Surviving is What is Difficult

Peace, peace! [s]he is not dead, [s]he doth not sleep

[S]he hath awakened from the dream of life—      

 [S]he has outsoared the shadow of our night;

 Envy and calumny and hate and pain,

 And that unrest which men miscall delight,

 Can touch h[er] not and torture not again;

from Adonais, Percy Bysshe Shelley

Monday was a heavy day.  Heavy beyond the way Mondays always seem to be cumbersome.  We said goodbye to one of the most extraordinary people I will ever have the privilege of knowing. We celebrated the remarkable life of my wife’s grandmother earlier this week.

The last of my grandparents passed before I completed high school, leaving something of a hole in my life. My wife had both of her grandmothers when we met, and between the two, the bases were covered. Helen, her mother's mother, passed several years ago and was cut from the traditional grandmother cloth: a house full of trinkets and photos, a kitchen that was sacred where she could turn out delectable meals prepared with love and learned command.

Conversely, Aleda was inadvertently rechristened Go-Go by my nephew when he was just a wee tot, and rarely has a name been better suited for the person it identified, and this has nothing to do with the seminal all-female punk band from the 1980s.  Or at least I don’t believe it does.  She had a mischievous streak and could be playfully sardonic on occasion. She enjoyed turning on cable news and providing her own commentary.

Go-Go passed at the impressive age of 96, and up until the final few of those years, she remained Go-Go. Traveling, keeping busy, and as the reigning card shark of the Bartlesville Senior Center, she rejected the slowing down commonly associated with one’s golden years.  Several years ago, there was a scare, and we braced for the end.  We should’ve known better.  Not only did Go-Go beat that one, but she seemed to have emerged from the illness a good 10-15 years younger.

Recently, word emerged that she was ready to check out.  I misinterpreted this over text, but my wife can tell you about that; she thinks it's hilarious.  To paraphrase Raising Arizona, what GoGo was trying to say is that she felt the institution--life, in this case--had nothing left to offer her.

When you get a spouse, you get much more. All those years ago when I made the rounds with Kristen, honestly frightened by the size of her family and how many people she knew, I found an instant comfort with Go-Go. When I felt overwhelmed at family gatherings, I gravitated to her and was calmed. In the ensuing years, I never left a visit with her not feeling better than when I arrived. 

I came to look forward to our treks up I-75–often on Friday evenings, when we’d pick up Go-Go and take her to eat.  Anrever conjure the image of the lead role in an all-male adult dance revue. Where the titular character chops wood in a sleeveless flannel shirt, cutoff Levi's, and a pair of Red Wing work boots. One of the good, tasteful shows--the ones that play casinos.

It wasn't the food, though; it was the stories. GoGo could easily mix breaking family news with classic pieces we might not have known. We would get the latest family tea as well as stories about my wife's father when he was a boy. I loved it when somebody in the story had annoyed her in some way. Her mouth would flatten, her brow would turn down slightly, and she'd cast a stare in the other direction that told everyone it still bothered her. I loved this expression and will never forget it.

I recall an Indian Summer Saturday evening that we were in Bartlesville, and we stopped by for a visit. Texas had won earlier in the day, and I was in a good mood.  The windows were open, though it was still a touch warm, and the smells of the evening wafted in, led by the Chili's a block away. The house was quiet, save for the conversation and a radio playing the kind of stuff talk radio plays when they dig out some Top 40 Gold for those off-the-hook Saturday nights.  Probably “Winchester Cathedral” or “Downtown.” I don’t know why I remember this so distinctly.  Maybe it reminded me of an evening at my grandparents’ house.

Another enduring memory was that GoGo had a sweater for every occasion. Christmas, Valentine's Day, Thanksgiving, Easter, Fire Prevention Day, etc. My wife and I were listening to the radio when the announcer informed the audience that it was Siblings Day. I said GoGo likely had a sweater for the occasion. My wife thought I was making fun, but I wasn't. It was one of those subtle but endearing things like Les Nessman's random bandages.

    *    *    *    *

The Robbins Cemetery in Coffeyville, Kansas, is indistinguishable from any other roadside rural cemetery. Clearly, it has been in business for a very long time. The day began with a graveside service, which was timed perfectly for the late September weather. The minister said a few words and announced we'd reconvene in a couple of hours at the church in Bartlesville

 

A lot of photos were taken.  A lot.  At the cemetery. Unfortunately, the better elements of the location could not be captured via iPhone.  But there we were, divided and grouped in the dew-coated tall grass, making social media-ready memories.

Here are the family members who will be leaving the cemetery today LOL! Notice the neglected Big Bluestem grass in the foreground and various monuments in the background.  See the difference between Traditional and Western Slant.

After I was released from photos, I wandered around the grounds.  I stopped to look at a white metal sign that had clearly been there for decades.  It was a basic metal plate welded to square tubing and painted.  To make it a sign, mailbox letters were used.  These were all peeling and faded, but at a closer inspection I could ascertain these were the laws of the cemetery land.  One such rule read, NO FENCING.

