line during warm-ups. He threw his body at every player on his own team.

When the puck dropped, he did this.

The Flyers won the game, and the franchise designated Giroux its captain that offseason.

In the moment a body check doesn't hurt. The protective equipment -- plastic shells and padded casings -- absorbs most of the impact. The adrenaline covers the rest.

It feels good to hit or get hit, actually. Few things in sports can put a player "in the moment" as much as a clean, hard body check. It clears everything else -- thoughts of home, of family, of anything else that absorbs into a player's body during hours spent outside of a rink -- out of a player's system. It brings the attention back to that struggle for space and the pursuit of a frozen slice of vulcanized rubber.

There's the downside to the body check, of course, and that is the increased attention toward injury, specifically the "c-word," the dreaded concussion.

Hockey's given the c-word plenty of euphemisms over the years. Players have had their bells rung and their clocks cleaned and their cobwebs shaken. They've seen stars and chirping cartoon birds dancing around their heads. But talk about player safety and the dangers of the body check have increased in gravity, clouding the distinction between a good, hard hockey play and a dangerous, threatening scenario.

Still, it's the clean, hard body blows -- the ones that don't invoke the dreaded c-word -- that give hockey its vitality as a sport. Nothing rattles an opponent better than a hard hit on open ice. Nothing inspires a team more than seeing one of its own batter the bad guys against the boards.

When I started playing ice hockey -- that is, when I finally could pay my way through a season -- my mother would cope with the idea of her son playing such a violent sport by telling herself and everyone else, "The first thing they do is teach the kids how to fall properly."

I never corrected her.

What they teach you, at first, is how to get back up. They blow the whistle, and you skate. They blow it again, and you slide. And then they'll blow it a third time. Prop yourself on your knees, they tell you, and then go up to one knee, lean the stick over it and pull yourself up. Over and over again.

They never teach you how to fall, or how to take a hit. But you learn.

You learn how to fall by doing it countless times during a game, sometimes by your own power and others via body check. Then it's knees, stick, go. Back on the ice and into play.

A friend of mine in college, after one of our games, noted how quickly hockey players got back to their feet. The next time you watch a game, pay attention to it. You'll be amazed.

As a player, I fell a lot. As a small player, I took my share of hits. And I loved it. I enjoyed throwing myself into corners on the forecheck. i loved lining up opponents coasting through the neutral zone and driving my shoulder into them. My height never gave me an advantage, but my build always did. I remember one time, a doctor was pressing on my abdomen, making sure my organs aligned correctly, or whatever doctors check when they press on your abdomen.

"Do you play any sports?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "Hockey."

"Well," he answered, pressing on my sides. "I certainly wouldn't want to run into you."

In street hockey, an 18-over league I joined at 16, I relished the role as a pest, trying my best to dig under the skin of guys twice as old and, sometimes, twice as heavy. Before one of our playoff games, our captain walked over to me, pointing out a bigger guy in orange warming up at the other end.

"See that guy?" he asked. "Annoy the shit out of him."

By the end of my first shift, the guy in orange had wrapped me up and thrown me to the ground. The referee sent him to the penalty box. We scored on that power play and won the game.

In college, my friends made fun of my lack of playing time and suggested that, if I ever played in a game, someone would knock me into the next week.

I finally made it on the ice for the last game before our winter break freshman year. I was killing a penalty and picked up a puck along the boards just outside our own zone. With plenty of ice between me and the opposing team -- in the middle of a line change -- I skated with the puck across the neutral zone.

I saw the defenseman skating, backwards, from his own bench on the far side of the rink. He was going to cut me off on my path to the net, but if I could dance around him, I'd have a breakaway. Waiting until he was about 10 feet away, I pulled the puck from my forehand to my backhand, shifted my weight ...

...and led myself right into his shoulder.

A teammate says I flipped, although I'm not sure if that was an exaggeration. I hit the ice and bounced back up in one motion. My stick went flying across the ice, but I pursued the defenseman with the puck, anyway. In that whole play, the only thing I regret is following him behind the net.

You never do that in the offensive zone.

That night was one of the few parties I attended in college. My head hurt the whole time. I'm pretty sure it was a concussion.

I haven't touched the ice in a couple years. My schedule prevents me from participating in any leagues with any consistency. I miss it. I miss scoring the goals, setting up the plays. I miss the camaraderie shared among teammates and the animosity with the other teams.

Perhaps most of all, though, I miss the pop and the thud and the jolt of delivering or receiving a body check. I miss the collision, the moment and the struggle. I miss getting knocked down and shooting right back up, knees, stick and all.

Because it's the things outside the rink that hurt. Everything else is just hockey, and hockey is a fun, beautiful game.

Notes from Thursday's Flyers game

Sun, 14 Apr 2013 01:33:02 GMT

My brother ordered tickets to Thursday's Flyers game. We each brought a friend. A few observations:

[] I found out Thursday - in a situation that almost threatened the trip - that some people don't plan to arrive at sporting events early. My family has always preferred to arrive before the gates open, for anything from a baseball game here in Lancaster to a concert to a professional game anywhere. For one, it's always nice to beat traffic and give yourself enough time on the road to account for said traffic and construction delays. You're also paying for a ticket to an event, ad it's nice to spend as much time as possible at said event.

Personally, I always like to go to events early. There's a definite charm to watching an empty arena or stadium fill up. It's nice to take a lap or two around the building, grab a(n overpriced) bite to eat and soak in the atmosphere. Because the atmosphere is what makes sports sports. It's what drives people to pay ridiculously priced tickets for an experience otherwise comparable to watching a sporting event on television. There's a pulse, an energy, within an arena, and it's fun to measure that before the puck drops.

Watching warm-ups is also one of the underrated thrills of arriving early. Warm-ups in hockey, especially, unfold in a very poetic way. Aside watching for different players - finding out who's in or out of that night's lineup - you get to watch the flow of an entire team circling its half of the ice. You hear the sticks slap the practice pucks, and wayward shots pounding the boards and clanking the glass behind the net.

We ended up arriving about an hour before the puck dropped. My friend and I split a cheesesteak, a bucket of crab fries and a souvenir soda. We watched warm-ups, and soaked in the atmosphere before the game started.

[] The thing that stood out most to me about watching a game in an arena was the obscene amount of lights that infiltrate the in-game experience. Growing up, I soaked in games at Hersheypark Arena. The Old Barn held about half the lights you'd find in the rafters of most arenas today, one red light on each end to signal goals, and a green light at each end to flash at the end of a period.

In "modern" arenas, the lights beam down on the ice surface. A band of illumination covers the face of the spaces above and below luxury boxes and wraps around the arena. The scoreboards glow with video screens and other screens for computerized graphics and designs. The lights are distracting, especially if your only interest is the action on the ice.

[] As far as the game itself, the Flyers looked horrible. I've never seen a team that looked so flat-footed on its own half of the red line. Every Ottawa rush looked like a surprise, and the Senators scored the game-winning goal when a forward received a pass behind the defense ... on the power play.

As bad as the defense looked, the offense appeared that much worse. Every foray into the Ottawa zone fell apart, and quickly. Having the opportunity to sit way up in the nosebleeds and observe the futility unfold over the entire ice surface gave me a whole new appreciation for how bad the team is this year.

[] I had fun, though. My companions all had an interest in the game. Everyone cared about the outcome, and that made it enjoyable (except for the final result). The building wasn't filled, either, but the Flyers fans in attendance came off as positive. There were plenty of "Let's go, Flyers" chants and supportive applause for even the weakest scoring opportunities or defensive stops. I've been to games where the crowd took a spiteful, combative tone, but Thursday's crowd came off as more disappointed than anything.

[] We still save our heartiest applause for military veterans, and I'm kind of torn about the subject. I think it's great to show appreciation for men and women who make sacrifices for this country - sacrifices I'd never ever have the courage to make myself. But I also think that, sometimes it becomes a gimmick. I got goosebumps when we all applauded the veteran who lost both legs in battle, but I also wondered if it was entirely appropriate (at the risk of coming off as a bad American).

The night was a success -- again, save the final score. Unfortunately, it doesn't look like we'll be going to any more Flyers games until next year. The team dropped another to Buffalo today, it's fourth loss in a row.

Next year, though. There's always next year.

I wore an eye patch once

Wed, 03 Apr 2013 05:18:29 GMT

I wore an eye patch once.

I wore an eye patch, per doctor's orders. At one point, when I was 3 or 4, I went through eye surgery. My one eye, you see, is weaker than the other eye, and that required corrective eye-muscle surgery.

And that corrective-eye surgery required an eye patch.

Maybe I wore it a few hours, or a couple days. I don't remember. I'm not sure if I wore it to cover the good eye to strengthen the other, or the corrected eye to aid its healing. The whole time -- or one point, at least -- my 3-or-4-year-old mind imagined me a pirate with a fastened peg leg, and a parrot perched over my right shoulder.

I don't remember that, though, either.

But I wore an eye patch for a few hours or a couple days, and that is what I remember.

At age 3 or 4, I remember my mom talking about my eyes with a friend, or the mother of a friend I had in pre-school. While they talked, my friend and I moved cars across a laminated mat, a sprawling labyrinth of miniature roads in the middle of my living room. I spent hours on hands and knees, managing the traffic of Matchboxes and Hot Wheels and fire engines -- whoa boy, did I ever love fire engines. I'd roll them around, pretending each second was the final leg of the greatest race in the history of civilization.

My parents talk about the time I ripped the whole IV out of my arm. That episode probably happened during the corrective-eye-surgery ordeal. I don't remember ripping out the IV, feeling its sting, or screaming and crying because I felt so scared and uncomfortable. My parents also talk about the tantrums I threw as a child. I'd get myself so worked up, they say, to a point where I threw up.

I don't remember that, either.

I do remember the toy fire engines I used to play with, the plastic fireman's hats I used to wear. The books I collected, and the VHS tapes I watched over and over and over. I loved fire fighting and fire engines. It all used to fascinate me. The big red trucks. Their lights and their whistles. I loved it so much that, to this day, I'll hear the distant squeal of a siren or a big, honking horn, and I'll feel the goosebumps racing up my arms.

I liked the progression. I enjoyed the idea of voracious flames succumbing to these behemoth machines and brave men wearing cool hats. At the end of the day, after I'd wheeled all the emergency vehicles around the sprawling sea of miniature roads and rolled up the mat and threw an ungodly temper tantrum over something irrelevant, the fires would all be extinguished.

I don't remember the first time the fire of reality melted those false notions away. I don't remember the last time I parked all of the Matchboxes and Hot Wheels and folded up the mat and all its roads. I don't recall the first time I thought to tell someone about wearing an eye patch because it's out of the ordinary and makes a good story.

