Fumble!

I'm looking forward to the beginning of football season.

It wasn't always the case.

I used to hate football on television.

Part of that is because I grew up in a football-addicted household. Both my parents were fervent and hopeful fans of the Philadelphia Eagles, which meant they spent many Sunday afternoons watching horrible players do inexcusable things.

Not one to hold back, they often yelled at the screen, coaching plays from home. My strongest memories of this are from high school and college, when I'd be heads-down into a textbook in my room -- directly aside the master bedroom where the TV was -- while they reacted to what was going on:

"run-run-Run-Run-RUN-RUN-RUUUUUNN!!"
"go-go-GO-GO-GOOOOOOOOO!"
"get-em, get-em, Get-Em, Get-Em, GET HIM!"

Always this escalation of cheering that seemed to cause the plaster on the walls to crack and flake.

These were the years of Leonard Tose ownership, Dick Vermiel leadership, Ron Jaworski stardom and Bill Bergey muscle. But Mom and Dad stayed devoted fans, through the years of Norman Braman, Buddy Ryan, Rich Kotite, Randall Cunningham, and Donovan McNabb.

He never went to the The Vet, the stadium where these battles unfolded. We would talk yearly of season tickets as a gift to him, but it never worked out. After a trip to an Eagles game at Franklin Field with the Boy Scouts, where his good coat was ruined by a hotdog tossed by someone who had drunk too much "antifreeze" as a guard against the chill, Dad was content to watch from the comfort of his own home.

He dreamed of their reception of a set of Super Bowl rings. And at the close of each disappointing season, he'd sigh: "Well, there's always next year..."

Dad was never one to authorize meals in front of the television; he wanted them at the table and away from the distraction of the tube. But on afternoons of Sunday Eagles football, he was okay with lunch in front of the game. So midway through the anguish, Mom & Dad would pass by my door, check in to see how things were going, and return after a trip to the kitchen, carrying bowls of soup or stacks of peanut butter crackers.

I hated it. Not sure if I hated the noise or just the thoughts of football on TV itself, but I was never quite a fan.

And I stayed distant from TV football for years and years. Graduated college and didn't watch. Dated Eileen and didn't watch. Married and didn't watch. Had kids and didn't watch.

Until...

Sometime in the early 2000s, I flicked on a game. And I got caught.

There was something about the battle -- the long struggle of one side against another for turf and time -- that appealed to me. Other teams bored me, as I didn't know (or didn't care) who the stars were. But the Iggles had their claws in me and I became anchored in front of the set each Sunday afternoon.

I was happy to share my new-found interest with Dad, who was eager to explain shotgun formations and onside kicks to his football novice son. We cheered together at their appearance at the 2004 Super Bowl, taking the occasion to involve even Amanda, Claire, Kristin, and Wesley.

But sadly, it was too little too late.

Dad passed away in 2006, just as my Eagles fandom was taking deeper and deeper root.

I fumbled. I fumbled on those years when we may have shared just one more thing.

I think of him often on Sunday afternoons.

And raise a spoon of lunch-soup as a toast, as I'm sitting in front of the set.

"Get-em!"

A Driving Force

It seems like each summer we grab a project that occupies a lot of our time during the June, July, August period.

Last year, it was the pursuit of full-time employment for me.

This year, it's getting Claire, our middle daughter, her driver's license.

According to the driving laws of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania, learner's permit drivers must log a certain number of hours behind the wheel with a licensed adult over the age of 21. When Amanda, our eldest, went for her license four years ago, my memory tells me that her requirement was somewhere in the neighborhood of 40 hours.

Not sure why, but in the interval between then and now, that bar has been set higher.

It's now a whopping 65 hours!

And what's more, they've got to be in-state. Student drivers cannot be behind the wheel and cross state lines.

So to amass that time in the driver's seat, at the onset of this project, Claire needed to steer her way the equivalent of the distance of about six round trips between home and Pittsburgh.

Knowing that that was infeasible, revved her engine on shorter jaunts.

The biggest issue has been fitting those trips into an already packed schedule. Weekends have been prime, but Eileen is often working at the bank Saturday mornings, and I'm often tied up Saturday afternoons during the summer accompanying weddings. We've tried as much as possible to have her drive us on various errands, but c'mon. The dry cleaners and back is probably 20 minutes, tops. 65 hours worth of that is 195 trips! Nobody's got that much dry cleaning.

