upfromdysfunction.com

It was this time last year when, on a rare vacation, I made a friend.

We recognized each other from Cleveland, but this was Vegas. Still, familiar faces colliding miles away HAVE to say hello and so we did.
Mike was a poker dealer with one ear and a nice enough guy. I remembered him well. (How many one-eared dealers do YOU know?)

“Where are your friends?” he asked from his seat (two to my right). He was referring to other Clevelanders, the usual suspects I ran with.
“They’re here, “ I said, with a confirming motion across the card room. “To me it’s all the same but they love Mandalay Bay”.

Players came and went, but we stayed. Dealers rotated, but we remained— and as the automatic shufflers pumped, kinship developed.

I told him how my Dad would play gin tourneys at the Union Plaza downtown…about how I’d entered one year and got my butt kicked.

He opened up a bit more; he got real. Turned out his name wasn’t Mike, but Earl. Turned out he was due back in Ohio for a court date…”a support issue.”

“How long you here?” (I’m so naïve).
“Nah…not going…. Don’t have a lawyer.” (I smelled denial—his sense that if he didn’t think about it it would go away. I’d seen this movie before).
“We need to talk,” I urged him, and at a break we did.

Mike, I surmised, didn’t have a pot to piss in; he needed a break. Maybe I could help.

“You got to call the Court. They’ll issue a warrant.”
“I’m afraid.”

Well, you know where this is going. Courts were already closed back home, so I faxed in a letter. A call in the morning secured postponement, and over time and two court appearances, we worked out the issues with his “ex.”

“Send me a bill.” he urged, but we both knew he didn’t have it. The guy was on empty and I could relate. Been there; done that.

I told him about my bottom, in the 90’s…when I was afraid…when I didn’t have that proverbial pot…

I told him about another kid from the streets of South Euclid, another lawyer named Bruce…how he and his partner rallied me and represented me, knowing full well the money wasn’t there.

They knew then, and showed me by example, that you can’t be too busy making a living to help another make a life.

“Mike” and I are friends today because of Mandel’s largess to me. It goes to show you just never know. My guess is that when my friend picked me up by the bootstraps back then he never dreamed he’d touch a one-eared poker deal out west.

Kindness is like a shooting star…you never know where it lands.

6AM.

Grasping for the ringing phone, eyes wide shut, I fumbled. “Morning Joe” aired and it was time to rise but the lids wouldn’t open.

“Hello.”

“How’s my big boy?” asked my mother.
“What’s the matter?” said I …not quite awake.
“Nothing. Just checking on my boy.”

“Everything’s fine Mom…. “We miss you.” (I added, gaining strength).

“Didn’t I always tell you you would?—remember?”

“Yes Mom.”

“And the kids?” she posed.

“That’s an essay question…” I began, but fortunately she interrupted.

“Are you keeping your weight down? “Sorry I missed the wedding. You know I planned to be there. I’ll bet it was nice.”

“Mom, why are you calling? Really.”

“Bruce, Bruce—still asking questions! Was Harriet there? What did she wear?” (She said— still asking questions). “Did she walk down the aisle?”

“Really Mom, why the call?”

”I hope you remembered to invite Laura. You know Stacy was named for Laura’s father Sam. Please say you remembered.”

“Yes Mom. On my list.”

“You know Bruce—I can’t be there to remind you anymore.”

“Yes Mom. Is that really why you called?”

“And Rocky—did you ever get him back? Are you dating? You shouldn’t be alone—“

“That’s Adam…and No Mom.”

“Is the back seat of your car clean?“

“Mom?”

“Do you REALLY want to know why I called? It’s almost a year, you know.”

(Was she kidding? My mother calling long distance? Had to be a reason).

“To talk about Hal?”

“No.” For the first time her voice was calming:
“He’ll be fine. I promise.”

“Then what Mom? I mean you didn’t even reverse the charges? We were just JOKING about suing Ed. Why the call?”

There was a long pause before she spoke.

“You know me Bruce— insecure. Promise you’ll go to Park on my yahrtzeit—it’s not a lodge night. I checked.”

“Mom, you don’t have to ask. C’mon.”

“And not Sunday morning, either. At night. Friday night…when they read my name.”

“Yes Mom,” I assured, knowing full well that meant two services. (A Friday Maariv reading of ALL her names would carry well into Saturday morning).