I found this peculiar.  I know cemetery plots are a big deal to some people, but jousting for them seemed a touch extreme.  I went back to our car and stowed my foil and plastron in the trunk.  I knew that when Burtis the groundskeeper finished his third Thermos of coffee, he would be patrolling the grounds for nefarious activity–as well as looking for inconspicuous places to piss.  I didn't want them confiscated.d for those who aren’t hip, Bartlesville is an embarrassment of riches when it comes to cuisine. Actually, the scale more realistically ranges from edible to I’ll just grab something from the QT hot bar. There was the Italian place that looked like it could be converted from dinner service to organized crime stronghold before you could say "Osso Buco."  

There was also fine Mexican at Monterrey (Kentucky, I presume).  The philosophy was anything is Mexican if you pour enough queso over it.  On more special occasions we might hit the passable Montana Mike’s, a decent spot for steak and bakers, though the name will fo

Back in Bartlesville, we had lunch at Go-Go’s church. Food was served in an adjacent building called The Faith Annex. This sounded like another term for purgatory to me, but I knew I was reading too much into it. I'm pretty sure it was not that heavy.

    

I hoped to use the break before and after luncheon to do some work; however, I couldn't connect to the wifi at The Faith Annex. Prepared for just that sort of problem, I tried connecting to my wife's mobile hotspot. Unfortunately, the cellular strength wasn't adequate to power the hotspot. The metal building wasn't helping. When I looked to the ceiling, I saw greenish-gold insulation sticking to the ceiling panels. I don't know what it was, but I would bet it went on when the building went up.

*    *    *    *

At the center of the menu was death’s favorite dish, ham, served with a variety of sides.  I’ve poked fun at what I've called Hamcentric Lunch, but one thing I do appreciate is the volunteers who showed up well before we did and stayed long after we left to set up tables, prepare food, and clean up.  It doesn’t go unnoticed, nor is it unappreciated.

After lunch, I resumed my pursuit of a wi-fi password. I likely could've asked, but I've always felt awkward doing this. It seems invasive, like asking if your host has any Flexeril or Soma handy. I took it upon myself to go exploring. Purple and green lights at the top of a rickety staircase led me to believe the teens hung out upstairs. Surely a password would be tacked to a bulletin board up there somewhere.

I covertly ascended the stairs. As I had thought, it was the youth room. The door was closed but not locked. I went in and looked around, aided only by a desk lamp in the corner. It had the usual quasi-hipster accoutrements associated with WASP youth centers. There were some cool retractable arena seats, a large television, and a modest assortment of musical instruments. There was an off-brand bass, a nice Fender acoustic guitar, a cajon, and some sort of mini-snare. Ample racket could be produced in a room of that size.

But no password. I swung by a closet retrofitted with a Dutch door that was now serving as the security office. Again, no dice. I did find a form designed to gather information about van riders (aka abducted children).

Inadvertently cropped from photo: "Candy Preference?"

Across the parking lot, the family was herded into the church library.  A book about the history of Ohio stood out among the volumes of religious texts. As it turned out, this was the VIP green room. The family was held there while the general population was seated. While we waited, I found another sign-up sheet.

No bread, but lots of crackers!

Years ago, I had attended church with Go-Go in this very building. Essentially a shotgun structure, it was dated but tidy, and completely unchanged against my memory. The congregation was decidedly aged, and frills weren't necessary. An exception was found stage right. In the acrylic cube was a nice set of black DW drums, offsetting the piano stage left.

My wife had been drafted to say a few words. She labored over the exact words. With each revision, I was called to listen and offer feedback. The first draft was outstanding, and only improved with subsequent tweaks. I listened a half-dozen times in admiration, offering very few notes. Her words were from the heart, and that doesn't require an editor.

    Now it was going live, and I completely lost it within the first three or four paragraphs. This wasn't helped by the photo slide presentation that had preceded it. The passing of a loved one tends to bring the larger topic of mortality to mind. While I would miss GoGo, my mind shifted to other loved ones. There was my mother and my in-laws. My sister and her family. My wife and I. Our daughter, somehow already sixteen and operating a motorized vehicle among the idiots on the road. All of us mortal and all of us on the clock.

In one of the slides, I spotted my wife as a little girl, reluctantly standing still. It occurred to me that one day, that fidgety blonde girl would become my best friend. In that moment, I wanted nothing more than to grow old with her. My daughter seems to think it's mission accomplished.

It's a cliché, but you never know when your number will be called. I think a measure of a life well lived is to look back and say, "Yes, I did." Yes, I did explore new places. Yes, I did treat people with kindness and courtesy. Yes, I did love and appreciate my family and friends. Yes, I did my best in the time I had.

And with 96 years beneath her sweater du jour, you can bet she could answer most questions with, "Yes, I did."

I can only endeavor to come close to squeezing that much out of life.

Minutes to Memories

 

Symbolic Indianapolis

Rain pelted the window of my room six floors above downtown Indianapolis.  I’d just changed out of my wet clothes.  I’d walked the mile from the stadium to the hotel in the warm, steady rain.  Yards before reaching the hotel, I became a cliché when a red Hyundai passed by and threw water onto me. 

The last road trip of this season's volleyball odyssey--or oddity--took us to Indianapolis, home of Miss Romano, Schneider, the Indy 500, Colts, Pacers, and professional home of Caitlyn Clark.  And Nationals.

It's been a disappointing season.  For many reasons, this team just never played to its potential. At the conclusion of  Regionals, when the coach called us together to reveal our Nationals status, I asked, "So did you see your shadow?" He had indeed. Opening the coffers and extending the season for six weeks and chasing a little piece of what could've been seemed optimistic at best, but there we were.