We've pieced together a schedule that has had us out a lot of summer evenings, practicing highway travel, parallel parking, merging and yielding after dinner.

After some initial (expected) bumps in the road, Claire has developed into a good driver. She's still got a ways to go (15 hours or so), but she has progressed very nicely.

She's come far from her fledgling steps, circling the empty parking lot of a local outlet mall. Claire is a very lineal thinker: A is followed by B, which is followed by C, D, E, and F.

Unfortunately, driving doesn't unfold that way, so she struggled at first with the requisite multitasking:

• "Yes, Claire, you must turn and accelerate at the same time."
• "Yes, Claire, you need to pull up to the stop sign and put your turn signal on at the same time."
• "Yes, Claire, you must stay in your merge lane and look for traffic on your left at the same time."

She has made a lot of progress, though.

And in all honesty, our time shared in the car has turned into a good chance to chat, share, bond.

Soon, she'll have her license and the wings of freedom to fly.

And I'll be very proud of her accomplishment.

But I think I'll miss our time together, too.

Hair Today, Gone Tomorrow

It's been about four months since I've been shaving my head.

And I can honestly say I don't miss my hair at all.

The decision was one I thought about for a long time before taking the plunge. I knew several things about my hair:

• It was thinning at an alarming rate.
• It had grayed to the point of almost being white
• It made me look old.

The girls have heard this story ad nauseum (like most of my stories), but this episode had a lot to do with the realization that I needed to do something about my look.

While in a deli line, I had Kristin in my arms (she was a toddler, maybe two or three, so this was probably 10 years ago). The deli counter lady smiled at Kristin and asked me, "Would you like a sample of American cheese for your granddaughter?"

Thud.

Granddaughter.

That one stung.

But the mistake was understandable. What with the gray hair and its gradual exit from my scalp, I did look like someone old enough to have a grandchild.

It seems as if my hair has been in a transitional phase my entire life. As a kid, it was thin and blond, and I wore a bowl-cut ala Dennis the Menace.

As a teen, it darkened and thickened. A lot. Around the temples in the summers, it would get bushier and bushier until I couldn't stand it anymore and would beg the barber to thin it out.

In my 20s, I began going gray. Yes, 20s. 

By my 30s, it was salt-and-peppery, sort of like my Dad's. But he was in his 60s at that phase.

In my 40s, I had more gray than black. And just recently, the hairline began the backward crawl from my forehead back toward my ears.

I actually considered coloring it. More than once. But the fact that it was thinning at an alarming rate stopped me. There wasn't even enough to hold color, should I be interested in the bother and expense (and discomfort) of dye.

Not wanting the Friar Tuck look (hair only around my ears and the back of my scalp), I took matters into my own hands.

And shaved it off.

And really? I'm okay with it. 

There are advantages:

• I can step from the shower and be dry and ready to dress in seconds.
• I can drive with the windows down in the car and not emerge looking like a cast member of the Hair Bear Bunch.
• I'm more streamlined in the pool. Swimming underwater is really neat.
• I'm saving time and cash on haircuts, which, with tip, were stretching toward $30.
• I'm ready to go should Broadway issue the casting call for a revival of The King and I.

 The bald truth.

Ringu

I habitually wear two rings. One is my wedding band, nestled on my left hand for the past quarter century, nudged there by Eileen and left in place so long that the skin has crimped around it.

It's been dinged over the years, smudged with diaper ointment along the way, glooped with barbecue sauce, coated with cookie dough, and had a few dog hairs caught in it.

But it remains what it started out to be: an unbroken symbol of the promise we made to each other 25 years ago and that we work diligently to keep day after day, year after year.

The one on my right hand has not been as steady.

Initially, the right-hand ring was from the Class of 1981 Cardinal O'Hara High School. The rectangular red stone was immediately identifiable -- even at a distance -- and unlike other graduates who lose interest in their class rings after a number of years, I wore mine proudly into college.

It was replaced in 1984 with the class ring of St. Joseph's University, a rounded blue stone that sat high on a gold mound encrusted with dates and seals and Latin... and, of course, a Hawk that will Never Die.

In 2006, that SJU ring was replaced on my right hand with the ring I'm wearing now. Taking that action -- ditching my school ring(s) -- was not something I took lightly. I worked hard for them and enjoyed the badge of honor they represented.

But the replacement meant even more to me.

The replacement was my father's ring, a 1950s-era gold band with a solitary diamond nested in a square setting.

I wear it as much to honor him as the story behind it.