It's a full two decades after I wore the eye patch, and now I wear glasses -- old glasses -- with scratched lenses and flimsy frames, and through those glasses, I see the world unfold around me.

I remember growing up, past 3 or 4, and looking forward to this point in my life. I looked forward to shedding the shackles of school and parental control, to picking a career and a wife and ending up with a few children (however that happens). Now I'm here, looking around through glasses that are scratched and flimsy, and longing for a few hours to spend with Matchboxes and Hot Wheels, to put out imaginary fires and to forget things like IVs and demonic tantrums.

Because now those IVs hurt, those fires are real, and all that time I spent playing with cars and toys, well, it isn't mine any more.

And I remember that, all of it, a lot better than I remember ever wearing an eye patch.

Return

Tue, 26 Feb 2013 01:00:12 GMT

The breeze -- still armed with a February bite -- dragged itself across the open fields, swirled around the man-made pond adjacent to a small garden, and wrapped itself around me, a solitary figure hunched over on a bench at the outdoor roller hockey rink.

I settled in against the cold steel of the bench, watching two boys -- maybe 12 years old at most -- swing and shoot and pass at the far end of the rink. Under the blustery afternoon's grip, in a knit cap, a gray hoodie, a Jeremy Roenick replica jersey and a pair of sweatpants, I shivered and held my breath.

It had been many months since I skated on a rink, and my first few strides felt flawed in my brother's skates, a pair of Bauers with three wheels -- or what used to be wheels -- on each. Both boots sported duct tape, and the front of the left one sported a healthy gash across the toes. Kicking off rust and fighting the friction of worn-out wheels, I stumbled from the bench into the zone. A few laps around the face-off circles and a couple pivots later, I found my edges, made my way back to the cold steel of the bench, and waited.

They arrived about 20 minutes later, the brothers Shane and Wesley. We'd grown up a block apart, and we made playing hockey a daily routine.

As soon as Shane, in full goaltending equipment, moseyed to the net at the far end of the rink, I hopped off the bench, skated another couple of loops around the zone, picked up a yellow street hockey ball and cruised toward the net.

It's a dance we'd done thousands of times before. One on one. Shooter versus the goalie. We'd played this game for hours in the driveway. We spent full weekends on the corner across from my house. On asphalt in the blistering sun and unrelenting humidity. On ice during practice at the rink.

And, once again, in the teeth of a blustery afternoon in February.

I stopped skating when I reached the slot between the face-off circles. Halting your legs and coasting is a cardinal sin if you're a forward. It allows the goaltender to read your movements, eliminating the shooter's advantage of a surprise.

But, despite coasting, despite the rust, I still owned the advantage of knowing the goaltender.

Shane's slow with his glove -- when he doesn't anticipate, anyway -- and to compensate, he'll leave his blocker side more open. His blocker side is my short side, so to hit that side of the net, I have to pull the shot across my body without pulling it wide of the net. It's a tough shot to make, rust or no rust.

That's why I decided to make a move.

Shane knew what was coming. As I hit the bottom of the face-off circles, he dropped to a crouch. I could have lifted the shot over his glove, but I already committed to my move. At about three feet from the paint in front of the net, I shifted all of my weight to my left hip, swinging my stick forward, around the ball. Shane leaned to his right, dropping to one knee. His stick sat flat on the ground.

The ball sat on the back of my stick's blade. I curled the it around the grounded goaltender's stick and pushed it into the open net as another burst of February air skittered across the rink and danced around the moment.

I was back.

SORTS HISTORY FEATURE: Fight Nights in Butler Gym

Wed, 13 Feb 2013 00:03:47 GMT

-- Amateur boxing events highlighted athletics at St. Bonaventure in the 1920s --

[Note: This feature originally appeared in the Oct. 9, 2009 edition o The Bona Venture. Because The BV's archives have disappeared from the Internet, I've been posting some of my work here. Today's installment harkens back to the days of awesome nicknames and Alfred G. Smith references. Man, I love sports history.]

In the roaring '20s, before Joe Louis and Rocky Marciano blazed the professional trail; before Sugar Ray Robinson became a pro and Muhammed Ali became "The Greatest of All Time"; before Rocky Balboa scaled the steps in Center City, Philadelphia, amateur boxing thrived at St. Bonaventure College.

Introduced to the school in 1916, boxing drew large crowds and local fighters, as pugilists from Buffalo, Olean, Allegany and Salamanca converged for regular events.

The names filling out the cards lacked national notoriety, but they included some marquee names from Bona's athletics at the time. "Shino" McDonald, the baseball team's pitching ace, and Silas Rooney, a tackle for the football team, both took up boxing in the offseason.

In the mid-'20s, a large student population sought to develop skill and strengthen technique for the popular sport in the college's bustling gym, some earning the right to play on the official boxing team.

"St. Bonaventure's college has a dozen exceptionally good ring prospects in the squad of nearly one hundred athletes who train daily at the college gym," reported The Laurel in 1926.

"Bud" Cruess, Fiji Zuain, Dan Quinlan and Frankie Hennessy highlighted boxing programs held montly and semi-monthly in boxing's heyday. They shared the ring with "Yock" Hamilton, "Sharkey" welterweight champion of the world "Mickey" Walker and Balboa Falvo, "The Wild Bull of the Campus."

Despite entering his Feb. 20, 1925 match as the favorite, Falvo battled "Tony" Caruso to a draw.

"It isn't that Falvo is going back(ward) but that Caruso is making such great strides to the front lately, that this bout ended the way it did," The Laurel reported.

Two months later, a frustrated Falvo had an open challenge placed in a column titled "Chatter From the Bleachers."

"'Wild Bull' Falvo, former featherweight champion of the college is quite incensed over the decisions handed him in his recent bouts," A. Rooter wrote. "He wishes through this column to challenge any man in the school at 127 pounds."

The Bona boxers also accepted challenges from off-campus combatants. On April 28, 1925, "Yock" Hamilton, the light-weight champion of the college, faced Kid Dinkle, "an ebony-hued lightweight from the U.S.S. Pennsylvania," according to The Laurel.

Dinkle came out with a strong first round, but Hamilton held on and retaliated with a strong second round, knocking Dinkle down for counts of nine, six and six.

"The fight was marked by the boxing skill of Hamilton and the gameness of Dinkle under severe punishment," The Laurel reported.

In 1926, Hamilton fought to a six-round draw with Fritz Meiler, drawing adulation from what The Laurel called "the largest crowd of boxing fans that ever packed into Butler Gymnasium."

According to The Laurel, "The fight was one to stir the heart of the most exciting fan. (Hamilton and Meiler) fought cleanly and have furnished six rounds of action and sportsmanship."

Those in attendance took note and showed their appreciation.

"The fans voiced their approbation of this bout with some lusty yelling at the conclusion," The Laurel reported.

Signifying boxing's popularity at the time, the large audiences' reactions to the bouts often appear in their recounts.

In a fight between Charlie Over and Bob Smay on April 28, 1925, "both boys fought with speed and skill and had the house on their feet most of the time by their constant mixing," according to The Laurel.

Another fight on the same card, between Quinlan and Jimmy Barr "put the crowd in fine humor by their funny antics, and it ended with Quinlan an easy victor," The Laurel reported.

Other than drawing large crowds, the college's boxing team recruited top boxers from other areas.

In 1925, Jules Schwadson, a 150-pound sophomore, joined the Bona boxers after captaining the freshman boxing team at Syracuse University.

"(Schwadson) made a reputation at Syracuse University when he stepped into the boxing trunks one day and in the short period of three quarters of an hour took on and disposed of two heavies and a middle(weight)."

Transferring to Bonaventure, "Julie" Schwadson trained, along with the other boxers, under Jack Pry, a local boxing legend.

Pry, a Salamanca native, built his status as the only boxer to knock Buffalo's Jimmy Slattery on his back, according to The Laurel. Beyond coaching, Pry participated in exhibition bouts. He fought Schwadson in 1926.

In the first card at Butler Gym in 1928, years after his encounter with Pry, Slattery earned a technical knockout victory over a boxer named Falvey, as he was "administering a terrific beating," The Laurel reported.

While Slattery earned a reputation for beatings administered, other boxers earned reputations for the beatings they received.

In 1928, as part of the annual Catholic Mission Crusade boxing card, Steve Propps' bout ended in a familiar fashion.

"As is the custom, Steve Propps caught another good game, but Steve took the beating nonchalantly and proved to be an ideal punching bag for Tony Gatto," The Laurel reported.

The beatings in amateur boxing risked serious physical harm each time the opening bell tolled. In 1926, Hamilton, refereeing a fight between Jack Dewey and Bob Small, stopped the bout in the second round because of Small's physical condition.

"It was evident from the start that a recent operation had somewhat stopped Bob's vitality, and he was not in condition for the fight," The Laurel reported.

Fewer than four years later, tragedy delivered a lethal punch to amateur boxing at Bonaventure, forcing the operation to discontinue.

On Jan. 14, 1930, Evan (Swede) Gustafson, a Mount Jewett, Pa. native, died while fighting in a match. Gustafson's passing drew concern from the community that cheered it on for 15 years.

"The death of a participant in an unsanctioned bout at Olean again has centered attention on 'bootleg boxing,' and resulted in pleas for legislation to outlaw it," The Associated Press reported on the day of the event.

Boxing made a return to campus on May 5, 1948, as collegiate boxers and fighters from R.O.T.C. squared off for eight bouts. The rejuvenated boxing program ran as strictly an amateur operation sanctioned by the Amateur Athletic Union.

Once again absent from the athletics program, boxing still remains a part of its history. Decades after the final boxing match stirred the crowd in Butler Gym, the stories of boxers and the bouts they fought live on.

Like the story of the May 10, 1928 bout between Bonaventure's Jimmy "Tiger" Barr and Buffalo's "Kid" Alex Trainer.

In just his third fight, Barr had no expectation to last even two rounds against Trainer, a veteran boxer in his 83rd match.

"But dopesters had not considered Bonaventure's athletic training and had underestimated Barr's ability," The Laurel reported.

Bar knocked out favored Trainer in 90 seconds.

"He earned the nickname 'Tiger,' for he tore in at the gong, and for 90 seconds kept tearing," The Laurel reported. "He then forced his opponent to the ropes and finished his man in sensational style by a two-fisted onslaught to the jaw."

The Bonaventure audience voiced its approval.

"The crowd became so excited over this sensational bout that for 10 minutes it resembled the National Democratic Convention when Alfred G. Smith's name was placed in the race for the nomination for President."