With Sloane in concussion protocol since Show Me, this trip was uncertain for a long time.  When finally confirmed, the logistical scrambling went into turbo, and my wife was able to work out a plan that got us all there and back for the same price as a couple of Rush reunion concert tickets.  

The plan was for Sloane and me to fly to Indianapolis on Wednesday so that she could rest and be ready to play Thursday morning.  My wife would be joining us Friday morning.  Monday, I received an email at work from my wife.

The thin line between love and consternation.

My wife had created an itinerary for me.  I felt like a VIP and an idiot. I printed two copies and treated them like forms of identification.

Sloane's team was required to be at the Indianapolis Convention Center at 7:45 Thursday morning.  She and I boarded a plane at 5:45 Wednesday morning.  After a quick stop in Denver, we landed in Indianapolis early in the afternoon.  As did most of the players, it would have appeared.  Girls hauling tournament-tagged backpacks streamed through the automatic doors looking for passage downtown. Uber rates were inflated, but we were able to get something booked in short order.  

On the way to the ground transportation door, Mario Andretti's 1972 Indy Car was on display.  Teenage girls zipped by, heads bowed to Apple, while dads stopped to marvel.  After snapping a couple of photos, my daughter, tapping her foot impatiently and drinking her Starbucks, commanded me to "stop geeking out over the racecar!"  Also on display was a prominent salute to the National Champion Indiana Hoosiers football team.  It's good to see the people of Indiana have finally embraced a superior sport.

Geeking out over the racecar.  

Indianapolis is well-schooled in tournaments and conventions, and it shows. The people are cheery and polite.  As far as hospitality and citizens, Indianapolis is the nicest city I've visited in a very long time. 

At the hotel, claiming no love for the Oklahoma City Thunder secured an early check-in to our sixth-floor room.  I went around the corner to a nearby Kroger to grab a few snacks and drinks while my daughter took it easy in the room.  She turned on the drama series 13 Reasons Why, which pulled me into its icky web when I returned.

Indiana is home to John Mellencamp's sourpuss patriotism. On brand, "Hurts So Good" was playing in the hotel lobby when I returned. Since we're discussing the Hoosier State, a word about Mr. Mellencamp.  How can the same guy write something as soberingly poetic as, "life goes on, long after the thrill of living is gone," and "sucking on a chili dog outside the Tastee Freeze" in the same song? Evidently, he's more of a crank now than he was during his halcyon days, but "Check it Out," "The Real Life," and "Minutes to Memories" still get a lot of plays on my streaming account.

I found 13 Reasons Why to be a little coarse for something my daughter would watch. Pretty much any bad behavior you can think of is on display at some point. Some would defensively state reality, but I think I prefer the daft tidiness of "Saved by the Bell."  Zach drove drunk, and Jessie got hooked on greenies, but it was portrayed as almost funny.  Then again, I don't know how one would work a humor angle on a drunk high school girl being raped at a party.  

We had California Burger delivered via DoorDash, which was more like Door Crawl.  My daughter showed me the progress on her phone. It went in circles like Windows loading.  Eventually, we went outside to look for the guy.  We found him wandering around on the sidewalk in front of the hotel.  He was at his wit's end, sweating, and grateful to be rescued.  The food was quite good, though my daughter's shake was melted. 

For the evening's entertainment, we swapped movies. I agreed to watch Scream 5, and afterward we'd watch Smokey and the Bandit.  Scream 5 is a slasher flick, popular at my daughter's sleepovers.  In it, Courteney Cox and Neve Campbell battle time, poor lifestyle choices, and something called Ghostface using their wits and a Rolodex full of plastic surgeons.  As for the nightcap, my daughter made it all the way through.  I don't think she'll seek out an encore, and I warned her against the sequels. 

Thursday was a good day.  Despite the early start, the girls came out strong and played well most of the day, racing out to a 3-0 start.  The girls had a late lunch together at the Yardhouse.  I had to get back to the hotel to meet the Walmart delivery man who was bringing reinforcements that I couldn't haul over from Kroger.

Lucas Oil Stadium is an impressive structure.  While it doesn't hold the nostalgia the TWA Dome does for me, Lucas Oil Stadium is newer, nicer, and larger.  It's also outfitted with lots of luxury boxes and suites. Though my daughter likely thought nothing of it, I thought it was a cool feeling to be on the field of an NFL stadium.

Sloane on the big stage.

My wife arrived Friday morning mid-match, and it was like Jack Nicholson taking his courtside seat at a Lakers game.  My wife is very popular with the other moms.  I spent much of the first two days letting people know when she would be arriving.  

Again, after a good start, things fell apart rather abruptly.  Still, at the end of Friday's matches, we still had a shot at the gold bracket.  At the time, we had no idea what a challenge was lying in wait.   

The DoorDash du jour was Potbelly Sandwich Works.  At the tempting of the ad copy, I tried it with hot peppers.  

"I hope you packed the Beano," my wife chirped.

Saturday was an eventful day.  Sloane's coach, who had two teams in the tournament (different ages), had a scheduling conflict.  Unfortunately, he deferred to his other team.  Without his guidance, our girls couldn't do anything right.  We had a competent assistant, but she'd only been working with the team for a few weeks.  The rapport just wasn't there.  