Dad entered the U.S. Navy at age 17, diverting his college attendance several years while he served his country. Because he did not receive a ring from a university in his early 20s (as many of his friends did), his parents bought him a ring, tiding him over until he earned one himself.

He did eventually attend LaSalle University and wore its ring. But that piece of jewelry was lost at a baseball practice, when Dad slipped his hand out of a mitt and accidentally slid the ring off with the glove, losing it in the tall grass of the field. Despite a hands-and-knees search in the waning sunlight (this was well before hobbyist metal detectors), it was gone forever.

So he went back to wearing the ring his parents gave him. Usually it was on special occasions -- weddings, funerals, Christmas -- when he was all dressed up, suit-and-tie style. I remember distinctly that if Dad was wearing cufflinks, he was also wearing his diamond ring.

I also remember him tapping it in rhythm to the tunes on the AM radio in his car, creating a cheery pinging counterpoint on the horn ring. Back when cars had horn rings!

I always admired that piece of jewelry.

When Dad passed away in 2006, Mom asked my brother and me if there were anything of his that we particularly wanted.

I wanted the ring.

And with very few exceptions, it has remained on my hand ever since. Glancing at it while I'm driving or playing the organ or cooking or typing at the compute -- as I'm doing now -- seeing it glint in the light... it all works to keep him close in my memory.

Which is why it has supplanted all other rings on that right hand.

And probably always will.

 

Traveled but Unraveled

I think I need the official restoration of the Catholic Church's veneration of St. Christopher.

Especially as patron saint of travelers.

St. Christopher's feast day was apparently rescinded -- as far as my 10 minutes' research has been able to find -- because there was some question about his martyrdom. 

 Regardless, I may be investing in a St. Christopher medal, especially given my travel schedule lately.

I've been away from business travel for the past 10 years or so. Earlier in my career, I did a fair amount of it, zipping to Washington D.C. or New York when I was handling communications related to the banking industry. (D.C. for the regulatory front; NY for the money-center front.)

Now that I'm in travel and tourism, I'm on the road a little more.

Business travel hasn't changed all that much. Post-9/11 security measures make things a little more inconvenient, but I'm okay with the trade-off of slipping out of my shoes in exchange for the assurance that nobody's packing napalm in their Nunn Bushes.

My luck with travel started getting sketchy when I flew to Detroit to bring Parker home from his Michigan breeder. It was supposed to be a quick in-and-out trip; I wasn't even going to leave the airport, with the breeder bringing the eight-week-old guy to me, handing him off, and enabling me to zip right back home.

Didn't work out that way.

The transfer went fine. I had borrowed a carry-bag to enable Parker to ride in the cabin with me, rather than in the luggage compartment, something I was insistent on.

But then the flight got delayed. A lot. And I spent about five hours in the Detroit airport with a little puppy.

We played. He napped. And his bathroom needs were met with inventiveness and creativity (luckily, we only had to deal with the liquid end), thanks to some potty-pads I had brought for the lining of the borrowed bag.

And luckier still, I had brought some kibble and some dog cookies for good measure.

We were told the delay was attributable to the flight crew, who couldn't quite be found. The aircraft was right outside the window, but there was nobody to drive!

The real kicker came when said crew arrived (hey, Mr. Co-Pilot, what'd you do, oversleep?), and we finally got on the plane. And then weather in Philadelphia delayed us on the tarmac.

So then Parker became that whining baby on a plane, except instead of caterwauling, he barked and whimpered along the way. Thank you, fellow passengers, for your patience as we sat there an additional two hours waiting to take off.

Eileen texted me mid-wait: "How are you? How is Parker?"

I responded: "Parker is fine; I'm fraying at the edges!"

Thankfully, we made it home. Once I got him off the plane, I rushed Parker to the first available patch of green grass that Philadelphia International Airport had to offer.

He was very glad to see it.

This past May, I was sent to Memphis for a business conference.

I was originally supposed to fly through Atlanta, but at the last minute, my flight was re-routed through Detroit.

Ummm, yeah.

And so it was no surprise when, two years later and on a different carrier, I was again delayed.

Because the flight crew wasn't there.

Okay, so last week I was sent to Washington D.C. No planes this time! I was Amtrak-ing it.

Ride down: No problem.

Ride home: Delayed. First we were set back an hour because our passenger train had gotten stuck behind a slow-moving freight train. Then the delay stretched to 90 minutes.