“And stand next to your brother.”
“Yes Mom.”

There was more silence and then she told me she loved me.

“Me too,” I said, but she was gone. Again.

Rethinking the call I turned on the shower. Mothers know their kids inside and out; ours was no different. Her yahrtzeit? Hal and I together?
The call wasn’t necessary….for her. What else?

I thought some more.

“He’ll be fine. I promise.” “He’ll be fine. I promise.” Her words echoed…and sunk in. Then, knowing full well my mother never lied to me I stepped in the shower.

And I sang.

I signed the security sheet and went up to the sixth floor. The elevator opened to a massive plate glass window fronting a sign with the corporate name. I was in the right place.

“Is Mr. Bogart in?”
“Yes, whom should I say is calling?”
“Mr. Bogart.” (I smiled).

Waiting patiently, my memory scanned a canvas of the past:

Michael atop home plate: hoisting a trophy. All of ten in his grape/white uniform—Madison, Ohio. Jamie, clad in white/gold, is cheerleading and eyeing the stands where the Little One, Stacy, is multi-tasking—doing gymnastics in black tights and also sleeping aside Rocky in the cage.
(Don’t ask me how—it’s MY mosaic).

“He’s in a conference,” came the voice. “Would you like to wait? It’ll be a while.” (Was she kidding? Of course I would. Took long enough to get here). “Give him a half hour,” she offered.

Scouring the streets for a newspaper I came up empty. As my legs were about to fall off, settling for a salad at Moonstruck but two doors away, my mind wandered again…..

Michael was the eldest, but his was the last office of my kids to be seen. The final picture of their embryonic careers to be colored in. Just the way it fell.

Jamie’s was first. ‘Twas a few years back, and I don’t quite recall the circumstance. Law office, tall building, Manhattan. We hung out the whole day—as adults. She gave me a room with a view and a computer—then left to go about her business.

Stacy was next. We were there maybe five minutes, but there was her desk… in a loft…in Chicago. The better stuff came later as Rooney strut Savvy Avenue. How grateful am I that she works some in Cleveland? That she’ll use my office? What a kick to watch her work, focus….to walk in when she’s on the phone and have her waive me off! Good stuff.

And now I was about to see Michael Robert Bogart in his daytime habitat.
Complete the trifecta! ,,,,,and I sat there, wondering if the kids grasped, if they got how proud I was.

On my office bookshelf sits a tome entitled “Reverse Mergers.” It covers corporate stuff (and NOT, as the title suggests, my 1972 marriage). I don’t understand one word of it, nor care to. Jamie, though, is mentioned on page 230-line 8, so there it sits, forever….aside a built-in slot for papers bearing the following bold red signage: “BOHRER Savvy Avenue, where Stacy banks her work-in-progress. From the side, atop the cabinet (3 o’clock on your watch as you sit at my desk), angled to look down on his sisters…is a picture of my son. It’s twelve years old, and he’s kneeling on the grass of Ohio Stadium, helmet by his side….Adjacent to the photo is a faded tabloid, dated March 16, 2000: The Commercial Property News, residue of Michael’s first job.

I wonder if they knew.

The server brought the check and I paid. Crossing the street I reminded myself that Michael’s office would have pictures of Meredith, not me. Just like Jamie’s had Eric, and Stacy’s had Jason. That, indeed, the baton had passed to the next generation.

Minutes later the elevator door opened again to the sixth floor. I bounded out, re-entered through glass, and with pride announced:

“I’m here to see Mr. Bogart.”

Fenton and I knew him— Roy Hobbs, that is. Went to school together. Would like to say we ran with him, but the fact is no one could catch him. Not that (on paper) he was better…it’s just he had that swagger. I never dated in high school and Stuart did, but our friend cruised through Brush top down, full speed ahead, like a Mustang in heat.

Roy Hobbs was The Natural.

We’re on the back nine now. Each, in our own way, has had a good run. Roy, of course, is still running. Roy, of course, is still playing, (or feigning it). He is in many ways the Brett Favre of gamesmanship.

Consider:

Forty years ago Hobbs played an exhibition game (let’s call her Karla). He circled the bases then, but the stats have long been lost in life’s shuffle. Still, Roy being Roy, it came as no real surprise when at the century’s turn he exclaimed:

“I wonder where Karla is. How can we find her?” “Let it go,” said Stuart as I laughed and asked “Why?”