Set up for gold that morning, they were plummeted to bronze after a couple of three-set heartbreaking losses.  The last match was particularly annoying.  Seemingly out of nowhere, it was determined we were short a court, so several young men, evidently paid in event merch, built a court next to ours.  The tossing of the large floor panels sounded like rifle fire, offering a Tel-Aviv vibe to the surroundings. There was confusion, disappointment, sadness.  The entire season encapsulated.

It was also Celebrity Day.  College coaches were all over.  I spotted David Hunt, Texas assistant, Kevin Hambly, Stanford head coach, and Wisconsin's Kelly Sheffield.  Former Longhorn Jenna Wenaas was coaching a club team.

Doing some detective work, my wife learned where Vince Vaughn was.  Vince is a dedicated volleyball dad and is kind of like the Bigfoot of Nationals.  Sightings have been reported, but I'd never seen him with my own eyes.  Until Saturday.  He was leaving the court after a match when my wife got his attention and asked for a photo.  He graciously agreed and was super nice about it.  I love his work--Swingers is an easy top ten for me--but the fact that he's committed to his daughter's volleyball career makes him extra special to me.

Indy, baby!

After a team pizza party in the hotel lobby, Sloane needed a break from volleyball. We found cheap tickets for the Indiana Fever basketball game that evening.  The Fever is the most covered mediocre team outside the Dallas Cowboys, and most of it revolves around Caitlin Clark.

I remain at a loss to explain the WNBA.  After 30 years of little more that tax write-off and laughingstock, the arrival of Caitlin Clark has brought attention to the league.  Not believing a rising tide lifts all boats, the league establishment has alternately played down her ability and tried to end her career.  Good thing the dudes in the NBA didn't behave this way when Bird and Magic swooped in and got the finals off of tape delay.

Like the old NBA, Indiana went out and got some muscle.  Enforcers were once as common as LeBron flopping or players taking load management days off.  If anyone got close to your superstar, the enforcer was called on for protection.  Enter Sophie Cunningham, the new sheriff and quantifiable smoke show.  Enter also an influx of dads willing to take their daughters to Fever games.  Guilty.

Choose your enforcer.

We bought tickets for $11 apiece that night, no really knowing what to expect.  There were a few butch grannies at the hotel, decked out in Fever gear.  A downpour arrived when we were to leave, so we took an Uber over to the spectacular Gainsbridge Fieldhouse.

Clark was inactive that night following the latest attempt on her life in the previous game.  We did see her on the bench with her teammates--dressed in a pullover sweatsuit and New Girl glasses.

Though there were moments of the old WNBA--ten women on the floor chasing a loose ball, shots careening off the scoreboard, and missed layups, we were shocked by what we saw.  It looked like real, actual basketball.  The players passed the ball, moved without it, screened, ran like, plays.  It was entertaining. 

And yes, there were some more of the aforementioned butch grannies, but by and large the crowd consisted of children, moms and dads.  Most had Caitlin Clark shirts or jerseys on.  

Nothin' like a view from the cheap seats!

After stomping the opponent in the first set Sunday, the coach called a timeout to bid the girls goodbye.  From that point forward, shit show would be a kind description.  The team dropped the next two sets, and like that, it was over.  No speeches, no farewells, just a nine-hour drive back home.

Random Notes

Michael Bolton’s Software Comes to Fruition

The convention center and the stadium were cash-only venues.  The solution?  Machines that will put your cash onto debit cards.  It is then up to the consumer to spend what they’ve added to the card without going over.  That all items carried sales tax made this even more difficult.  I wondered how much the house came out ahead each day under this arrangement. It’s in the aggregate. Even if it is just a fraction of a penny, from a much bigger tray, and done a couple million times.

A Major Award

Many are aware that A Christmas Story, though filmed in Cleveland and Toronto, was set in a fictitious version of Hammond, Indiana. Our walk to the venue each morning took us past the Indiana Historical Society, which in one of the upper-floor windows, features a replica leg lamp from the film. This was, of course, lauded as a major award by Ralphie's father, who displayed it proudly in the home.

It occurred to me that I might be up for recognition as well. I've never been moved by Pride Month, but I noticed this past June I read a book about the making of Midnight Cowboy, which contained mini-biographies of author James Leo Herlihy and director John Schlesinger- both homosexual men. I also bought the new David Sedaris book and attended a WNBA game. I may have qualified for my first Ally badge.

Ride Share Observations

Prior to this spring, I'd never taken a Lyft or an Uber.  I wouldn't declare myself a pro now, but I am getting the hang of the idea.  I can certainly see why traditional cab drivers were opposed.  The convenience and efficiency can't be matched.  As with taxi cabs, you encounter different personalities and different nationalities.  Our driver from the airport to our hotel knew only the phrases, "Code?" and "Thank you!"

Climbing into a ride-share car can be like entering the bedroom of a teenager who's been doing something he shouldn't.  Often the nose is assaulted by a bouillabaisse of air-freshening products that don't necessarily complement each other.  Clearly, the smell of vehicles is of great importance to these companies.  Given the alternative, I'm glad it is.

That's a wrap on Indy and the 25-26 club season.  As usual, the best part was watching my daughter grow while doing what she loves.  The road trips with her and my wife created a new set of memories that will be cherished for years to come.

Tryouts for next season will be here in a couple of weeks, and school ball is right around the corner.   I'll be ready.  