Finally boarded. Whew.

And there was one more setback along the way when an exiting passenger couldn't find her bag.

St. Christopher! Where are you when I need you?

Pater-nalism

Father's Day is Sunday, and my thoughts have been with my dad.

A lot.

Walking Parker, mostly, when I'm alone in the early mornings.

Or driving by myself to/from work.

I hear his voice; see his smile; remember...

He was a great dad. Not perfect, but definitely above average as far as I'm concerned. Did he make mistakes? Certainly. Were there things about him I would like to have seen him change? Absolutely.

Do I miss him?

Daily.

He gave us all so much. I feel like all the gifts and wisdoms he provided over the years have revealed themselves over time, as if they weren't all there when he left us in 2006 but have come to the surface in the intervening years.

I guess that has more to do with my changing than his...

I learned much about being a husband and a father. About being a dog lover and an Eagles fan. About being a man devoted to his family and his faith. About the importance of good citizenship and a good shine on dress shoes. About the restorative power of the sea and the magic in a sky full of dazzling constellations. About the fun of whistling a tune or playing mumbletypeg. Kite flying. Pinewood derby racers. Lionel trains. New York Times crossword puzzles. Shoveling snow and cutting grass.

So many lessons.

Among my favorites of his lessons are these top five:

• Do what you have to do. This one wasn't so much preached by him as lived by him. As his career with the U.S. Navy was entering its final stages (about 10-15 years before he could retire), Dad's position was relocated from the Philadelphia Navy Yard to the Lakehurst Naval Air Station. In one stroke of a pen from a commanding officer, his commute went from about 40 minutes to about 90. He and his colleagues organized a bus to take him to and from work, but the commute must have been grueling. He seldom complained. It was just part of his overall philosophy: You can't change it; you can't fix it; so there's no use bellyaching about it.

• Make music part of your life. I experienced this lesson two ways: one familialy and one personally. On the family front, there was the giant Fisher console stereo that he wanted in the living room. The purchase of this monstrosity of a music machine was at his direction, I learned later. The household budget at the time forced a decision between a state-of-the-art hi-fi or a color television. Choosing music over the Mickey Mouse Club, Dad opted for the stereo. A color TV wouldn't come into the house for several years later. But the idea that music was important was driven home. The second aspect had to do with my church work and choir participation. Singing next to him in the adult choir of church -- our voices intertwining in intricate harmonies -- remains one of my warmest memories of him. What I wouldn't give to re-live one of those Christmas Eve Masses with him next to me.

• Tell a good story and tell it well. Both Mom and Dad had good senses of humor that often came out in the stories they told, but Dad had a much more magical approach. Whether he was relating a tale from his own youth (pranking fellow Boy Scouts as they used the outhouse) or his courtship with Mom (replacing Grandpop Cloney's stolen Christmas tree, taken from atop the car during a Yuletide tipple at a local tavern), Dad could keep a listener rapt. I know he inherited it from his father, who could blarney with the best of 'em.

• Love your children a lot and your wife more. Mom and Dad never had cross words in front of us. Never. When they would argue (and this was rare, but I remember some of it associated with the Nixon years and their opposite political views), they would take the heated discussion to the basement and spar in front of the roaring clothes dryer, assuming that its roar would drown out their harsh words. (The technique was only semi-successful, as we'd listen by the heat registers.) But when it was over, it was over, and there was no lingering resentment in the aftermath.

• Be a great father and an even better grandfather. On this last point, the picture below says it all:

Happy Father's Day, Dad. Miss you...

Marathon-on, Mr. Movie

Steve Friedman was an on-air radio personality with The Big Talker WCAU (1210 AM, and prior to that, WWDB), back when WCAU featured local talent talking about local issues.

He also became a friend, much to my surprise and delight.

Steve Friedman went by the title "Mr. Movie." His Saturday night shows -- frequently from 10 p.m. to 6 a.m. -- were known as "Mr. Movie Marathons," eight hours behind the mic, fielding calls from young and old, local and far away.

I happened on Steve's show by accident. This must have been around 1989 or so; I know Eileen and I were married and living in Jeffersonville at the time. We were driving home one Saturday night from some event or movie, and the weather was threatening snow for the following morning. Being a church organist, I habitually tuned my ear to potential bad weather on Sunday mornings, so I turned on the car radio to hear the latest predictions. Instead of news, I heard a gentleman on the airwaves talking movies -- a passion of mine for sure -- and I zeroed in on the discussion. It was interesting and engaging and entertaining from the start. What impressed me right off were two things:

1. His extensive knowledge
2. His willingness to let callers discuss their points of view.

Unlike some of his political on-air contemporaries, he was eager to engage callers in discussions and was just as much interested in their opinions and expertise as they were in his.

