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Once again the glass was half-full…

Sitting in a courtroom Monday, cellphone on the chair to my left to muffle vibration, the damn thing kept buzzing. Moreover, a casual peek (so as not to offend the Court) revealed multiple calls from sources unknown. Only at a recess did I learn just why.

I’d been hacked! An email generated under my name had claimed I’d been mugged in the Philippines.

No wonder Brother Dan had called, later texting “Are you ok?”.

Me in the Philippines? Get real. The closest I ever was to those islands (and I had to google this to confirm), was the trip to Frisco in ’82. (Ed. Note 1: I didn’t want to go there, of course, but ensconced still in marriage, we spent a few days there).

Me in the Phillipines? C’mon. Jamaica, for a daughter Yes. Aruba with a woman, Yeah.  But ME? IN THE PHILIPPINES?

Those who knew me best knew me better. So I didn’t hear, of course, from the Fentons and Wieders. (Nor did I expect to, or think perhaps that they didn’t care). There was a better chance I was pregnant, they well understood, than in the Philippines.

—Still, touched I was as from canyons of my past old voices were heard. Moved I was when more recent contacts, perhaps not privy to my relish for Ohio, also reached out.

It’s nice to know people care.

I got a call from a high-powered attorney I’d dealt with but once. (Years ago it was…a nasty divorce…only counsel got along). And another lawyer phoned too— a politician at that. So right wing is this one that (as the saying goes), he doesn’t even turn left.

And another, from the undertaker. Kirk, in a message at my office, left word he’d send three bucks for the cause.

Word kept dribbling in.

I heard from the Corky’s cashier: “Were you really mugged?” From a Park Synagogue vet: “That’ll teach you to travel.” And I heard too from a slew of old clients. (Ed. Note 2: Interestingly, a text came from a lady that’d stiffed me. Three grand she owes to this day; she didn’t offer money but she still checked in. What was she: hoping it was true?).

And still, the hits kept on coming!

—A text from a girl I’d dated for a year and another from one who’d denied dating me for two…

—And the following cellular colloquy with the lady who bore me three children…

“Got an email from you saying you were in the Philippines, depressed and asking for money.”
AND BEFORE I COULD RESPOND:
“You can do it!!!!” she texted next, and then:
“Very comical.”

(Ed. Note 3: We never did think the same things were funny. Two decades post-decree she thinks I’m stranded in some third-world country and THAT she thinks is humorous?).

The more calls I got though, the more I found it amusing. Heart-warming, even… to think even those perhaps ancillary to my being still cared.

—Until the music was over.

Kenny, (family and former government agent), phoned. Assuming I’d been hacked and mensch that he is, he was just making sure.

“Should I change my password?” I asked him. (‘Twas the kind of thing he’d know).
“Yes, and your name and server.”
Dead silence on my part.
“Just sayin’”, he added.
I didn’t even know what a server was. Still I thanked him, bid adieu, and in a moment of clarity did the “next right thing”.

“I need to change my email,” I said to my kid, in a call that I didn’t want to make. For years he’s been telling me to escape the “dark ages”; for just as long I have balked, resisting change. (Ed. Note 4: My relationship with AOL was nearly as long as my marriage to his mother. Go figure).

Yet the boy came through, as I knew he would.

Painstakingly he worked with me, both that day and the next. Did he know ahead of time how computer-illiterate I was? It mattered not. When all was said and done my friends had answered the bell, my son had answered the call, and I emerged from this week of disarray with a new password, new name, and new server.

(Not that I know what that means).

—A week ago Friday and a night in a lighting booth (watching people push buttons) awaited. Moreover, with the eight-hour Tech Sunday vigil approaching (and our opening in a week), well…

What was I doing here? Really! I mean: me directing a musical? Sure I had guided some comedies, but those came easy. Laughing’s in my wheelhouse — but song and dance? I had to get cute, didn’t I? Had to let my ego run wild! What was I doing at the helm of a cast of forty teens, citing my vision for lights and action, tweaking choreography and costume?

(I should have stuck to slipping on banana peels).

Nine months ago it had been. Submission of my resume to the theater had generated an invitation to interview and I’d jumped at it. Five shows were scheduled for their season, and they wanted to know (in our meeting) which productions I’d favor.

(Ed. Note 1: Thrice in my life I’ve had job interviews: once in law school (third year, after my then-wife aptly pointed out “Bruce, don’t you think it’s time?”, again the summer of the bar exam (with the guys that did hire me), and yet again a decade later, with Mandel’s firm).

—And so it was all that months ago I’d walked up to the second floor of the Arts Center, sat before a quintet of foreign faces, and sold sizzle, not steak. There, in period of twenty minutes (not much more), channeling an inner confidence generated by a high school Snyder in heat, I gave them my candor and enthusiasm…and more than that: my truth.

I told them my first choice was “The Music Man”. My father, I pointed out, had been my Harold Hill. My Dad, I asserted, had the twinkle in his eye that always told me — whether I saw it or not — that there was a band.