Just Like The Dream

The Covted Akeem "The Dream" Olajuwon Etonic

The spring Sunday afternoon was warm and sunny.  My mother wasn’t entirely pleased.  My athletic shoes were falling apart and wouldn’t get me through the end of the school year. By the time I was a teenager, my shoes had become more expensive, and my mother instilled in me the goal of making them last until summer.  As the prices rose, the durability seemed to decrease. Also, I played basketball on pavement almost every day.

After showing that I was still an all-star baseball player, I decided I wanted to devote my 

time to basketball.  I am 5’11, two-thirds of it torso, and of Scottish descent.  We didn’t use the term “stay in your lane” back then, but it would have been appropriate.  However, I’d taken to the game when the pro basketball surge of the 1980s swept in.

            My dad was a star player in high school despite a lack of size.  His best advice was for me to develop a quick release.   I shot pretty much every day, working not only on accuracy, but speed.  Before long, I was able to get my shot off, even against taller players.  On most days, I was just as accurate. 

  Like my dad, I liked the Celtics.  My second favorite team was the Houston Rockets. The Rockets then became my team during the 1986 playoffs with their playoff upset of the Lakers and a finals appearance against the Celtics.  That Celtics team was one of the best squads ever assembled, and the Rockets were no match. 

  Basketball was so all-encompassing that high-tops were my everyday shoes. I don’t know that I needed ankle support in English class, but if so, I had it.

 

I walked into the sporting goods/shoe store at the mall to gaze at the on-hand selections. I knew I would get high-top basketball shoes; it was just a matter of which style I liked and how much they cost.  My eyes scanned the floor-to-ceiling display and stopped on one shoe.  My eyes grew wide. My heart pounded.  I raced over and picked up the display. It wasn’t necessary.  It could’ve been made of lead or lined with barbed wire, and I would’ve wanted it. 

It was the Akeem Olajuwon “The Dream” Etonic basketball shoe in Rockets red and gold.

“With purchase, you get a free record of Akeem performing 'The Unbeatable Dream,’” said the young woman overseeing the shoe section.

Etonic was an odd brand for basketball shoes.  Though the company preceded the game of basketball by fifteen years, its focus was historically on golf and bowling.  Incidentally, Etonic was the first company to develop water-resistant leather for its golf shoes.  I didn’t know anything about their hightops, but they crushed the eye test.  These were some damned good-looking shoes.  I think they’re still attractive today.

Away from Houston and in Tulsa, Rockets memorabilia was difficult to come by.  We didn’t have the Internet and web stores where we could order items from anywhere. There was the mail-order business in Hanover, PA, for which Larry Bird did television ads.  That was more of a once-a-year thing.    At that point, I’d only been able to find a red logoed t-shirt that I wore every other day.  

Given this, it’s understandable that I got excited and that my materialism kicked in.  Akeem was a burgeoning superstar and one of my favorite players.  Here was a chance to purchase his signature shoe.  Nobody at school had this.

  My mother was far less impressed.  She didn’t like basketball and couldn’t possibly grasp the significance. Her first question was what was printed on the price tag.  I don’t remember the amount; it was elevated but not ridiculous.  Still, it was more than she had planned on paying.  What immediately followed is something I’m not proud of.  As a matter of fact, telling the story now still feels a little rotten.

Anyway, as I mentioned, it was rare to find Rockets artifacts in Tulsa, and this was a big one.  Also, I really wanted those shoes. I didn’t ask for a ton of stuff; it’s just that usually when I did, it was significant.  At that time in my life, those shoes meant a lot to me.

Plus, I was fifteen. Children aren’t great negotiators.  We’ll bargain, but that’s about the extent of it.  I remember one dreary Saturday evening being at the relatively new phenomenon known as a video rental store with my mother and younger sister.  It was pin-drop quiet when my sister offered to brush her teeth in exchange for renting The Muppets Take Manhattan.  I laughed because I’m the older sibling, and part of my job description as such is to stir up as much shit as possible.  My mother felt even worse, particularly after renting a pair of R-rated movies, meaning my sister and I would have plenty of time to brush our teeth that night.

I was an ardent toothbrusher, so that wasn’t a bargaining chip I possessed.  My silent dismissal of the balance of the store’s selection had not worn my mother down, either.  Short on ideas, I opted for a poor, pitiful, sad sack.

“I think I’ll just hang on to these a little longer,” I said, gesturing toward my feet.  “They’ve got some life left, and I’m not crazy about anything here.”

My mother paused.  I didn’t look at her.  I knew the look she was giving me, and I didn’t want to see it. I rested my case.  It was The Dream or bust.  I was prepared to soldier on with my well-worn Converse.

She moved over to the display and grabbed the Etonic from the shelf, and gave it a good look.  

“Do you have this in a ten?” she asked the clerk.

I turned away to allow a smile to creep across my face.

Moments later, the clerk returned with the shoes.  I tried them on and loved them even more.

“Are you sure?” I asked my mom.

“You’re worth it,” she said with a reassuring smile. This is how my mother operated.  She’d do without something to make up the difference.  I never fully understood this until I had a child of my own. Clearly, she’d made her peace with it and was ready to move forward.  Not that she wouldn’t replay the piteous scene for my father when we got home.