“Because I want to find her. That’s why!”

He craved that one last at bat, he did. He was on a mission. Roy Hobbs, aging, but not necessarily grown up, ached to enter the batter’s box again.

“B, you can find her. I know you can!” (He wasn’t done: “Fenton, tell the B to find her.” Stuart, eager to agitate and aggravate, would respond: “You know, Roy, if B really wanted to, he could find her in a minute.” It was a dialogue repeated ad nauseum.

For years I demurred. No, make that decades. Then, somewhere in the days of Bush (or was that daze of Bush?), I caved.

Our friend was elated. He had no current name, no current address–but he did know she was married and in Chicago.

“B, ya gotta find her,” he cajoled. Fenton egged on: “If you can do this, B, it’ll be a big one.” (He KNEW my soft spot).
“I’d do it myself, you know, but I can’t,” urged Hobbs.
“OK,” I said. “I’ll do it for the story.”
Stuart roared his concluding needle: ”He’ll find her in a week, you watch.”

But I couldn’t. And the more I couldn’t the more Roy pushed. He just never let up.

“I think her parents are alive…
“I think they live in the apartment behind Eastgate… Have you looked at court records?…If you go to the apartment building I’ll wait in the car…”
“If you really wanted to you would….I know you, B.”

But I couldn’t. Probate Court brought a marriage license—worthless. Google was a waste and even Regina High’s alumni list dead-ended. I loved Roy, but, I could read a hand. It was 2008 and I was all in.

The past years were peaceful. Roy mentioned her here and there and Stuart stirred the pot, (but with little enthusiasm). Perhaps, we concluded, she was another Fromin: happy to be unfound.

This spring, again, Stuart put the ball in play:

“I know where B could find her,” he pronounced. “Facebook!” It was enough to send Hobbs to the on deck circle. Still when the plea on my “Wall” came up empty, we were down to our last outs.

It was a few Saturdays ago when the break came. The tip came from a friend, anonymously: a new last name! Sensing the runner in scoring position, I called only Stuart. Quietly, discreetly, he waited.

Ten days ago we found her on Facebook, Another name, another state; same face.

Hobbs got the news by conference call and was elated.

“What else did you learn?” he asked us.
“Nothing. I’ve written her though…The flag is up!”

This morning she wrote back. Married with children, said. Thrilled to be remembered. No more, no less.

We called Roy to break the news.

“She’s married!
“I figured.” he noted. “Why wouldn’t she be? I just wanted to find her.”
And with that, Roy Hobbs trekked back to the dugout.

Favre went out on a turnover. Not our friend. Roy Hobbs went out a winner.

It’s not whether you win or lose, you know…it’s how you play the game. Roy Hobbs played it like the man he was: The Natural.

Remember the powdered orange juice Tang? Healthy, fruity with a tease of sour. My world today is one abundant packet of Tang: on balance quite sweet, but (if I choose to sense it), a bit of aftertaste. I opt instead to rinse often with prayer.

‘Tis true what they say: Prayer doesn’t change things around you—it changes you. Good enough for this cowboy. Contently I tend to glide through the turmoil to focus on the tranquil. The things beyond my control? I’m trying to give time…time.

And so, boarding yet another plane to LaGuardia, knowing I’ll see but half the NY contingent, staring at a weekend of two different worlds… I’m upbeat—anticipating friendship, family and life. It’s not what it could be, not what it will be, but good, nonetheless.

Staying in the city this evening— dinner with an old friend of The Jersey Girl. Graduation (among other things) divided them. My ex, of course, anchored in Cleveland. Linda ran the faster track of New York and L.A, returning east to raise kids.

Three Decembers ago, putzing around on the computer…bored, maybe even lonely—Pre-Facebook….I googled her. What’s 35 years among friends?

Mitten derinnen (as Grandma Bogart would say)….low and behold, I found two! Separately emailing each, my note read only: “Are you the Linda that went to OSU in the late 60’s?” “Yes, but who are you?” came the lone response, taking me aback.

Was not my surname in the email address?