As Alfred G. Smith faded from political prominence, boxing saw its "glory days" fade away.

But in the thrill of Barr's improbable victory, The Laurel reported that the bout "will go down in history of St. Bonaventure's boxing."

Fastnacht Day

Tue, 12 Feb 2013 22:07:12 GMT

The following is a Facebook conversation I had with a friend who just moved to San Francisco. Me: So how bad do you want a fastnacht right now? There weren't any within, like, 60 miles of my school, and that's all I could think about on Fastnacht days up there. I don't even like them that much. They're just prepubescent creme-filled doughnuts. But when they're not around, it drives a man insane. ....podcast. Him: I really want one...I remember eating about five last year, and I hadn't eaten a Fastnacht since the last Fasnacht day, in fact, it was the only donut related thing I had eaten all year. I asked a girl I was talking to last night if she knew what TastyKake was and she stared at me with the blankest of expressions. I couldn't even properly describe the peanut butter tandycakes...and yes, PODCAST. Someone asked him what Fastnacht Day is. His response: Only a day in which everyone literally hands you delicious powdered donuts. You basically eat about twenty at a time with powdered sugar running down your face,and the sugar becomes entrenched in the fabrics of your clothes. You want to feel bad for eating them, but you cannot because it was worth it. Wash it down with a cool glass of milk and the smile will not flee from thy face for many moons. I miss that kid.

About a Bird

Sat, 02 Feb 2013 01:36:39 GMT

The Super Bowl, "The Big Game" sits like a turkey glistening in the oven on Thanksgiving morning, tempting many a hungry child with its promises of indulgence. Society, its mouth incorrigibly watering, has picked at the plucked bird. It has yanked out the gizzards -- homophobic tirades and drug accusations and mashed together enough filling -- pretty much everything else -- to last until Christmas. It has prepped side dishes of celebrity spunk, of press conferences yielding impromptu renditions of the national anthem, of advertisers tripping over each other to promote their million-dollar promotions. It has set the table, carting out broken-down body after broken-down body of the heroes of Super Bowls past, inviting them to flow with songs of empty praise and a chance to plug their products and charity events.

But society always keeps one eye on the bird browning to perfection as the throw-away seconds melt around the holiday. With great anticipation, it waits for the moment the turkey, in all its juicy glory, hits the table. It waits for kickoff, the pinnacle of sports and culture. It waits for a feast of Americana.

Society has no time to congregate at the table in unison. No time, that is, except for the Super Bowl. For four hours, everyone takes a bite of the bird. Generations gather together, from across the political spectrum and the pay scale. At the feast, the only language is football, and even the least-trained tongue can find a reason to savor the turkey's juicy goodness.

No, the turkey isn't the healthiest of meals. Too much can ruin the heart. Ignoring, say, the green beans beckons unfavorable consequences. But once a year, when society gathers around the glistening bird, participating in the pinnacle of sport and gorging on the tasty fat of culture, it's enough of a reason to give thanks.

The Room Project

Tue, 29 Jan 2013 19:20:10 GMT

The clothes lie, wrinkled and crumpled, dirty and clean, old, new, recently worn and long forgotten, in various piles on an unvacuumed floor. They share space with empty water bottles and naked DVDs, curled-up belts and cords for electronic chargers, all under an artificial Christmas tree wearing out its welcome on a 50-degree day in late January.

The room -- my room -- draws cliches from the half-open drawers spewing unfolded clothes in the corner dresser. Pigsty. Disaster zone. Mess. Fundamentally, though, the room is me. It's pieces of my life -- artifacts and symbols and attachments -- strewn about in a very-real metaphor for the lack of direction, a lack of confidence, I've been feeling for quite some time.

It's been more than 20 months since I've moved back into this room -- one I've occupied since the middle of my high-school years. But I don't feel 'settled' here. Coming home from school, I literally threw boxes, books and decorations -- my room's personal touches -- into a corner and left them there. Working 15 hours most days, I rarely have time to organize, settle, or even put away clothes as I transition from one job to the other to a workout to the rare time slots friendly to sleep.

I haven't given myself time to keep up.

The room hasn't reeked of chaos the entire time, of course. On occasion, I'll tidy the clothes, clean off the top of the dresser, pick up everything off of the floor. When Talbot used to visit, I'd spend hours over days cleaning and vacuuming, making sure everything felt fit to house someone so special to me. I was proud of my room, proud of myself, when everything felt in place.

But things ... changed. The drop in confidence, combined with the draining routine of two jobs and the desperate running around to spend time with another friend leaving (though, only in a geographic sense) has left my room in a state of neglect, a state of chaos.

It's time for a change.

Maybe it's not so dramatically linked to my personal confidence. If I clean up my clothes, for instance, it might not rid me of all the uncertainty and self-doubt I'm feeling right now. But I am a believer in a "look good, feel good" attitude. If I work hard into fixing something externally, something so personal and present, I think it could help me feel a little better internally.

And so, this is The Room Project.

I want to take the time and energy to take the room and make i my oom. I want to clean it, organize it and add the flair and personality it's been lacking. I want to use this project as something to look forward to, something I can invest in, something I can look back on and take pride in. I want something to call my own, something to show off. Now, I don't always have the time and energy, and I definitely don't have the money that I'll have to put into it, but this is an investment. Easter falls at the end of March, and I'd like to have everything in place by then.

And, as I go, I want to document it here in this blog, writing about my experiences (and frustrations, probably) and taking those pieces of my life -- those articles and attachments -- and sharing them because what's a major personal project if not a writing prompt?

I don't know where this is going to end. This could be another project I'll fall short on or abandon, but I think it's worth the time. It's worth the energy and the money. Wish me luck. Read along if you'd like, and join my as I turn the room and its chaos into my room.

To Be Continued...

Thu, 10 Jan 2013 05:55:35 GMT

I have so, so much to write. So much that I want to write. Here's something I jotted down before heading off to job two tonight. It's a killer lede to a reflection I want to write on the Baseball Hall of Fame Voting. I want to sit down and hammer out the rest. I have a solid ending and some good ideas to build on. But, until then, this is what I've got.

There's no joy in Mudville today. None in San Francisco or Los Angeles or Baltimore or New York, either. Clouds, very literal, hang over a secular shrine in the middle of New York state, and a joyless echo, very figurative, rings out fromMudville’s enizens circa 1888 to the Diaspora of modern-day baseball fanatics, rumbling through the valleys, rattling in the dells, knocking upon the mountains and recoiling upon the flats of modern America.

Today, mighty Casey struck out -- a whole generation o Caseys, to be precise, were denied their rightful place in the Hall of Fame with a lack of votes, but not in judgments, cast by members of the Baseball Writers’ Association of America.

Bonds and Clemens. Sosa and McGwire [...]

Whisper in the wisps of winter

Wed, 28 Nov 2012 01:43:54 GMT

The wisps of winter danced around the downtown corners, riding a late-November breeze and carrying a distinct chill -- a more tangible sign of the season than the chorus of "O Holy Night" buzzing in my mind and warming my bones beneath a windbreaker pullover. A waxing moon hung over the dark city streets, illuminating the city streets gone dark and tranquil on a lazy Sunday afternoon.

A man rounded the corner joining Queen and Orange streets, across from the pharmacy in its early slumber, past the corner bar and its empty chairs and tables. The breeze wrapped itself around him and then slithered my way, carrying a faint waft of alcohol. As the leaves rattled along the cold sidewalk, a police car rolled along Orange, humming its way through an uneventful patrol.

I strolled past the man, past darkened storefronts -- of hair stylists and pottery workshops and banks -- and turned onto Prince where southbound traffic sliced through the breeze on its way out of the city under the waxing moon.
A man in his late twenties/early thirties stood on the sidewalk halfway down Prince, looking out toward the sharp neon light crawling up the art school. Or was it affixed to the 150-year-old opera house advertising "Singin' in the Rain" on its bulb-framed marquee?

"Excuse me. Sir?"

A voice reached out from beyond the man, from a bench tucked across the way of art school and the opera house, in the shadows of an ice cream parlor open for business and irony on a cold, quiet November evening. That voice limped its way along the slight breeze, joining the leaves' rattle and the traffic's hum, gently displacing the holiday refrains reverberating in my cognizance.

The voice belonged to a young woman, late teens/early twenties, not much younger or older than myself. Her dirty-blonde hair curled out from underneath a gray hood sprouting from a red jacket. She sat with her arms folded, her legs crossed inside a pair of weathered jeans. A hungry gaze flowing from her pair of round green eyes.

"Do you have a doller," she mumbled into the late afternoon, "Or fifty cents?"

The question jutted out among the ambient noise on the lazy Sunday afternoon, catching me off-guard in my downtown stroll. I had a dollar, and probably some change, to spare. But I fumbled through my pockets for half a second. My voice dropped as another light breeze picked up and carried winter farther down the road.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I don't."

One of the rules I live by is to never assume anything about anyone. I've been taught to give and treat and exercise compassion without judgment. Last year, I drove a man 25 miles from the train station to a dilapidated house off a road by the river (a story I'll tell some other day). In this case, with a girl sitting on a bench across from the art school and the opera house, I simply froze.

Another slight breeze nudged me, but not without a shiver, toward the cafe about 10 yards from where the girl sat and asked for a dollar or 50 cents. On my way to work, I planned to stop for a hot drink, a caramel macchiato or something to keep me warm and awake through an evening shift at the sports desk.

I placed an order -- for a medium hot maple latte off the seasonal menu -- and sat on a stool at a long high table in front of the cafe's fireplace.

Embraced by the warmth of the building's heat and the friendly chatter -- of girlfriends discussing their weekends in the middle of the room and a pair of older couples sitting down for sandwiches and a study session at one of the tables along the cafe's huge front windows -- I decided I needed to go back to that bench. Hey, I found some change, I'd say, out there under the waxing moon. I set a whole dollar outside my wallet in my back pocket, saving it for her. I'd hand her that dollar and all the coins in my pocket, coins that would click against each other as the leaves rattled and the traffic hummed by on my walk.

The minutes marched by. The number four sat on a card in a stem, signaling the waiters. On the walls hung paintings no doubt produced by the students from the art school across the street. The staff made rounds through the cafe, handing out hot teas and grilled sandwiches and milkshakes topped with mounds of whipped cream.

Maybe she'd like one of these drinks, I thought of the girl. I wondered where she came from. What she needed the money for. What she thought of the cafe's patrons sliding in and out of the building, huge windows and all, while she sat there and asked strangers if they had a dollar or fifty cents to spare.

The longer I waited, the more anxious I became.

Finally, a waiter handed me a medium maple latte. I thanked him, as he took the card back to the counter, and headed out into the chill of the afternoon breeze.