One of the cool things about Akeem Olajuwon is that, a few years later, when he became a genuine superstar, world champion, and league MVP, he partnered with Spalding for a new signature shoe.  He realized that basketball shoes shouldn’t cost so much that kids would steal them or kill for them.  These you could buy in the help-yourself racks at Kmart and other retail outlets for $35.  It was a great gesture at a time when his popularity was at its pinnacle.

The Etonics rung up for considerably more.  I tried to show my gratitude without spiking the ball.  Yes, I had won and yes, I was happy, and yes, I was grateful and yes, I was a bit of a baby about it. Tactfully, I also talked up the quality of my new shoes.  The ankle area came with extra nylon bands and release buckles.  I made the assumption this would offer better ankle support and prevent me from turning my ankles on the court.

There is an adage when it comes to negotiating to the effect of once you get what you want, be quiet.  My unnecessary yapping raised a point of contention.

“Those have to last,” my mother said emphatically.  “You should wear your old shoes for playing basketball outside,” she said, thrusting a glistening steel pin into my big red balloon.

“But they’re worn out,” I protested.

“From playing on concrete,” she noted.

I was so angry with myself.  I’d said too much.  

“These are the coolest shoes I’ve ever had,” I said, chopping water and trying to stay afloat.  “I’m going to take very good care of them.”

“That’s good to hear,” she said.  “I’m glad you understand.”

I tried to keep the discussion at a stalemate until I could come up with a good argument.  Part of it was my fashion sense, such as it was.  From seventh grade on, I could have been a stand-in for Zack Morris from Saved by the Bell–button-down shirt, wash-of-the-season Levi’s, and high-top basketball shoes.  By refusing to change it up, my shoes got more wear than they should have.  Costing what they did–even then–my mom wasn’t crazy about replacing them multiple times each school year.

By that time, we were almost home.  I’d won the war but was losing a major battle.  In desperation, I made a statement that contained an element of truth, though it hadn’t been a primary concern.

“It’s just that the old shoes have been hurting my feet a little.”

I don’t know if my mother missed her calling as a podiatrist.  She has always been concerned with my feet.  Making sure they’re warm, dry, in a sturdy, well-fitting shoe, and in socks for bed during the winter..  Mentioning foot discomfort was a stop-the-presses, slam-on-the brakes, drag-the-needle-off-the-record situation.  

I’d reclaimed victory and wore my Dreams to school and for playing ball afterward.  To my word, I took great care of them and wore them until the soles had essentially eroded. I never saw another pair for sale anywhere.  My tactics may have been untoward, but I’m grateful I was able to get them when they were available.

Twelve Inches of Dynamite

Also in the bag, as promised, was the 12-inch single of “The Unbeatable Dream,” performed by Akeem Olajuwon and a fellow by the name of Hurt ‘em Bad.  It should be noted that there was a disturbing trend in the 1980s, with sports teams recording songs.  Now, disaster is often presaged by the words, “took to social media.”  The analog in the 1980s was “went into a recording studio.”

Given the environment, Olajuwon adding a few lines to a song about him and his shoes wasn’t out of the question.

Hurt ‘em Bad, a character who fronted a group called the SC (soul connection) Band. They were among the earliest West Coast rap artists back when hip-hop was largely confined to New York City.  They were out of San Bernardino, which clearly lacks the menace of Compton, but must be much better for securing an insurance policy and life expectancy. They were from the Inland Empire, which is at least an empire.

Musically, they weren’t prolific, nor did they demonstrate any real greatness.  Hip hop performers often say they write about what they see.  Ostensibly, Mr. Bad watched sports on television and wrote about them, cooking up some rad Casio beats to pair with them.  He also did a lot more name-checking than chin-checking.  “Monday Night Football” (and various remixes), “N.B.A. Rap,” and “The Boxing Game.”  An internet rumor claimed a comeback was imminent with a new song about pickleball, but that’s yet to materialize. Not quite IShowSpeed’s bastardization of the World Cup in 2022, but not outstanding, either.

Whatever Mr. Bad’s musical limitations might be, he was astute enough to keep Olajuwon’s contributions to a minimum.  Akeem has always spoken with a strong Nigerian accent, but it was particularly thick back in the 1980s.  Hurt ‘em zips through verses praising Olajuwon while working in frequent plugs for Etonic.  Hakeem punctuates each stanza with a phrase and then sing “unbeatable” at the end of each chorus.  For instance, the last verse.

Hurt ‘em Bad

Akeem is back with shoes to match in his red, white, and gold

Work up a sweat get soaking wet keep striving like Akeem

And put ETONICS on your feet, 

Akeem Olajuwon

And be just like The Dream!

Back cover, credits, lyrics, stunt feet?

I still have the record.  I put it on the turntable recently, and it’s really no cornier than it was when it came out.  It’s an artifact from a bygone time.  As such, it served as a nice reminder of a fun time in my life.  And for several months back in the 1980s, even I could put Etonics on my feet and be just like the Dream.

Catch Me If You Can

My mother was scheduled for a surgical procedure on Friday morning. I believe some form of HIPAA prevents me from getting into the details. If not, I’m in no position to press cases with my mother, as you will see.  

The afternoon before, we worked out the logistics. My sister had offered a ride for the 6:45am check-in time.  I drew the seemingly easy assignment of going to my mom’s house and letting the dog outside.  The timing worked well with my schedule.