Boredom trumped ego and I wrote back. Friendship rekindled, weeks later the kids dropped me in Manhattan for a reunion lunch. (This was right after the Great Weight Loss of ’06; clad in a white Polo shirt from Eric I had that swagger)!

I’ve seen her thrice since. No more. Family takes priority, by far. The last I looked there were only so many hours per weekend. It might be different if the kids ever came home—but they don’t. It might be different if we were physical, but we’re not. Time and circumstance shape everything, including chemistry.

Tonight it’s just the comfort of two friends— masks undone years ago. We’ll share past, present and future, trading laughter for smiles. Sometime late (or maybe early?) she’ll recoil to the health and welfare issues of her family. I’ll follow suit, heading to Long Island.

Both of us will return to our lives.

And so it is….

In my father’s house there was no distinction between our state’s capital and Ohio State; they were synonymous. Years later I learned just how different they were.

Columbus is a great, growing city. Ohio State, although it hosted the best years of my life, is…at the end of the day…a callous business. This, by the way, is difficult for me: I used to bleed scarlet and gray.

When we were young we went to Columbus by train. Sleeping downtown at the Neil House, hitting campus an hour pre-game, we’d marvel as our father paced the closed end of the stadium finding tickets from scalpers. “Wait ‘til kickoff. Trust me,” he’d urge: “Prices will drop.”

Those were simpler times—before Ohio State was “The” Ohio State. We’d walk High then take that long drive out Main to Emil’s to view desserts in a showcase. (Did I mention our dad weighed 350?).

Columbus. Ohio State. All the same.

I idolized Al Bogart and genetically he transmitted his affinity for Columbus. Sophomore year Dad relocated to central Ohio, renting in the heart of campus. Like I said—even then, to my father in his 40’s, Columbus and Ohio State—one and the same.

It was a woman, of course, that showed him the light. He called her “Beautiful Harriet,” and when they married Al Bogart moved off campus for good…to the real Columbus. My kinship with the city only grew. There was a whole community out there…with adults, warm, loving people. Our Dad, of course, fit right in, easily melding with not only his new family, but the same milieu of Damon Runyon characters he’d left in Cleveland.

It felt like a home. Senior year, anticipating marriage, I asked The Jersey Girl about spending the rest of our lives there. To her it was a cow town. I can’t actually say she declined, though—she never let me finish the question.

The first pedal fell off the rose in ‘72. I’d graduated with a stratospheric accum. Mature Bruce, however, went from an all-night card game directly to the 8-hour law boards, faring poorly. Sensing I could do better, my dad and I met with some counselor in the Student Union. “Take the boards again, increase your score by 50…and we’ll accept you.”

So I did what I was told, retook the tests and improved 120. Rejected again.

AB was outraged. His school would never do that! It gave its word! Incensed, he not only called the state house, but got an appointment. And so it was that we met with Governor John Gilligan—live and in person.

The state’s Chief Executive listened then spoke: “Sorry, gentleman, I can’t tell those guys uptown what to do. I’m only the governor.”

I forgave the school at the time; my father, a Jim Rhodes Republican, blamed Democrat Gilligan. The fact was, and is, that the university is bigger than the state. The fact was, and is that the school I was so committed to wouldn’t honor its commitment to me.

Years later the schism between city and State was drawn with indelible ink again. At issue was something more important that a school admission—it was a school expulsion.

Freshman year our daughter was the victim of a violent crime. She sought counsel with her school and justice from the state. Only the state came through. Even worse, Stace learned her assailant had been accused of a sexual assault by another women just weeks prior. The school had not charged him; he remained on campus.

The few miles of High Street never seemed longer. Franklin County’s Prosecutor listened and followed through. Securing the appropriate indictment, pursuing a just conviction, it honored its commitment to do the right thing. The school, however, stayed uptown.

To her credit, as OSU stonewalled her, Stacy took action. Rather than remain in anonymity like so many victims, she came forward. For her efforts she was awarded the Jean Clery Award by Security On Campus, Inc. for “extraordinary effort to make college students safer.” (Shame… that it was even necessary).

To this day I love Columbus and all IT stands for. Family thrives there; our dad’s buried there…. Used to be on trips back we’d exit 71 at Hudson, cruise down High, reminisce, then shoot out the freeway to the cemetery. No more.