I acknowledged too that this would be my first musical, but that I was a “people person” and “team player”, and that I knew how to delegate, was excited for the challenge, and ready (quite frankly) to go to the hoop.

They bought it!

For whatever reason…perhaps it was my enthusiasm…perhaps I was just a breath of fresh air….but they offered me “Bye Bye Birdie”.

And again I jumped! Indeed, perhaps this was a better fit.

How I’d loved the old movie — the first one…with Dick Van Dyke — having seen it at the old Center-Mayfield Theater in the 60’s. Better yet though, I’d thrice done the stage play. In Bay Village and Beachwood, and most recently out in Willoughby had I not been Harry McAfee? Yes, this made sense. I knew the show; I could coax the laughs from cast. THIS, I could handle.

—So I jumped right in.

The “book” says that if you’re going to direct a play you should see it as much as possible, research as much as possible … and so I did. From the teen production in Akron to the excerpts on Youtube, to the emails with directors both here and in Jersey…

— And I knew the show…

But what I DIDN’T know is what I didn’t know…which was a lot. (There were lighting issues and sound issues that I’d never had to deal with! Better yet, there was the chaos endemic to a company of 30-some teens). It would be a learning curve, I soon sensed…

—Yet I was blessed.

There was the musical director with whom I’d worked twice before. John was a fortress, a support, and above all a friend. There was the choreographer, Lisa-Marie. She’d forced smiles as I danced in a recent show and, frankly, I’d always had the feeling she liked me if for no other reason than that lumbersome me wasn’t embarrassed to dance on stage. A veteran like John, she brought her craft to the equation, always having my back. And there was the producer, Greg: always with an ear…

Still, production was rocky. From auditions last fall through the onset of Tech Week there’d been issues with — well, let me see: There was the problem getting funding for the pit musicians. Then there was the staff member that quit for a day. Then there was the set being delayed. Oh, and then the Stage Manager quit to leave town with her boyfriend…

But it mattered not. Not at the end. You see, we opened last night.

And the cast: they knocked it out of the park!

The teens had fun; the audience loved it. And the director? He kvelled!

Midst the post-curtain hoopla cast members dragged parents over to meet me. Mid the mob in the lobby Conrad Birdie greeted me with a bear hug and Albert Peterson pushed through to thank me (as did others).

It was after 11 that I drove home last night. For a half hour I drove….home.

I thought about the nine month journey, all the bumps in the road, and I smiled.

—And the song still ran through my head: “Everything Is Rosie”.

“Dad, do you have a minute?”
“Always.”
“Did you think I was easy to live with?”
“We had our moments, but by and large you were a saint.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“Well, what is it, Little Boy? What’s bothering you?”

I wasn’t calling my father to complain so much as to confirm I wasn’t missing something. Indeed, in sixty-plus years I’d roomed with Grandma Cele (Hopkins Avenue), my brother (Bayard Road), three anti-semites (in East Lansing), and even the trio of Fenton, Fischer and Wieder (Drackett Tower). I’d stayed with Harriet’s mom, my father’s sister, and Meredith’s parents (with nary an issue, mind you). Easy, I am….going with the flow…never making demands.  Hell, the ex herself liked living with me; it was the marriage she hated.

“Nothing really, but…”
“Spit it out!”
“It’s just that the people who I know love me most pick at me over nonsense.”
“Maybe it’s not nonsense to them.”

(Really? Was my father really going to push back?)

“It can’t be me, Dad.”
“Let’s hear.”
“When we lived together did I ever criticize your banana sandwiches?”
“This is not about me, Sonny Boy. What’s going on?”

So I shared with him how one of my kids had questioned my use of Pepsodent toothpaste…

“Was it because you left it on bathroom tile? Are they still hocking you about brushing in the shower?”
“No—it was the brand itself. ‘Who uses this?’ I was asked.”
“Did you sing ‘em the jingle ‘You’ll wonder where the yellow went when —“
“Of course, but all I got was a reference to the Dark Ages…I mean why would anyone care what toothpaste I use?”
“Well, it’s their issue.  Is that all?”

So I spoke too of how when I visit my daughter I get lectures about sleeping with TV and lights on…

“Does she know that you eat in bed?” he asked.
“I try not to these days — and besides, she doesn’t know.”
“What about the popcorn she found your last trip?”
“She TOLD you?”
“Don’t worry,” he comforted. “I reminded her that you are her only father and that for the few times you’re out there each year—“  “Thanks.”

“Puhleeeze.  She laughed and told me how YOU tell her YOU wish I was still alive to blow smoke in your face.”                                                   “So she’s ok with the popcorn, then?” (I asked him).                                                                                                                                                           “I wouldn’t try it again, hotshot.”

One thing about the old man: he always got it. Why should anyone care what toothpaste I use or if I sleep with the lights on?

“What about Dick Baskin’s sister? he asked —and before my response: “Did I know her?”
“DAD! Even I didn’t know her.”
“Does she bother you with nickel-dime stuff?”

So I thrilled my Dad explaining how when Carrie and I moved in we’d compromised. Television (she’d agreed) could play all night; lights, on the hand, would be off.