She was gone.

The bench sat there, empty, under the waxing moon.

I took a few more steps in that direction. I don't know why. A big shaggy black dog, tethered to a middle-aged woman in tennis shoes, walked down Prince Street. After they passed, I turned and followed their pace.

I don't regret not giving my dollar or fifty cents to the girl, but I find it amazing just how much I can learn on a walk downtown under a waxing moon when I listen to the leaves rustling and the traffic humming and the voices of people fading in and out of my peripheral as the wisps of winter dance along my path.

Get Committed

Fri, 16 Nov 2012 04:32:35 GMT

"American Horror Story" continues to kill it in season two (a review -- I haven't done one of these in a while)

The producers of FX’s “American Horror Story” found themselves trapped. Their show, a genre-bending horror drama starring a dysfunctional family stuck in a haunted house, carved its way to a juggernaut status. With a cinematic feel, a brilliant cast (including Jessica Lange in an Oscar-winning performance) and an enthralling plot twists and story developments, AHS revolutionized the basic-cable weekly drama.

But the story played out, the Harmons completed their downfall, and the network went all-in on a season two.

After reinventing the horror genre, “American Horror Story” was forced to reinvent itself – with new characters, a new story and a bar set higher than expected. The challenge drove the writers and producers to a mental institution.

Literally.

Welcome to Briarcliff, site of “American Horror Story: Asylum,” (Wednesdays, 10 p.m.) where a frankenstein’s monster of a show makes the roller coaster that was season one look like a swan boat’s sojourn through the pastoral tunnel of love.

With the Harmon family put out of (or eternally damned within) its misery, Lange steps out of the good neighbor role she played in season one and assumes the lead role in “Asylum” as Sister Jude, a hard-talking Irish Catholic nun in charge of the institution in its 1964 setting.

Or, Lange receives top billing, anyway.

The real lead character is Briarcliff itself. As with season one’s “Murder House,” the asylum steals the show. It stands alone as a grandiose stage in a wildfire of fictional mayhem, weaving the characters’ stories together to form a grotesque quilt designed to suffocate and entertain an audience.

Briarcliff’s “patients” – chronic masturbators, concussion-hungry masochists and one girl with microcephaly -- bleed into the background and enhance the bizarre setting while three occupy major story arcs. Actor Evan Peters trades his role as Tate, the apparition of a mass-murdering dreamboat from season one, and enters “Asylum” as Kit Walker, a gas-station worker accused of killing his wife despite his pleas – and some peculiar evidence – that their home was raided by aliens. Joining him are Grace (Lizzie Brochere), accused of murdering her stepfather and mother, and Lana Winters (Sarah Paulson), a lesbian journalist committed after sneaking into Briarcliff with consent from her girlfriend blackmailed by Sister Jude.

The dangers and insecurities permeate the asylum but extend beyond its walls. Fleash-eating creatures, “experiments” of insane house doctor Arthur Arden (James Cromwell), and a boogeyman called Bloodyface – a head-and-skin-removing woman murderer believed by some to be Kit – remain at large.

The characters interact, and their stories collide, in a wretched arrangement on a dark and sinister canvas. “Asylum” borrows all of the best tropes and clichés from the horror genre and mashes them together. The show maintains an authentic horror feel while going over the top in all cases. An innocent nun suffers from demonic possession. The doctor hacks into and amputates patients. There are exorcisms and nightmares. There are shower scenes and stabbings and more than enough skeletons in closets, gallons of blood and at least one gross-out, stomach-churning moment per scene.

Going over the top, though, risks distracting the audience from some of the great writing and acting. At Briarcliff, an eloquent Lange monologue feels out-of-place in an hour filled with guts and screams. Some of the intense scenes, including the ones highlighting violence toward women, can turn off viewers.

But as stomachs twist, so do the plotlines. The stories crawl along, developing and changing direction several times per episode. They keep the audience on the edge of its collective seat as the characters lean against a rusty, grizzly blade of drama. For every one question answered, a few more pop up. For every loose end tied up, several more sprout, leaving the audience writing to see the next chapter but needing the whole week to recover from an overload of gloom and gore.

Maybe “Asylum” didn’t reinvent itself from the series’ first season. Perhaps it just slapped on a mask – perhaps one made of a Bloodyface victim’s skin – turned up the violence and gore, and moved into a setting with more complex possibilities. No longer trapped, the producers and writers of “American Horror Story: Asylum,” and the talented cast have the audience locked up in a holding cell in Briarcliff, a too-close-for-comfort seat to watch unspeakable stunts and scenes unfold every Wednesday.

But that audience, most of us, wouldn’t want it any other way.

Storm

Tue, 30 Oct 2012 03:40:38 GMT

Less than forty-eight hours before Halloween night, a real-life spook settles in the volatile air above the county. The first thing you notice out there, caught in its dangerous aura, is what's not there.

Traffic.

There was no traffic slithering up Willow Street Pike, no parade of taillights looking back on the city shrinking into the horizon, no set of red eyes hiding stories of nights out at the bars or stints at art galleries or visits with aunts and uncles.

The bar was closed. The Dirty Ol' Tavern, just off the bridge, hid in the shadows. Every night, you dive past it, out of the city and onto the bridge and home. You see the sign, 'The Dirty Ol' Tavern,' a beacon glowing white as your taillights watch it fade in the distance. Every night, you pass it. You read the sign. You know it's there.

Not tonight.

Tonight, it looked like an old building, a structure of stone lurking in the shadows. The sign was not lit, and it glowed red as you drove past.

These are the things you notice in a real-life spook.

About a mile and a half up the road, you pass the McDonald's at your left. Open 24 hours. Every night, you see a stream of taillights, of eyes glowing red with the stories of hungry drive-through patrons.

Not tonight.

Tonight, the building looks cold and empty, a roadside cave with the glowing golden arches.

And nothing else.

You continue up the pike, as bands of rain dash along the puddled road in front of you. The trees dance as if possessed. The leaves -- brown and orange and red and green -- whip around among the thick raindrops.

You pull onto your road, past the canvas of shedded pine needles, past parked taillights gone dark. You see your house. It's there. Lights on. The same as it is every night.

And you breathe a sigh of relief.

If we all have an extensive fear of something, a fear not necessary irrational but perhaps somewhat exaggerated, then I have an extensive fear of weather.

I've always had it, at least as much as I can remember, and I don't know of one specific original trigger. My mom was afraid of thunderstorms when she was a girl. She hid under tables, to her siblings' collective chagrin, until the bangs and rumbles subsided. Maybe I inherited it from her.

I remember melting down as a toddler, crying and shouting because of the weather. Each strong gust of wind, I feared, would turn into a tornado. Each drop of rain, I believed, was feeding an inevitable flood.

One of my dad's softball games took place on a sunny but blustery day. I cried and screamed the whole time. To this day, I still feel uneasy when I hear wind rustling the trees and bushes.

The wind.

I got out of my car tonight. My first step out of the car -- my dad's car because mine was too low on gas to risk it -- was into a surprising stillness.

Then a howl came ripping through the trees to the east, a stream vaulting over the houses in my neighborhood toward me. The trees to my left and my right joined, and I was enveloped in the vocal vestiges of a hurricane.

That howling kept me awake, almost the entire night, last year when a hurricane hit. I'm a worrier. I think too much. With every strong gust, I pictured a hefty branch snapping loose and whipping itself into my room. I envisioned the big tree in my front yard leaning with each heavy drop of rain and, with a heavy brush from a surge of wind, slamming into our dining room.

None of this happened, of course.

To me.

After this storm, we'll hear the number. Dozens of millions of people without power. Hundreds of deaths. Hundreds of thousands without homes.

I know someone whose family lost everything in tonight's storm. My worst fears played out for someone else.

For this storm -- this Frankenstorm, this Hurricane Sandy -- I didn't worry so much, though. I've endured enough storms, throwing a temper tantrum through plenty of them, to know what they're all about. They still make me uncomfortable -- I have no idea how much, or even if I'll sleep tonight.

But I know I'll survive. Tomorrow, or maybe the next day, Halloween, the skies will settle. The boisterous wind will shrink to a whisper. The trees will settle back into a winter-bound slumber. The Dirty Ol' Tavern will resume its friendly glow. The McDonald's will heat up once again. The neighborhood will come alive once again.

And the taillights will, once again, slither up Willow Street Pike, keeping stories of the people who survived the storm.

A running commentary

Fri, 26 Oct 2012 01:01:48 GMT

I covered a big cross-country meet yesterday. Which means I stood in the sun on an 80-degree October afternoon for five hours and six races. I like cross-country, though. It's a niche sport. The athletes and coaches and parents and followers don't expect you to cover them, but they appreciate when you do. If nothing else, runners are probably the most honest athletes you can interview.

Other than the unusual heat, the thing I remember most is the smell. It was a blend of wet grass, Porta Potty, sweat, vomit and ... chocolate (it was in Hershey, after all, and I swear a strong enough breeze could carry some cocoa wafts over the course). It wasn't a pleasant blend -- not like one of those new-fad "man candles" (by the way, I want one of those) -- but it was certainly unique.

The running community itself is unique, and a large contingent showed its support at the meet. If there's one thing runners love as much as running, it's embracing that love of running. And then telling people about it. The result?

T-shirts.

I'm a sucker for puns and witticisms. All sports teams come up with their own, but it seems like these runners believe them more than most athletes. I loved observing the running community, and I picked out my five favorite T-shirts from the day.

5. "The mean .. the quick ... the mentally sick."
4. "Confidence is going after Moby Dick in a rowboat and taking the tartar sauce with you."
3. "We're XC and we know it."
2. "Running won't kill you ... you'll pass out first."

Those were all from the meet. I discussed these shirts with my fellow agateers at the office, and one of my coworkers shared this one, and it immediately moved into the number-one spot:

1. "Our sport is your sport's punishment."

McGraw and Jennings brought Bona flavor to major leagues

Thu, 25 Oct 2012 04:53:26 GMT

This story was originally published in the Oct. 20 edition of The Bona Venture, part of a sports history series I put together as the paper's sports editor. Since most of the online archives are lost -- or very, very hard to find -- I figured I'd post this one here. Tonight, the 2012 World Series kicked off. The San Francisco Giants defeated the Detroit Tigers in Game One. Both teams have ties to John McGraw and Hugh Jennings, two St. Bonaventure legends. Enjoy.

Their storied baseball careers intertwined as they journeyed together, through amateur ball and the major leagues, up the coaching ranks and into the hallowed halls at Cooperstown.

Their legacy remains preserved, in name and in spirit, on the grounds they walked at Bonaventure more than a century ago.