My mother has had her dog for about a month.  She had been trying to adopt a rescue dog for months, but nothing had quite worked out.  She announced her intentions to take a break from the pursuit for a few months when Teddy came along.  Teddy is an eight-year-old Morkie with light brown hair.  He favors his Malteses side and has a larger structure than our family’s Morkie.  The timing was just right. My mother was elated.

Teddy moved in on the second day of the new year–the day after my mother’s birthday, and couldn’t have been a better present.  He and my mother became fast friends and best buddies, with Teddy acclimating immediately, ie, taking over the household.

One of the first things we discovered about Teddy was his energy, especially for an older dog. Ours is a total lapdog that does things according to his own schedule. And when in doubt, he’ll curl up on the sofa for a nap.  My mother has a lot of energy for her age, so it seemed like a good fit.  I hadn’t seen her that happy since her last grandchild was born.

Over the phone, my mother gave me specific directions on letting Teddy outside. At the moment, it seemed like overkill, though my mother is very detailed. While her backyard is fully fenced, she warned I’d need to keep him on a leash.  He’s good at finding gaps and will excuse himself on a whim, or to pursue a squirrel.  As we had snow on the ground from the previous weekend, I was also to wipe his paws with baby wipes once back inside.  In closing, my mother also apologized for the messiness of her house.  She always does this when I'm there while she’s away.  Usually, I don’t notice the difference.  You could eat off the bathroom floor, though she’d never allow it.

Friday was very cold.  It made no pretenses, an arctic air mass joining a leaden sky and bitter wind.  Given the way I felt, I’d planned on a light day.  I needed to run a few errands in the morning, then straighten up downstairs before retreating to the cozy upstairs loft to write.  

Society has a problem with sweatpants, and I’m just as guilty as the next person. The look has taken over to the extent that we now have dress and casual sweatpants. If I’m going to be out and doing something or seeing people, I will wear my nicer sweats and call them “joggers.”  If I plan on sitting on my ass all day, I have a drawer for my casual sweats.  Casual sweats are cheaper, larger, and less form-fitting.  Even paired with an expensive pair of Nike running shoes, nobody thinks exercise is on my agenda for the day.  Having planned for a light day, I went with my lazy sweats and a long-sleeved shirt.  I needed a coat, but figured I wouldn’t be outside that long.

Teddy was pleased to see me.  He leapt as if on a pogo stick and brushed me with his paws. I scratched him for a few moments before putting him on his leash. In the backyard,  he darted from place to place, exploring, looking for squirrels, and following sounds. After about five minutes, he did what he needed to and led me back toward the house. I wiped his paws and offered him a treat as a reward for his cooperation.  

I looked around the room.  My mother was right.  The place wasn’t its usual, tidy self. Most of this could be attributed to Teddy.  He had two beds, a handful of toys strewn across the living and dining room floors.  The dog had acquired a lot of stuff in three weeks.  Then again, being loved by my mother means you’re always cared for.  

Ready to go, I went to the front door with Teddy bounding in tow.  After putting my key in the lock, I bent down to scratch his head one more time and assure him that his momma would be home soon.  He caught a whiff of fresh air and slipped between my leg and the door frame, launching into a full sprint.  By the time I could turn around, he was two houses down and across the street. 

“Teddy!”

* * * *

A couple of weeks ago, I was playing tennis with my daughter.  As a result, I got what most middle-aged men get when playing with teenagers. No, not arrested. Injured.  I did something to my knee that has made a full stride quite painful.  

The day before my mother’s surgery, I aggravated the injury going up the stairs at our house.  I was in the loft watching the Maple Leafs besmirch and defecate upon the otherwise beautiful game of hockey and made several belabored trips up and down.  By Friday, I was clearly hobbled, moving like Willis Reed in the 1970 NBA Finals.

*    *    *    *

I left the door open with the key in the lock and gave chase.  Not only is Teddy active for his age, but he is also very fast.  Four houses away, seven houses away, a right turn toward the next block. I pursued as best I could, traipsing across icy roads, calling, pleading, begging Teddy to stop.  My lazy sweats proved detrimental from the beginning, as they sagged with each stride.

Teddy rounded the corner and halfway up the next street.  I closed in and he double back, through the yards across the street, hopping up on porches for a look around, then darting off across the snow-covered yards.

Prefontaine

Prefonteddy

“Teddy!  Stop!”

He’d pause and look at me, smiling with his adorably goofy underbite.  If I made a move in his direction, he’d take off again, head back, sprinting through the snow, paying no mind to where he was going or what danger he might encounter.  He was a full two blocks ahead of me as I struggled just to keep him in sight.  He made another right turn through the yards, porches, and driveways.

It’s been a dozen years since I was a regular runner.  I’m out of shape and much slower than I was then.  That said, I’m not sure I could’ve run with Teddy when I was in optimal condition, particularly in snow and ice.

To the people in their homes, looking through their windows, I must’ve looked like a wonderful idiot. Limping through the neighborhood, one hand keeping my pants over my ass, and pleading with an animal who clearly felt no obligation to cooperate.  

We had worked west on a collector street, with Teddy making frequent turns onto the perpendicular residential streets.  Three blocks south, and he would’ve been on a major street. I had to at least somehow keep him in the neighborhood.  Since Teddy was making up the route along the way, I had no way of getting ahead and cutting him off.