Today I separate the reverie of Columbus from the actions of the college.
Reluctantly recalling our daughter’s travails—how her school: the school of her parents, uncle, aunt, grandparents, friends…how The School let her down…I just can’t feel like I used to. The thrill is gone.

Like I said, I used to bleed scarlet and gray—proudly. But they bailed on my kid—they did. So now my memory just bleeds.

“It’s the best book I’ve ever read!” Hal announced to anyone willing to listen. Then, underscoring his fervor, he bought copies…several, and mailed them out. Not only to me, but to Fenton, to some guy at work, and get this—to my favorite ex-wife. And so it was that I devoured Bob Greene’s “When We Get To Surf City,” a narrative of travels in the back-up troupe for Jan & Dean. Indeed, it’s the wondrous journal of friends breaking bread and breaking into melody, the title taken from their signature song.

Surf City, the book says:

`“…the happy, cloudless place we all want to believe is out there… all the dreams that do come true, and all the dreams that don’t…”

There’s a lot going on around me these days. Not all of it is good.
Life issues. Real stuff. Very real stuff. Still, for one hour each week I get to Surf City. For one hour each week I ride that wave. For sixty minutes—peace.

Wednesday mornings, (absent reluctant commitment elsewhere), 8:30 means Corky’s. Each week, (barring Vegas, surgeries or Bob’s tax season), Les, Walt, Art, and Brother Himmel saunter in…and en masse, secure in our reserved back booth, we solve the problems of the world. Every Wednesday…like clockwork.
Used to be that Siegal came—but it’s been a while. Jerry’s busy running Kramerica, or whatever else it is he does when he doesn’t do anything (which is daily). Oh, and Snyder comes by from time to time, generally the week of his birthday. By and large, though, it’s We Five.

This week, as always, I didn’t want it to end. “What’s the number?” I asked Les, the clock compelling my exit, “Have to justify my existence. Gotta go.” (This week the math came out even—no need for a lottery).

T’is nothing special ‘bout our meal, little unique in our discussion. Truth be known, we have in fact had only one conversation in all these years. It’s just so good we keep repeating it.

Against the central theme of Arthur’s health, family and payroll, Les offers critique of the Indians, Browns and, (in all but Michigan Week), Jim Tressel). Interruption comes only through rare phone rings or my occasional inquiry about someone I’ve met. None of the married guys knows anyone though…although Lester often offers to ask Nancy. I pass, of course—knowing full well the folly of letting worlds collide—
And Arthur goes on.
Sometime before 9 Roz will bring the wrong order. By then Walt has announced that he is either leaving for Vegas or that he’s just returned. We discuss tournament poker, of course, and, as we did this week, explain the concept of “All In” to Snyder…again.
(Like I said…there is little unique about this confab).
Breakfast always include updates of names from the past, from high school to college. We’re still at the point where those cited are alive. One, (Fromin of course), was actually dead when the breakfasts began and resurrected only last year.
One such Wednesday I announced the upcoming road trip. H and I were meeting Steve in Jersey.
“You’re such as ass!” Arthur cried. “He’s dead!” Ten minutes later, after recounting the sad funeral, the Kraut relented. “Maybe I wasn’t there.”
I remember years ago in Columbus when my Dad would leave for his gin game. The horn would honk, he’d dash out the door…like it was the Second Coming or something…like it was something special…something other than his weekly game with his weekly guys.
But was just that. And THAT is what made it special.
I sense the same gait Wednesdays as I scamper through the deli.
Gliding past tables to the back, to the same booth, the same guys. Yes,
that’s what makes it special. That’s why once a week I can sing:
Surf City here we come!

“I’m leaning on a lamp post
At the corner of the street
In case a certain little lady comes by….”

“What are you doing Valentine’s Day? “ asked the Jewish Dobie Gillis.
“New York,” I said.

Bob wasn’t done: “You should call that girl I mentioned in Vegas. She’s got a thing for you…Trust me…I can tell these things.”

“Leave me alone,” I groaned. (We’d had the EXACT unsolicited conversation in Nevada). “Absolutely not interested, and besides….”

Then came then pronouncement only Snyder’s mentality could fashion:
“I bet she’d lose twenty pounds if you asked her to!”

“Nah.” Laughing, I ended it, or so I thought. (She wasn’t so heavy—and besides, who THINKS that way?)