Father James Dolan brought John McGraw and Hugh Jennings to Bonaventure, but the two ballplayers brought Bonaventure to Major League Baseball.

They helped revolutionize the game as managers with their strategic intelligence and their ability to deal with people. McGraw managed the talent-laden New York Giants for 30 years, coaching the team to 10 National League pennants and three World Series titles. Before joining McGraw’s staff in 1924, Jennings managed the Detroit Tigers for 14 seasons, earning three American League pennants.

But they both learned the game in St. Bonaventure’s Alumni Hall, under makeshift batting cages in the offseason during their playing days with the Baltimore Orioles.

In 1890, Dolan sought out McGraw after the shortstop made several errors in a semi-professional game in Olean, according to Matthew Gianiodis in his 1992 thesis, “John McGraw: Bonaventure’s_____” Dolan, considered the father of St. Bonaventure Atlhetics, encouraged McGraw to pursue an education. In 1892, Dolan convinced St. Bonaventure’s president, Fr. James Butler, to let McGraw enroll and serve as the baseball club’s “coacher.”

From 1892 to 1895, McGraw attended Bonaventure classes in the fall and winter, coached and played baseball in the spring and played professional ball with the Baltimore Orioles. In Baltimore, he discussed his Bonaventure experiences with Jennings. Although the two men competed to play the same position (shortstop), they developed a bond. According to the 1908 Laurel, Jennings said, ‘(McGraw) was enthusiastic about his life and studies at Bona(venture), and that was the first thing he talked to me about.’”

Jennings followed his teammate to Bonaventure in 1894. Gianiodis wrote about another other Orioles players interested in the school.

“According to Joe Broderik, who was the team secretary of St. Bonaventure under McGraw, Joe Kelly and “Wee” Willie Keeler, both Hall of Famers, were supposed to come to Bonaventure that next season, but for some unknown reason, never came,” he wrote.

Jennings, on the other hand, contributed to The Laurel and, in 1908 donated an award to the school for a student showing excellence in History in rhetoric class, Gianiodis wrote.

In the classroom, McGraw and Jennings took different approaches. McGraw preferred working with sandlot players to collegiate minds, Gianiodis wrote, and he did not talk about his studies. McGraw did show an interest in William Shakespeare. In 1916, McGraw’s Giants signed and presented him with a copy of Shakespeare’s complete works to pay tribute to the team’s 26-game winning streak, a major league record.

McGraw did not mention his studies, but according to Gianiodis, McGraw “became a thinker of sorts in baseball, applying the analysis he learned in school to the playing field in the big leagues.”

He also learned how to deal with people at Bonaventure, managing people his age.

“Though most of the players that John was in charge of were basically the same age as he, he never had trouble establishing who was in charge,” Gianiodis wrote.

In the 1926 Laurel, Jennings reflected on his time coaching at Bonaventure with McGraw.

“Coaching at St. Bonaventure was extremely pleasant,” he wrote. “There is much more fun in teaching collegians than trying to teach the sandlotters.”

McGraw and Jennings both taught others to hit and practiced their own swings in Alumni Hall, building chicken-wire batting cages and hitting the ball under poor lighting and low ceilings.

Gianiodis wrote about “The Baltimore Chop,” a technique McGraw and Jennings developed at Bonaventure. They learned fleet-footed batters could drive the ball into the ground, inducing a high bounce to give them time to run to first base. McGraw and Jennings brought this to the Baltimore Orioles and found success with it in the majors.

During Major League Baseball’s one-league days, McGraw and Jennings’ Orioles won three pennants (1884, 1895, 1896) and finished second twice (1897, 1898). According to a 1990 College Baseball publication, McGraw batted .334 in 16 major-league seasons, including a .394 campaign with the Orioles in 1899. Jennings batted .359 in seven years with the Orioles, according to baseball-reference.com.

Jennings remains the all-time career hit-by-pitch (287). According to the May 1, 1948 Bona Venture, Jennings was hit by a pitch 40 times in one season.

“As a result of one bean ball, he was unconscious for 36 hours,” The Bona Venture reported.

Outside the batter’s box, Jennings received attention as a prolific shortstop on the field.

According to The Bona Venture, “Chicago newspapers tell how Jennings in a game there dove over the heads of spectators to catch a fly ball, caught it and threw a man out at home plate.”

The two continued their influential careers in baseball as managers. In 1905, Jennings took up an offer to coach at Cornell University while he studied law there. Not long after, the Orioles hired him as their manager. In 1907, he took the job with the Tigers.

Jennings’ managerial career almost crossed McGraw’s in the 1908 World Series. The Tigers won the pennant, but McGraw’s Giants lost the National League on a technicality, as rookie Fred Merkle left the base=path to celebrate the winning run over the Cubs. The Giants only would have tied the game with the run, though, and the recorded out erased it.

Despite Merkle’s mistake in 1908, McGraw’s Giants reflected their manager’s intelligent strategy. McGraw is credited with developing the hit-and-run, a practice common in baseball today.

McGraw’s strategic mind met a temper focused on winning, and the two elements built McGraw into a charismatic figure. He forced the second-ever World Series into postponement in 1904 because of a feud with Ban Johnson, the American League’s president at the time.

“The Giants will not play a post-season series with the American League champions,” McGraw said, according to John Carney. “When we clinch the N.L. Pennant, we will be the champions of the only real major league.”

According to Carney, the Oakland Athletics’ mascot’s genesis derived from a quote from McGraw. He called Connie Mack’s Athletics, then playing in Philadelphia, “a bunch of white elephants.”

McGraw himself hated the name “Mugsy,” a name baseball reporter Fred Lieb gave him.

He also went by “Little Napolean” for his stature and his stubborn demeanor.

According to a column by Mike Richman for UPI, “He was shrewd, foxy shrewd, combative and rougher than five miles of rocky road. Everything about him was a mark of his trade, from his general manager to the crow’s feet around his eyes to his bow legs.”

Without the charisma or noteriety of McGraw, Jennings built his own reputation as a major league manager. His “Ee-yah!” exclamation in the dugout gave him recognition, and he earned the praise of players like Ty Cobb, The Bona Venture reported.

Both men entered the

Despite their success, neither McGraw or Jennings forgot their days at Bonaventure.

On May 21, 1905, Jennings brought his Orioles to play the team at Bonaventure in front of 2,349 fans.

“From the time that Umpire Cawley, who rendered indisputable decisions, called ‘Play Ball’ till the last collegiate had been retired, the game never lacked in brilliant and exciting plays,” The Laurel reported. The Orioles won the game 4-3, but lost their third baseman, Mike Lynch, on a Bonaventure attempt to turn a double play.”

In 1927, the school dedicated its new baseball field, on what is now the space between Plassmann Hall and The Reilly Center, to McGraw and Jennings. For the June 1 dedication, McGraw brought his Giants to scrimmage against the school’s team in front of 7,000 people.

The Giants won 11-2, but the Sept. 4, 1954 Olean Times Herald recounted a story involving Bonaventure pitcher Hank Bajeki, smiling after he struck out seven-time batting champion Rogers Hornsby.

“What the (expletive) are you laughing at?” Hornsby asked. “I’ve been struck out by better (expletive) than you will ever be.”

McGraw and Jennings met once again in Cooperstown. McGraw entered the Baseball Hall of Fame in 1937, and Jennings was inducted in 1939, the year after he lost his battle with Meningitis.

While the careers of McGraw and Jennings met time and time again, their legacy as Bonaventure still holds its presence on McGraw-Jennings Field, relocated behind the Reilly Center in 1958.

Whirlwind of a Weekend

Wed, 24 Oct 2012 04:43:58 GMT

It started with claps of thunder and isolated tornadoes and postponed high school football games. And work. It ended with work, too, and the middle consisted of a whole bunch of work. But between the shifts and the winds and the claps of thunder, I found moments of peace, kernels of happiness, scattered about my path like the fallen leaves.

Friday night, after a string of storms bombarded the county and the football games that survived on the slate went final, I went to a bar with a pretty girl. We shared drinks -- beer and hard cider and what seemed like a flat rum and Coke -- and stories and smiles, soaking in the atmosphere from a booth we commandeered under the dim pub lights and watching inebriated undergrads saunter along on another weekend night of debauchery.

Saturday, on three hours of sleep, I endured a five-hour shift in a fast-food kitchen, showered and drove to Hershey, stopping at a friend's house along the way. The friend is planning a move to San Francisco in January, throwing all of himself at his dreams of landing a career in animation. I'll miss having the guy around, but his commitment to this is admirable, if not inspiring. Saturday, he threw all of his stuff -- graphic novels, DVDs, even some illustrations of his -- into boxes and hosted a yard sale to pick up some extra cash.

I didn't buy anything, but I'm glad I stopped.

Aside from the trek to Bona's, Ol' St. Bona's, my favorite drive is the one to Hershey, the site of the district tennis doubles final I covered. It was one of the first "big drives" I could make without a map or directions. It's not too far from Lancaster -- maybe 25 miles -- and you get a little bit of everything. As I got off the exit to Hershey, I looked, dumbfounded, at the glow of the trees lining the road. It's peak foliage time here, and while the sights aren't quite as majestic as the mountains in northern Pennsylvania, they work wonders on a quixotic soul.

I watched two sets of tennis matches Sunday, interviewed coaches and players, and wrote the story from the fanciest Subway I ever stepped into. The restaurant looked like a cafe. It had a mounted flat-screen TV surrounded by cushioned chairs, sets of high tables and chairs, and the standard booths.As I wrote, a zombie and a pirate walked past my table, two children in costume, perhaps on their way to Hersheypark.

The restaurant didn't, however, have Internet access.

Because the racquet club manager is stingy with the wifi password -- even to a reporter promising to only use the Internet to send a story -- I sat in the parking lot of a free-wifi restaurant I frequent to email the editor. On the drive home, I felt exhausted but accomplished. This is what I want to do. These are the kinds of afternoons I want to have. Even though I'm only part-time at a newspaper, and stuck with a second job and tons of debt from student loans, I'm getting a taste of what all of my efforts can deliver.

I like the taste a lot.

After stopping in the office to check in with the editor, I met another old friend celebrating his birthday. He rounded up almost a dozen of us, and we went out to play laser tag. I stunk at the game, working up quite a sweat in the humid, foggy arena, but I had a good time. Some of the members of our group came up with creative aliases to use in the game, names like Dixie Normous that could have offended the female employee refereeing our game.

She took it in stride, though, which was a relief.