The further he got, the more I fretted.  I thought of my mother.  In surgery.  She’d be out soon and ready to come home later that day.  She’d be looking forward to seeing her dog.  I had to get it home.  My heart was pounding, and my lungs burned.  My knee ached sharply with every move. Teddy stopped to metricate in the snow.

“Teddy,” I said calmly as I moved toward him.  “Stay there, buddy.  Let’s go back home.”  

His eyes held my gaze for a few seconds before he was off again.  Straight ahead, full gallop, then back into the neighborhood.

“Teddy, please stop running,” I whined.  “Don’t do this. Please.” I felt pathetic and feckless. I had stepped on a ridge of ice and had bruised my foot to go along with my aching knee.  I wanted to drop to the icy ground and weep.

That wasn’t possible.  As difficult as this was proving to be, failing was not an option.  I imagined having to meet my mother at her house, post-surgery–loopy, in pain, emotional–to tell her that I’d lost the dog she dearly loved.  So irresponsible. After being spared the 5:30am wake-up and assigned the simple task of letting a dog go outside into a fenced-in yard.  She wouldn’t so much as trust me with carving the Thanksgiving turkey–four years from now when she finally felt somewhat comfortable having me in her home again. 

My family would say they understood, while looking at me with accusative eyes.  A likely story, they’d agree.  I was probably raiding the pantry and not even paying attention to the dog. Any ill effects from the operation would be attributed to the emotional and mental strain I’d put on my poor mother.    

With that realization, I resumed the struggle with renewed vigor.  I was Strap leaving the huddle after Coach Dale told me God wanted me on the floor. I carried on with a confident grin of a Philippian foundation.

This lasted roughly 186 seconds.  Teddy had covered two city blocks and was widening his lead.  Keeping him in my sight became my primary goal.  I realized that the only way I was going to catch this dog was with the aid of an automobile.  Unfortunately, mine was too far away.  Teddy could’ve covered a mile in the time it would’ve taken me to retrieve the car.

Going for one full-on chase, hopeful I could sneak up close enough and tackle him before he escaped.  I got close a couple of times, but he was far too quick.  He continued to visit porches and yards, pissing in every third or so. This could go on all day, or one of us would die trying. 

I called my wife, who works a couple of miles from my mother’s house..  She didn’t answer.  I left a message that she would later describe as me sounding like I was having a heartattack.  The hospital was just a few miles away, so I then tried my sister, leaving her a similar SOS.   

Fortunately, my wife sensed the urgency and desperation of my plight.  And was able to get away at a moment’s notice. I just needed to keep Teddy under surveillance. A young man driving a 4-Runner stopped with his window down.

“You got a runner?” he asked.

“Do I ever,” I huffed.

The man didn’t commit to joining the chase, but began following me in his vehicle.  My wife called a few minutes later to request my location, but drove up on us.  She saw furry Prefontaine galloping away from me and showing no sign of slowing.  My wife tried to cut him off using the car, a task complicated further by the icy roads. The man in the 4-Runner got out of his truck after pulling up about ten feet behind Teddy, who was in the middle of the street.

The man took a couple of steps, and both he and the dog broke into sprints with the man pumping his arms and legs furiously before shutting it down.  He continued on foot, and my wife followed in the car.  I went back to get the running 4-Runner and caught up with the chase.   

For the first time, Teddy showed signs of slowing down.  He frequently stopped to eat snow.  Not long enough for anyone to grab him, but at least there was hope. After his break, he zipped through a yard and beneath a fence into somebody’s yard.  When we arrived, he wasn’t there.  My wife spotted him on the next block over.  The man helping us headed that way while I rounded from the backside. It had taken on the feel of a police manhunt. 

Of all the three-word sentences my wife has ever spoken to me, at that moment, ‘He’s got him,’ had to have been my favorite.  Sure enough, Teddy had gotten cornered between two houses, and our Samaritan was able to grab him.

“Good game, Teddy!” he said, handing the dog to me.

We thanked the man profusely.  My wife offered him a cup of coffee, but he refused.  He told us he’s got dogs that like to do the same thing and was glad to help. I nevergot his name, but he did me a huge favor.  I held Teddy the way Lenny held the bunny, hugging and squeezing and climbing into my wife’s car.  In the interest of accuracy, I did not call him George.

“The hay is in the barn,” I told my sister, who had been monitoring our progress from a hospital waiting room.  “That was fun,” I said, more relieved than anything.  “Maybe we don’t tell mother about this until she’s further into her recovery,” I suggested.  “I wouldn’t want her to fret.”

According to the calculations I made after the fact, Teddy had made it approximately a mile from home when he was apprehended.  According to the tracker on my phone, I covered two and a half miles tracking the zig-zagging and moving up and down the streets.  I think I yelled Teddy in frustration, desperation, and anger more times that afternoon than all of Ted Kennedy’s advisors did throughout his career.

At home, I took a hot shower and ate a bowl of soup.  Later, I fell asleep sitting upright on the sofa while listening to What’s Going On by Marvin Gaye.  

That afternoon, my mother called.  Her surgery had gone smoothly and was successful.  She was at home resting and felt much better than she had expected.  She apologized profusely for her dog’s behavior.  What can you do here?  All I could say was that it was no big deal, and I was relieved everything had worked out all right.  My mother was the one who was in surgery; I couldn’t let her feel guilty about something that wasn’t her fault.  

“Someday,” I told her.  “This will be really funny.” 

It already was.