“You need to listen to me more,” he said, somewhat rabbinically, with an air that told me the subject could now be closed.

I love our banter—especially about women. He always encourages me, always prompts me. (Even when I’m in one of those “content to be content” zones, which is where I’ve slid today): Would like to be “with” but getting used to being without…until….

Perhaps it’s laziness? Time was more effort was expended to meet someone. Even if it meant just being where we thought the person might stroll by. Leaning on that lamp post, just in case. I actually believed there’d be a scene like the one painted in “Some Enchanted Evening.”

Time was. When we were new divorcees, Weiskopf and I would walk the produce department at Heinen’s and with little success. He’d blanche at the big bag of dog food draped over my cart. No pet at home, but I thought it made me look like the sensitive type. (That, by the way, was my A game).

Time was. The seas of singledom have rarely been choppy and often been busy—ebbs and flows interrupted by intermittent sojourns to Match.Com (nee Love@AOL), and JDate. The cycle, alas, has become predicable.

Winter boredom drives me to JDate, which accomplishes little. I’m on my home court. Over time, everyone here meets or knows of everyone. At least in our hood. Query then: Is there any Cleveland Jew that, over the years, I haven’t tripped on, isn’t already in the Friend Zone, or that, realistically isn’t already aware of me, and, having done her due diligence, herself opted to pass?

But I enroll anyway, (throwing good money after bad). Indeed, Vegas operates on this same concept of intermittent reinforcement. Slots pay off just enough to keep hopes alive. So too with internet dating. (See Krug/Wieder, circa 2006).

It never fails, though: a few months in I always ask “Does she really have to be Jewish?” After all, I’m not having kids. And Jewish women run a D & B on you.

My support system, my panel of experts (so to speak) —they’re all married. Moreover, the feedback from the guys is mixed:

The Jews say it shouldn’t matter. Most opine that shiksas are indeed nicer, less stress. (Each, by the way, remains married within our faith). To a man, they urge me to look beyond.

The Gentiles don’t care. They don’t even see it as an issue. They do not, however, understand that when a Jewess speaks of carrying her “over the threshold” she speaks of a financial threshold.

Burnside says money’s no issue…that I don’t give people enough credit. I say he’s full of shit. Still, in recent months my confidence reigned. Boldly I phoned a few ladies from that primo zip code. Both, of course, blew me off.

Which brought me back to JDate…and Match.

We’re teasing March now. Close enough. Melting snow turning to sunshine…Coffee houses with patios reopening….

I cancelled JDate last month. The other goes soon. Like I said…the weather’s breaking. And the cycle again is turning. My weight is down, somewhat respectable. (If only I still had my bichon Adam. HE is a “chick magnet.”)

Perhaps I’ll call Snyder to hang with me.  Any lamp post.  He can give his advice; I’ll ignore it.  We’ll laugh.

Better yet, Bobby, can bring his dog.

Sol died. I saw it yesterday…on line. He was 96.

Wanted to call Wido first, but it was 7AM—only four in his world. Walt, I knew was in Vegas (same problem). Heck, I wake the Kraut and Vicki gets mad! Ah! Snyder in his car—always a safe move.

“I thought he already died,” Bob offered. Evidently not.

I never met Sol; most of us hadn’t. Still, his largesse to a dozen or so unknown college kids enabled the “Glory Days” of their sandlot lives.
It was the late 60’s. Aging Ruby Wolfe, overlord of the dozen JCC
softball leagues had already taken a liking to Wieder. (And this was before Wieder was WIEDER). Now, off-season, and having grabbed our first title as Waxman Plumbing, we needed a new sponsor.

So for Alan, Ruby found Sol.

Sol wasn’t a family business playing off its ego; he wasn’t some local corporation looking to write-off. He was just a nice Jewish guy, humble in his absence, quietly helping out some nice Jewish kids.

And so for Sol… Ruby found us.

On the fields at Woodhill and the diamonds of Gordon Park teams were sponsored by commercial enterprise. In this Age Of Aquarius, multi-colored flashy uniforms were emblazoned Marshall Carpet, Premiere Industries, whatever. Our muted gray t-shirts, in old-fashioned black, block print read, quite simply: “SOL’S BOYS.”

“Who,” people would ask, “were Sol’s Boys?”
So for years on end we showed them.