Finally, today I double-shifted, working the early morning at McDonald's and capping my weekend with a stint on the sports desk. On my way to the office, on the road through town, I watched the spectacle of the autumn season unfold. Full from a bowl of my mom's warm chicken pot pie -- it's a soup, you know, and not actually a pie. And it's delicious -- I could feel the chill as the shadows grew along the road around my car. As the sun made its descent, the reds and yellows of the trees glowed even brighter. I have a theory -- and I know it's not true, but I love the image and hope to write more about it some day -- that the leaves turn these colors in the fall, these warm, robust colors, because they soak up the light and heat from the summer sun. That's what I thought about.

Then, of course, that song by Rascal Flats -- "What Hurts the Most" -- came on the radio. Usually, I plug in my iPod on the way to work, but for some reason, I didn't. And that song brought back all the hurt feelings I'd been dealing with below the surface. I'd always hated that song, too. I never understood it. But the chorus -- What hurts the most/was being so close/and havin' so much to say/and watchin' you walk away -- it really hit me. As I fought back tears, I realized where I am.

I'm changing.

Like the leaves on the trees, my feelings and emotions, and my future, all hang there, twisting in the wind. The violent, stormy winds on Friday night. The soft, cool breeze on Sunday. At times, everything looks dark and shrouded. The leaves are dying, after all, and it feels like so much of who I am or what I believe in is going in that direction as well. But there are times, I understand, that things look bright and beautiful. When the sunset hits those changing leaves, lighting them on spectacular, aesthetic fire, those dying leaves, my feelings and beliefs, look more alive than ever.

A cliche rant about politics from a 23-year-old

Wed, 17 Oct 2012 04:54:01 GMT

I know a lot of people complain -- and maybe some of them have a point -- that their votes don't mean anything in the upcoming general election. I disagree, mostly because I want to live in a world enveloped in some kind of idealistic democracy. So it's not that I don't think my vote counts. I think my vote counts. A whole lot.

But it seems like the people running for office don't think so.

I didn't watch the debate tonight. I watched the vice presidential candidates make jackasses of themselves last Thursday, and that was enough. I don't get into politics a whole lot, but even I've seen enough, read enough and heard enough about this race to feel disgusted. It's not quite mudslinging at its worst, and, true, we no longer live in a society that allows important political figures to duel, but the lack of respect these candidates have for each other is horribly unsettling.

One side portrays the other as smug and out-of-touch. But they're both smug and out-of-touch. One side accuses the other of manipulating statistics, but they both do that. There are no Democrats or Republicans. There is no lesser of two evils. There's one evil with multiple features and accessories.

Honestly, if a middle-aged man and a slightly above-middle-aged man can't share a room and hold a reasonable conversation about their differences, what qualifies either to be in charge of the Free World?

But worst of all, I don't feel that either side really cares about me. It's not that I feel that anything should be me-centered. I just wish I got the sense that at least one of the candidates really cared about my concerns or ambitions. When I hear one of them talk, I don't get the sense that he's speaking to me. Or even at me. And that's a problem.

In a few weeks, I want to vote for someone who not only can take responsibility for his actions (and, yes, his mistakes, too), but wants to. I want to vote for someone who considers all the options and viewpoints instead of screaming his own a little bit louder. I want to vote for someone who cares more about making this country great than he does simply winning.

I want to vote for someone who recognizes that my vote counts, that I'm part of the future and that I, as well as the rest of my fellow Americans, deserve a whole hell of a lot better than the sham that is this race.

P.S. Once, just once, could someone running for office say, "Hey, I understand that a lot of people in this country don't have a whole lot. I understand that this country is in a huge debt, and the obscene amount of money getting pumped into this campaign is better used elsewhere. I'm going to donate x campaign funding to y"? Trust me, you don't have to spend millions of dollars to look like a jackass for a couple of months.

Spider

Tue, 18 Sep 2012 05:56:54 GMT

A late-night breeze carries the musty scent of impending rain through the September air. The crickets pump ambient air into the atmosphere with their collective song. In the corner of a small house in the middle of a suburban neighborhood, a spider’s web, influenced by the musty-scented breeze, pulsates with the heartbeat of the evening.

Rocking back and forth, swaying with every slight change in the September breeze does the web, a structure of the same size and shape as the average hubcap. As it dances in the corner of the house, its threads glisten under the house’s outside light, revealing a pattern akin to the rings of a tree trunk.

It’s a trap, of course, an ornate and beautiful trap pulsating in the September breeze before rainfall.

In the middle of the trap, the delicate structure of death, the spider waits.

This spider – a dull orange spider about the size of a half dollar – sits in the middle of its creation. In its genius, this spider built its trap under a light, the perfect spot to catch a moth fluttering its way toward illuminated doom.

As the web rocks back and forth, so, too, does the spider. Bright-orange armbands decorate its hind legs, and charcoal-gray stripes mark its front appendages. Every so often, the breeze picks up, the web rocks, and the spider tightens its grip on its elegant creation. Sometimes, the web loosens, and four of the spider’s legs work, with mechanical speed and precision, to restore its strength.

And then it relaxes. It sits still.

It waits as the heartbeat of the evening rolls along.

The spider twitches as a stray moth zigzags its way in the web’s direction. In fractions of a second, on its orange and charcoal-gray stripes, the spider scurries in anticipation, plotting its strike. At the last instant, before landing on the web’s tree-like rings, the moth peels back, and the spider flinches in hungry frustration.

And then it relaxes. It sits still once again.

It waits as the heartbeat of the evening rolls along.

The rain arrives, a light drizzle growing steady. Soon, the web glistens with moisture under the house’s outside light. It grows heavy with each drop of rain that pelts its surface. The spider grows hungry.

A hole springs in the web, severing several of the tree-like rings. The spider springs into action, Two of its legs hold ends of the broken thread, and two more roll around the spider’s body as it ejects more building material.

After repairing one end, the spider rushes to another, applying the same desperation as the rain continues. When it completes its patchwork, the rain softens. The breeze slows, and the spider returns to the center of its web.

And then it relaxes. It sits still.

It waits as the heartbeat of the evening rolls along.

Limbo to "Let's go!"

Thu, 13 Sep 2012 05:27:10 GMT

The mammoth Liberty Bell-shaped structure beyond right-center field rocked back and forth, flashing its red, white and blue lights into a muggy late-August night in south Philadelphia. Metallica's "For Whom the Bell Tolls" blared from the PA speakers at Citizens Bank Park. The late Harry Kalas appeared on the video scoreboard in left field and serenaded what remained of the 44,256 in attendance with his signature rendition of "High Hopes."

Before the literal bells and whistles, the lights and tunes and the baritone voice, the Philadelphia Phillies dispatched the Washington Nationals, 4-2, that night. They gave their ace, Roy Halladay, two runs in the first, and in the sixth, John Mayberry blasted the first pitch he saw -- a fastball from Cy Young Award candidate Gio Gonzalez -- into the left-field stands for a solo home run.

They added a run in the eighth after Chase Utley was hit by a pitch as the lead-off hitter. He stole second. And third. And he scored on a sacrifice fly. In the ninth, Jonathan Papelbon struck out two of the three batters he faced.

Bells. Lights. High hopes.

The Phillies, with that win Aug. 25, improved to 60-67 on the season.

It was a season marred by injuries and a patchwork bullpen and a steady march toward the unofficially official end to The Golden Age of Phillies baseball. Less than a month before the Aug. 25 win over the Nationals, the Phillies jettisoned two-thirds of their outfield in Hunter Pence and Shane Victorino. They placed Carlos Ruiz, by far their best performing player, on the disabled list. They called up their minor leaguers, the embattled Domonic Brown, the veteran Erik Kratz, the low-profile Kevin Frandsen.

They threw in the towel on 2012, threw in the rally towel that had waved and whipped through five consecutive postseasons from 2007-11. Instead of raising another championship flag -- one like the five division banners and the two National League pennants and the red '2008' flag that symbolized a World Series crown -- they raised a white one, telling the fans to sit tight and hope for next year.

On that muggy night in August, the fans convened in the park. They drove through a light rain. They met on the concourse. They heckled Jayson Werth, an outfielder for the first-place Nationals who offered him greener pastures, or at least a greener wallet. They met up on Ashburn Alley, chatting about that Foles character who looks like he can quarterback for the team playing across the street.

For them, it was Aug. 25, another day of the 162-day baseball schedule. For the first time in half a decade, they had no hopes, let alone high ones, for a postseason berth. Their team sat 17.5 games behind the Nationals in the National League's East Division and 9.5 games behind the Cardinals -- and several games behind a handful of other teams -- for the second wild card, an extra playoff spot new to 2012.

Two and a half weeks after that win over the Nationals, the Liberty Bell at Citizens Bank Park rocked back and forth, "For Whom the Bell Tolls" blared from the PA speakers and Harry Kalas sang "High Hopes" after Papelbon struck out three Miami Marlins to seal another Phillies victory. It was their ninth win in 11 games, their seventh in a row, and it improved their record to 72-71, above the .500 line for the first time since early June. Coupled with a Cardinals loss at San Diego, the win also brought the Phillies to within three games of the wild card with 19 games to play.

In less than three weeks, baseball limbo turned into a heated race. The Phillies, battling four teams in front of them -- teams in current free-falls -- are alive, and the hopes have reached a season high.

-- I planned to write more, but I'll cut it off here for the night --

Let Freedom Ring, Not Hate

Tue, 11 Sep 2012 16:29:44 GMT

The following is a column I wrote for The BV's online edition, one addressing Bin Laden's death and the public's reaction. It's the last piece of writing I submitted to the paper I gave four years to, and it's one of the pieces I'm most proud of. A few weeks ago, I tried to find it while a friend and I discussed the new book about the night Osama Bin Laden was killed, but The BV's archives are down. So I'll post it here on Sept. 11 as food for thought and a request to find some perspective while "We Remember."

***

We can roll our flags, with pride, out the window. We can pound our chests and send patriotic chants through the spring air. We can say we finished what he started in the clear blue skies of a Tuesday afternoon in September almost 10 years ago.

But we’d be lying.

Osama Bin Laden’s death at the hands of U.S. forces at a compound in Pakistan last night stirred the nation from a Sunday slumber and aroused an evil in millions of people pining on the chance to damn another human being in a public forum.

Yes, that human being admitted to orchestrating the most heinous attack on American soil. Yes, that human being embodied the worldview and attitude we battle on a daily basis. Yes, that human being asked for some kind of retribution, some kind of answer, to the unthinkable crimes he so shamelessly attached his name to.

No matter how we shape our darts or direct our bile, no matter how invigorated or inspired we feel to hurl our uncensored, uninhibited emotions at a corpse halfway across the world, the conflict within ourselves and in the world at large remains.