He discussed the merits of Citizen Kane with the same fervor as he did Santa Claus Conquers the Martians. And he respected fans of both.

"Be your own movie critic," he advised. "Don't let anyone talk you out of loving a movie you love or hating a movie you hate."

I started making a weekly habit of listening. When my eyes couldn't be propped open anymore because of the lateness of the hour, I slid in a cassette tape (remember those?) and recorded as much of the show as was technologically possible. Driving to and from church Sunday mornings, I caught up on the discussions I'd missed the prior night by going to bed. 

The first podcast!

I learned a ton listening to this show. I had a relatively expansive background in movies before then, but he took what was akin to an elementary school knowledge and led me to doctorate-level. All while being gentle and encouraging and warm.

His favorite film was Forbidden Planet. He laid claim to the bragging rights of having seen more films than Roger Ebert, a fact that Ebert himself (begrudgingly) admitted. The film Steve listed as most important of all time was It's a Wonderful Life, a stance that confirmed to me that he and I were kindred spirits.

And most impressively, he exhibited an encyclopedic knowledge of movies. If he had seen one feature one time, he had instantaneous recall about its every detail.

The most common callers, which I thoroughly enjoyed, were those frantic souls wracking their brains to remember the title of a film they had seen decades ago. And Steve was uniformly able to help.

"I saw this picture once about two lovers stuck on a desert island, but it wasn't Blue Lagoon because it was in black and white and nobody was naked..."

We're Not Dressing (1934) with Bing Crosby.

"There was this movie on late one night about a tree that grows dollar bills, but I can't remember the title."

It Grows on Trees (1952) with Irene Dunne.

"My dad used to talk about a movie where a guy captures Death up in an apple tree. But I never got the title."

On Borrowed Time (1939) with Lionel Barrymore

And on and on. He never failed.

Turns out his photographic memory for film was a gift he had been given as the result of a childhood accident. As he told it, he was leaning over a kitchen toaster, trying to pry a piece of bread from the coils with a knife. The cutlery connected with the heating element, and as he pushed forward, his abdomen came in contact with the aluminum rim of the countertop. The resulting shock knocked him to the floor, and his parents flew into a panic that he had electrocuted himself. 

No. He was fine. But after that incident, he had instant recall for imagery -- limited, it turned out, to only imagery. For although he knew a lot about history and science as well, his total recall was pretty much confined to movies and television. He even submitted to study by the University of Pennsylvania, I recall him saying, to test the limits of his abilities.

He loved telling this story: He was once asked about the actress who played the first victim in the movie blockbuster Jaws. He quieted himself for a moment and eventually came up with the name: Susan Backlinie.

When asked how he summoned that obscure name, his answer was both amazing and a little frightening.

"I ran the credits in my head," he said.

That vast knowledge was at his fingertips. He routinely logged eight hours of airtime about the movies, not using a single print resource. No encyclopedias, no books, no internet (didn't exist back then).

Nothing.

I started calling in. I became a regular. I was "Dan from Jeffersonville."

Soon, Steve began recognizing my voice and respecting my insights, such that they were. He started talking to me off-air, in the queue, before I'd go live. What was I seeing? What did I think? What was I looking forward to?

I talk often of the movies he "gave" me, the films that he recommended that I'd never seen (or, in some cases, heard of) that he loved: The Court Jester (1955), for example. Go Tell the Spartans (1978). The Haunting (1963).

Our friendship grew. Steve gave me the extreme honor of asking me into the studio to watch him work, so one Saturday night, I drove to the WCAU studios on City Line Avenue, met Steve in the parking lot, and accompanied him to his booth to watch him work.

One of the biggest thrills of my life.

Steve once helped me out of a professional jam as well, coming to my rescue when I needed a "name" speaker for a work-related event. Without charge, he attended, presented, and was captivating.

The photo below is from that evening.

Sadly, ill health drew the curtain down on the life of Steve Friedman. In 2009, he succumbed to kidney disease. 

I miss him.
 
Rest well, Mr. Movie. I hope where you are, the screens are clean, the crushed-velvet seats are comfortable and the popcorn is warm and fresh.