We never had quite the funding of other teams. Each spring though, registration fees were paid, new balls showed up, and there was always cash money for tournament umps.

We played. We won. We were happy.

Heck, after a few seasons the pressed letters were crusting off the T’s, but none of us cared. All we really wanted was no rain on game days ‘cause the rest was bullshit. (And me? I was more apt to wear my shirt with jeans at night—more bent to strut Sol than Izod). We all were.

Indeed, the writers noted it. We weren’t uniformed when, under Kirtland’s lights, we made the ASA Sweet Sixteen. As such, the PD scribe, covering our epic upset of Angelo’s Pizza, wrote not of our hits, but of our “ragged outfits.” We wore his derision as our Red Badge Of Courage.

Once there was a rumor floating— he was coming. It was a Sunday morning and I can picture Ruby there, huddling with Alan. But Sol was private; there were no hellos; we never quite knew.

So he never met us. Never heard the gratitude we felt.

In time we moved on. To careers, marriages, children. To lives of ups, downs and inevitable plateaus. The Glory Days, over time, slid safely in our past, (where they belong).

We haven’t forgotten, though. None of us.

We haven’t forgotten the man we never met…whose name we proudly wore…

Each player, in his own way, still revels in our common bond, our common pride: Each of us was one of Sol’s Boys.

And for that, whether you want to hear it or not, Sol,

Thank you.

I’m on the road again. To New York…again. Not complaining, by the way. The fact is, though, traveling is not my strong suit; it wasn’t supposed to be this way. Not that I’ve ever had a life agenda. It is just that whatever it might have been, schlepping through airports wasn’t going to be it.

Hal and I were never taught to set “goals.” (In fact, only once did our dad use the word in a sentence. It was at the end of the ‘58 Giants/Colts NFL title game. We were at Diamonds Men’s Store by Superior and Euclid—the whole family—sitting as the car idled in the parking lot. Ameche had just scored the winning touchdown thus allowing us to go in the store. From the back seat, not quite understanding the delay…I watched our father slam the radio off:

“We win if he kicks the field goal!”

So much for Bogarts and goals. Not our thing.

Of course, there are exceptions to every rule. Spring quarter my sophomore year I wanted a new car. (The 1968 Valiant had 160,000 miles on it). Rather than return to Cleveland for summer break, AB suggested I remain in Columbus, sell magazines, and by vacation’s end accumulate sufficient funds. So I did.

Malaise came by July. Selling Highlights weekdays, returning to Cleveland for weekend softball…it was getting old. $1,700 was saved, but not nearly enough. We were breakfasting on High Street at Johnny’ s State Restaurant when my Dad caved: “The guys in the gin game say you should never do today what you can put off ‘til tomorrow.”

“Your point?”
“Go back to Cleveland. Be with your friends and enjoy the summer. I’ll cover the other half of the car.”

(So much for goals).

It’s not that I NEVER looked to the future. I suppose I did. Rather than setting goals, though I did it through anticipating. Yeah! Anticipation. That’s the ticket!

Still, even in my wildest dreams I never conceived a life style like today’s.

Sure the divorce was (perhaps) inevitable. But who thought I’d be flying solo this long post-decree? And yes, I wanted my children to expand horizons, but did I ever expect that at age (gulp) 60 I’d be traipsing around the country visiting kids that were born and bred in Ohio? They all left! Where was THAT written?

I don’t know what I expected but it wasn’t this.

Our dad used to ask me “When I’m old and gray and can’t see will you read me the sports section?” He neither got old, nor gray (bald, yes). Similarly,
our mother, turning 47, proclaimed her death was imminent— that she’d never see 50. Indeed, her death at 81 made rich people of those wise enough to bet the over.

So much for plans.

I joke about it—the irony of me the non-traveler doing weekends on the road. But the truth is I DO wish I’d planned more, or maybe better. Sometimes I get caught up in the “What if?” game. What if I’d been more fiscally responsible? What if I’d planned for my future? Would things be that much different?

Probably not.

I’d still be living alone sharing life with Hal, Margie and a myriad of friends,
I’d still be watching my weight and driving Aunt Helen. And I’d still be smiling as I kvetched about road trips to see the kids.

So be it.

Life hasn’t turned out as expected. ‘Tis true. In many ways, though, it’s turned out better.