The death of one of the most notorious criminals in global history assumes significance, and the fragile psyche of the American population can and should sleep easier knowing the demon in its peripheral for the last 10 years no longer walks this earth. But if that demon still exists in our minds, if he still incites a slew of curses and overt messages of hate from the American public, how much does a NAVY Seal’s bullet augment our position in the War on Terror?

Does last night’s news bear meaning to the millions who suffered on 911? Yes. Does it provide a measure of relief to a country entrenched in war and stymied with financial crises? Yes. Does it offer a hint of closure to a nation stricken with grief and in desperate need of a rallying point? Absolutely.

Our military scored a victory last night, announcing the successful execution of a plan a decade in the making. Our fine president delivered the news with precision and power, his confident words punctuating hopeful speculation with stirring reality, his reasoning focused and deliberate.

But just as President Obama separated our attitude toward the Muslim religion and culture from our vendetta against global terrorism, we, too, must make the effort to separate our patriotism and pride from the hideous temptations to dance on the blood spilled from a human life, no matter how misguided that life served society.

Terrorism feeds off the fervor of a hyper-emotional mob, and through every haughty headline in print and every knee-jerk shot fired from Facebook and Twitter across the Internet’s landscape sustained an attitude not unfamiliar with the level of hatred and disdain certain groups feel for our country.

Last night marked a proud moment in our nation’s history. A mission accomplished. But the larger objectives remain on the proverbial board. As a nation, we must answer the challenges to cultivate an atmosphere of peace with the freedom granted to us. We must use this experience to reach a better understanding of those different from us. We must continue to grow and hold on to the values that help turn us from the hate, both directed at us and through us.

Otherwise, the extremism that took 3,000 lives on 9/11 perpetuates through one more lost life, one more missed opportunity.

As a Franciscan institution, St. Bonaventure University preaches the value of human life, big, small, adored or abhorred. Maybe valuing the life of a man responsible for the murder of thousands exceeds the grasp of our human tendencies. Maybe we can’t forgive Bin Laden or separate the man from his actions. But we owe it to ourselves to try, to ponder it for a second before hurling ill wishes on message boards or on the front page.

Then, maybe, we could roll out our flags, pound our chests and scream our chants of national pride, celebrating our nation’s triumph over evil, our victory over the seeds of hatred planted by people like Osama Bin Laden. Maybe then we’d finish the job.

Maybe then we’d be free.

Two Races, Zero Perspective

Wed, 29 Aug 2012 02:49:07 GMT

Neil Armstrong died over the weekend, and since I've turned listening to talk radio (mostly sports) into a habit, I caught several on-air personalities waxing poetic the space program here in the United States. Pat O'Brien told a story about walking on a beach with Buzz Aldrin one night. Aldrin pointed to the moon hanging over them. "You see that mark on it?" Aldrin asked. "That's where I stood."

Based on the stories I heard, the first moon landing united not only the country, but the entire world during a time of great unrest and tension (not that there's been pax mundi since). A lot of people hitched their hopes for humanity on the wagon that was a rocket ship, and the space race, especially here in the United States, gave us an idea of the limits (or lack of) to what we can do as a society.

NASA canned its Constellation program a couple years ago to mixed reactions. A couple weeks ago, it landed Curiosity on Mars, and that mobile science lab has given us more information about Mars -- that tiny speck you can see on certain nights at certain parts of the year -- than we've ever seen or heard before.

I don't feel anything about Curiosity. We have something unprecedented on Mars -- MARS -- and I haven't so much as raised an eyebrow at it.

It's one of those things that I should keep up with. Or at least pay attention to. Just now, I had to look up Curiosity's name and what made it more significant than any of the other rovers we've landed on Mars. It's ironic that something that once infused Americans with pride and patriotism now feels so foreign to people like me.

Another race that feels foreign is the one for president. As someone who works two jobs to pay off student loans, as someone who wants to own a house and raise a family some day, I should be paying more attention to what's being said in the political arena. But right now, most of my information on political information comes from Jon Stewart and passing references from blogs. Both only point out the laughable issues, and neither make me feel anything but sad about the future of this country. But I'm whimsical enough to feel that I do have a voice in this country and that I can make a difference. And I want to make a difference.

I just need to find some perspective.

An exercise in writing (about exercise)

Sat, 25 Aug 2012 01:09:31 GMT

I've been developing a habit of mentally constructing or writing out parts of entries without seeing them through. It's disappointing to me as a writer, but I think posting what I do manage to create, even if it's incomplete, can encourage me to write more. I didn't quite finish this one. Maybe it's something I'll re-visit later, but I like a lot of the imagery and figure it's worth sharing.

A swath of clouds swirls high above Lancaster County, dancing along an expanse of blue on an afternoon devoid of oppressive humidity. In the distance, summer unleashes a few low rumbles of thunder, its final gasps in the face of an invading chill and the promise of falling leaves.

On this afternoon, the rain falls like autumn leaves. A graceful, non-threatening descent. A far cry from summertime's raucous storms. The drops fall with a measure of courtesy, distancing themselves from one another as they glide from the swirling clouds under an expanse of blue. They speckle the concrete sidewalk lining a street on a hill in generic Lancaster County, each drop landing with a muted pop.

A consistent thud accompanies the raindrops' late-summer symphony, as a pair of running shoes pummels the concrecte sidewalk. Against the rain's gentle fall, I ascend the hill, trying to escape the emotional cacaphony stemming from a summer of nightmares.

The mid-afternoon shadows faded as the clouds overran the expanse of blue toward the end of the first leg of my daily run, but the rain maintained its soft ambience as my mind weathered its own severe storm stemming from an ill-advised venture onto social media earlier in the afternoon.

Notes on Notre Dame

Mon, 20 Aug 2012 19:33:34 GMT

Notre Dame football unveiled its new "one-off" uniforms last week. The uniforms -- to be worn in the Fighting Irish's Oct. 9 "Shamrock Series" game against Miami at Soldier Field -- look pretty simple, save the tradition-obliterating helmets that look like the designers went with one scheme and gave up on it 60 percent of the way through.

Instead of waves, the story made mere ripples to most of us on the fringe of college football fandom. In my office, the older men working scoffted at Notre Dame. "They'll beat up on a bunch of no-name teams to start the season," one reporter said, his voice thickened by disdain, "and they'll be nationally ranked (because of it)." Other people flocked to message boards, calling out the "overrated media darlings" and grumbled about the team's insistence on its own relevance that many think dried up more than a decade ago.

But while people rushed to bash the "Golden Domers," I felt little to no inclination for reacting. In doing so, I realized that the disdain -- and the unconditional others have -- for Notre Dame has itself dried up for my generation.

I'm not a college football guy, and I never was. My mom's side, a big Catholic family, attached itself to the Fighting Irish. My dad is one of many shameless Penn State fans who married into it. The dichotomy made for some wild parties when the two old rivals used to play each other (a tradition that renewed itself a couple years ago, but to less vitriol).

But I never warmed up to the college game. I didn't feel any kind of attachment to any of the big-name schools. I planned to attend college, and I decided I'd submit my gridiron loyalties to wherever I ended up.

I went to a basketball school.

And by then, I realized I'd never buy into college football. I saw the NCAA for what it is, a greedy, power-lusting enterprise that prides itself on deceiving others into thinking it has the moral high ground because its star athletes don't earn a paychech. It exploits talented athletes while pretending it has the moral high ground.

Also, as someone who believes in the purity and passion people have for sports, college football always scared me. I love the idea of sports as an escape, as an example of voyeurism, as a rallying point for small communities and large countries alike, but something always felt wrong about the whole setup of college football, and the recent Penn State scandal brought all of that to the surface in ways that made me feel uncomfortable as a sports fan and a member of the human race.

But this post is about Notre Dame and fan allegiances, and my theory is that people my age are more apathetic about the Fighting Irish than the legions of fans from "back in the day." The biggest reason, in my opinion, is relative impressiveness of the national spotlight. For a long time, Notre Dame was one of the few, if not only, sports teams with a consistent run of national exposure.TV contracts ensured that you'd see the Fighting Irish, their stadium, their golden helmets, weekly. For my mom's family, that was a treat. For others, it was overexposure, something that made Notre Dame seem like a cocky attention whore.

Of course, the money and mystique, the "tradition" that grew from it made Notre Dame successful beyond belief, irritating people even more,

Now, of course, "national TV" doesn't mean what it used to. You can watch almost any college football team play every week live if you want to, and that fails to mention all of the highlights and analysis that gets pumped into ESPN and other sports outlets Sunday through Saturday morning. Now, instead of just building a presence on television, college football programs have to test other gimmicks, such as designing wild and wacky uniforms to impress people, and Notre Dame is finally submitting to that. It's not the same Golden Domer/Rudy/Touchdown Jesus tradition. It's just another football program desperate to grab our attention and coax money from our wallets.

Because of that, because college football has swelled as an evil corporation and dilluted itself over hundreds of different programs that act the same, there are no true villains today. If you're a fan of an SEC team, sure, you hate all the other SEC teams. If you yell, 'Roll Tide" at everyone, you hate Auburn enough to poison trees. But as the mystique of teams like Notre Dame lost its leverage, so, too, did the vitriol against it. There are no New York Yankees or Dallass Cowboys to root against in college football, no chic picks because if you point out the elements that make one team evil, you can easily find those same elements in dozens of others.

That's why, when Notre Dame unveils "one-off" uniforms, people from my generation retweet it or Tumble it or blog about it and then carry on with the rest of our lives without a burning hate in our souls.

On a side note, I mentioned that I don't feel any loyalty to college football teams (unless the Brown Indians make a comeback under the Enchanted Mountains). I am, however, curious enough to watch the continued fallout at State College. I live some three or four hours away, but Penn State football is still THE college headliner -- in any sport -- areound here. Because of the unspeakable evils that happened around that program, and the utterly entitled and hypocritical reaction from the NCAA, things look different. I'm pulling for that team and those student-athletes, not because I am or ever was a shameless Penn Stater, or because I want to see a program with any relation to child sex abuse succeed, or because I think football is important at all in dicussions about any of that. But I do want to see how the program finds its identity and rebuilds itself, how learns from its past and finds ways to right the evils that it inspired.

On another side note, I love the NFL. I couldn't care less about the preseason. I don't lose myself in dissecting the battles for fourth-string right guard or go crazy with excitement when the quarterback drafted in the first round throws a touchdown in his first exhibition game. But the Eagles play the Patriots tonight, and both teams (that are, I should add, very talented) should give their starting lineups significant playing time. I have the night off and can't wait to sit down with a beer or two and get an appetizer for what should be a great NFL season.

Posted via LiveJournal app for iPhone.

Tim's Question of the Day (mint chocolate chip edition)

Mon, 06 Aug 2012 03:48:31 GMT

Famous food pairings work together to placate our demands for the extraordinary. Think about it. With all of the resources we've been given, we're not satisfied consuming just one at a time. We need our combinations. We need to pile on. But the most notable combinations come in pairs. No, not pears. Nothing goes well with pears. It's the peanut butter and jelly, the salt and pepper, the berries and cream that get us going.

But there's another duo out there, a mysterious mixture from the far, icy regions of your grocer's freezer. Two foods - somehow - formed an icy relationship and almost always come as a package deal.

That is, if the package is a carton of ice cream.

Mint chocolate chip ice cream.

The chocolate chip sure has gotten around since it was invented. It was invented -- maybe -- when a man tragically dropped a delicate chocolate bar onto a table, shattering it into tiny pieces. The man, overwhelmed by the heart(/chocolate)break tried one of the shattered choco-pieces and realized it tasted just as sweet.

Since then, the chocolate chip has been with enough partners to wear out even the most dedicated TMZ-esque reporters. The chocolate chip is to baked goods what the Kardashians are to NBA players. Not even its stalwart relationship with the cookie stopped the chocolate chip from moving on to bread, muffins, pancakes, waffles, white cake, chocolate cake, etc. But the bakery wasn't enough, so the chocolate chip moved on. It's even in a frappe at McDonald's.

Somewhere along that line, the chocolate chip meant mint ice cream.

Was there ever just a mint ice cream? It always seems like it's mint CHOCOLATE CHIP or green mint CHIP ice cream. McDonald's, yes, the McDonald's of chocolate chip frappe fame, sells mint milkshakes but resorts to calling them "shamrock" shakes, only selling them about a month leading up to St. Patrick's Day. The shamrock shake might be most popular item at McDonald's, but when it comes to selling regular ice cream, mint can't seem to be trusted on its own.

Of course, mint chocolate chip is a wonderful combination, the kind of thing we dreamed of when we first started mixing foods together (Imagine some of the "errors" in that "trial and error" process...). It's way better than just regular chocolate chip ice cream. Seriously, vanilla? Being "vanilla" is your thing. Just stick to that. Embrace it.

Should chocolate chip and mint ice cream split up, how would mint ice cream handle that? It's already been spotted testing out Oreo crumbs. Maybe mint will finally find something better than the chocolate chip. Or maybe it will find a way to win our appreciation as a food on its own.

I (still) want to kiss on a coaster

Sun, 22 Jul 2012 23:36:29 GMT

Written after a family trip to Hersheypark in 2008. I've certainly grown up a lot since then (writing has developed some, too), but this is the kind of quixotic attitude I want to return to. I'm a dreamer at heart, and I want to embrace that again. My cousins, brothers and I are hitting Hersheypark Wednesday. I doubt I'll get a kiss there, but I hope the lights, rides and fun bring out the romantic in me once again.

She takes one final, elegant sip from the plastic bottle. The last drop of $3 water rolls down her soft, moist lips and settles for a moment on her tight, pointed chin. In one smooth motion, she drops the bottle into the recepticle and wipes the moisture from her chin, revealing a refreshing smile.

The temperature has dropped since the afternoon began, the crowds thinned significantly. The final remnants of daylight were fading, purple and red, into the darkness of a pleasant night sky, along the hills a majestic backdrop to the flair and excitement held within the walls of the amusment park.

A short line. A brief wait. Then the gates open, slow and deliberate, to the momotonous, inaudible droning of the itinerary recording.

I don't hear a word. No, instead, over the droning and the buzzing and the half-dozen voices of children that remain, I can hear my heart beating a slow, steady beat.

And it's about to beat faster.

The adrenaline hasn't kicked in yet. The roller coaster's hills, its shaky tracks, its promising speed haven't even crossed my mind.

That mind, this ride, this night. They belong to her.

She enters the gate first, crossing over the car's padded seats to the bag-check station. She stradles the dividing hump and undoes her barrette, letting down hair still wet from the log flume's cruelly refreshing splash. She tosses the barrette over to where she placed her bag and slides comfortably into her seat.

I climb in beside her, reach my arm deliberately around her waist to toss the seatbelt around the both of us. She flinches when my hand subtly caresses her exposed lower back.

A buzz, a hiss. The lap bar leans down and in toward us, securing our place in this ride.

Her ride.

For a few seconds, We're sitting there, her and I, buckled into a roller coaster car. As the teenage attendant makes his rounds, checking seat and lap belts, the world inside our coaster car is still. I look over at her, admiring the person beside me. The smooth skin on her bare shoulders is moist with a light sweat. It seems to make her skin shine under the dim lights of the coaster's station. Every breath I take in rewards me with a fresh scent. A slight hint of perfume masking her naturally sweet scent.

I reach over with my right arm and softly rub her right shoulder. She lets out a slow, relaxed breath as I pull her closer to me.

Looking into her eyes, I can see the effect this day has had on her. They reflect an early wake, a long drive, a busy day of waiting in lines for rides built to wear down the body and spirit.

Though weary, they still reflect the beauty of her unwavering excitement. They reflect the fun she's had and the fun she hopes for in this ride. Her ride.

Our ride.

A close, intimate look into her eyes. I can see myself in them, smiling right back.

I slide my left hand over her hands, comfortably resting on the lap bar. The light sweat on her hands makes them feel smoother, softer as she gently wraps them around my hand. Still smiling, II slowly turn my head toward her, one last look at her beautiful face in the light of the station.

"Ready?" I ask.

"I'm ready." A soft, angelic voice.

Another buzz, one last inaudible drone. The coaster jerks once, drawing a giggle from the both of us.

Our ride begins.

The coaster rolls out of the station and into the first slow turn onto big hill.

I turn to look at her. She's still facing forward and the white Christmas lights strung up on the side railing illuminate her features. She's sitting, calm and content, an angel making her way toward the heavens.

I turn for a moment to look at the stars dotting the night sky. The click, click clicking of the track's chains are pulling us closer to them. I'm approaching the stars with an angel, the girl of my dreams in my arms.

The first car reaches the summit, pauses for a nanosecond before gliding down the track. Each car after follows suit until the last car, our car, reaches its peak. For that split-second, I look at her, glowing under the stars, between the lights. She's as beautiful as she ever was and as beautiful as she will be for the rest of our lives. For that split-second my heart stops beating, my lungs stop breathing, my mind stops thinking.

For that split second, we are higher than the world itself. For that split second, it is just her and I, sitting at the top of the hill in each other's arms beneath the stars.

The drop.

In front of us, some throw their hands triumphantly in the air; some unleash screams of fear or amusement. Around us, lights flash and objects spin.

We don't notice any of it.

We lean toward each other gracefully in our free fall. My lips lock onto hers. The usual coaster-queasiness in my stomach is displaced by a horde of butterflies. The adrenaline finally kicks in.

The chemistry between us is strong. An attempted kiss on the hill of a shaky wooden roller coaster has broken noses and chipped teeth written all over it.

But we're in perfect harmony.

Our kiss is slow, deliberate, soft but powerful. The car rocks with the force of the fall, the wind rushes through her delicate hair. Our lips press firm against each other and, as we hit the bottom of the first turn, they separate.

A kiss of 2.5 seconds. A kiss of a lifetime.

We both let out a cheer and throw our hands in the air with the rest of our train. Once again, I reach around her and hold her hand in mine. Throughout the rest of the ride, we connect with a few more soft kisses.

Finally, the coaster hits the brakes. It returns to the station.

Her hair is dry now and all over the place. Her lips, soft and warm, part once again with a smile. She shifts her gaze in my direction and breathes a quick, satisfied breath. I squeeze her tight in my arms. Our ride is a success.

***

Tonight, my lips are dry and chapped. A few clouds interrupt the stars in the sky. The seat beside me on the roller coaster car is empty.

But I still can dream. I can get on that there roller coaster and always ride up that hill, waiting and hoping for those dreams to come true.

As the click click clicking of the track's chains pull me closer to the stars above the amusement park.

Waves of praise for Close to Shore

Fri, 20 Jul 2012 21:56:31 GMT

The readers can feel the pull right away, the pull of the 20th century on a Victorian/Edwardian culture, the pull of a Great War overseas, and the pull of the jaws of an unknown monster, dragging its victims to the 'wilderness' of the open sea. Readers can feel the page-turning pull of Michael Capuzzo's Close to Shore, a thrilling portrayal of the fervor and chaos stemming from a series of shark attacks in the MId-Atlantic in 1916.

Capuzzo chronicles the destructive path of a young great white shark that terrorized the coast of New Jersey in the summer of 1916, an animal credited with the first record of unprovoked attacks on human swimmers in history and the inspiration for Peter Benchley's classic 1974 novel Jaws, the basis of Steven Spielberg's classic 1975 film.

Ironically, Capuzzo's account plays out much like a movie, an astounding narrative enveloped in thorough description yielded from Capuzzo's voracious dedication to research. The author's mood-setting descriptions of the lives of people shaking the shackles of Victorian-era conformity, the role of the sea as a vast leisure-driven escape and the behavior of sharks adds layers to the bare-bones excitement of man vs. nature's unknown forces.

That unknown drives the suspense, as the figures, from the Museum of Natural History's lead scientist to the vacationing observers of the gruesome attacks, struggle to identify with the unprecedented horrors unfolding in front of them. While Jaws quickly turned into a struggle between man and a known predator, Close to Shore captures the spine-tingling intrigue of the pre-modern man taking a literal swing into the dark.

It's difficult for a reader to imagine days without Google, or even convenient telephone communication. But Capuzzo uses the limitations of the early 1900s to drag readers back in time and have them squirm with the suspense of a world -- of science and nature and medicine -- yet to be conquered. During each fatal attack, Capuzzo coldly calculates a victim's chances of survival 100 years later.

Another major issue addressed in Close to Shore is the restrictions on information. People living miles from the first recorded shark attack received word of it only days later via newspaper report, a few paragraphs buried pages into an edition.

Despite signature shark-attack elements, the great white's foray along the coast drew skepticism from most of the country's leading experts in fish and nature. Scientists attributed the attacks to swordfish or killer whales, not sharks believed innocent despite the public's fear of the "sea monsters."

Close to Shore offers readers a wonderfully crafted piece of American history, a rich investigation of the American culture that reaches beyond shark bites and rising tides during one of the country's integral periods of transformation. Capuzzo's words grip readers with a force more powerful than the great white's bite and drags them into the deep waters of a time and culture as foreign to the 21st-century reader as the ocean's unexplored depths.