“Wonderful,” he mused, “that she never complains.”
“Well I wouldn’t say never, but she’s pretty easy.”
“Does she tell you to eat over the table?”
“No.”
“To take smaller bites?”
“Not really.”
“Then what is it? Maybe it’s you?”

Mulling it over a bit, I determined he should know Carrie with all her frailties….

“She’s always telling me to aim.”
“Aim?”
“Yeah, you know— in the bathroom.”

My father quieted. I could see he was thinking.

He must have had an epiphany — I mean he put out his cigarette, and all— and there was this gleam in his eye…

“Did you suggest to her you might buy a urinal?”

Pete’s a middle-aged guy in the program. Don’t know much of his past — he’s bounced around for a while — but Jews sort of know other Jews, and while he’s been sober a bit, rarely does he open up. He’s a sweet man; there’s a gentle sadness to him and I like him. We speak now and then, so it wasn’t really a shock when he called me last Thursday.

“Hey, I’ve got a few bucks together and I might need you to represent me.”
“Can it wait?” I asked. I’m going away for a few days with my son.”
“Just call when you get back.”
“Tuesday,” I was saying as my friend interrupted:
“Good for you buddy,” he said wistfully, and as his voice trailed off: “Boy, I’ve missed a lot.”

My Dad mentioned more than once how grateful he was his adult child liked spending time with him. It was a sentiment I accepted yet didn’t totally “get”. Ah, but how could I? My eyes then were but thirty-something.

Cautiously I’d approached him last year. “What do you think about going out of town for a weekend? Just me and you.” (Look: I knew he loved me and all that, but with two boys under five, a wife and a career…would his upward mobility be stunted?). Perhaps it was a timing thing — I don’t know. For whatever reason, though, my boy jumped! Without taking a beat he was in.

“Where do you want to go?” he asked, but I cared not. “Whatever makes sense,” I responded. (I mean, really! What am I— a traveller? Give me food and air-conditioning and I’m happy). “You decide.”

It didn’t take him long. Within weeks (I think sooner) he’d suggested the venue and earmarked the weekend. “How ‘bout January 10th?” he asked. “We could watch the NFL playoffs and if you can fly back on Tuesday that Monday’s the college game”.

As quickly as he’d called when I’d opened, I too was all in! That was months ago.

I’m on the plane now, coming home. Yes, our weekend is done.

We met, hugged, roomed, ate, watched TV, skirmished (once) and even walked. We mused, laughed, learned (he taught me to use chopsticks), and shared. Mostly though we sat, side-by-side in a Vegas sports book—conjuring bets, rolling eyes, tearing up tickets but not tearing time…

Together.

He’s at JFK by now, I figure. Carrie (quite likely) is driving toward Hopkins. He’ll be working at this time tomorrow. Me too.

This, for me, was a weekend to cherish. Hold it close, I will, as will he.

(If not now…in about thirty years).

I hadn’t thought of it in years. Suppressed in my memory it was, until…

Watching “I’ll Be Me”, the story of Glen Campbell’s final tour and his fight through Alzheimer’s Disease — an hour in, perhaps, and surrounded by H and pals —  a lump filled my throat. It was a scene where the singer, in paranoid rage, screamed at his wife and stormed out of the room only to reenter minutes later, smile on his face…as if nothing had happened.

“Repentance without reconciliation” she dubbed in the voice/over. The phrase—it clung to me as my mind’s video rolled.

‘Must have been the late 90’s —I’m not quite certain. Maybe H recalls, but what I can confirm is we weren’t talking. Brothers, yes– but only on paper. I was persona non grata at his house yet it was a two-way street. Indeed, he’d have been shunned from my home if only I’d had one.

I somewhat remember the beginnings. Oh, there were emails back and forth, each of us crafting Pulitzer Prize worthy missives with our positions. (I wonder if he retained his; mine are in Carrie’s basement — sealed). And I could tell you it was ugly, but — after our first run of skirmishes, it was just…a vacuum. He went his way; I went mine— and with Our Father (Albert) In Heaven and our mother impotent to intervene — it just was. (Note to self: Ask Aunt Helen if she remembers those days. I wonder what her take was.).

Days became months became years. I don’t know if it was one year or four. Truly, I just don’t know. Max Alvis last played for the Tribe in the sixties and I can tell you he was from Jasper, Texas. Len Barker threw a perfect game when Michael was a kid. I can tell you not only that it was a Friday night and that we watched it together on a Wrenford bed, but I can state unequivocally and without looking that it was on May 15 against Toronto, that my son’s mother was elsewhere playing mahj and that, thrilled she wasn’t when she called mid-evening and heard her three year old awake in the background.

THIS I can remember, but in the haze from the worst of my times I cannot, for the life of me, tell you how long Hal and I fought, what precipitated it, what his claims were, what mine were…or even what my children felt about it all.

I can tell you, though, how it ended: with a phone call, in matter of seconds.

“I need a brother” said the voice. “I don’t want to talk about the past — not at all—can we just get together?”

Sitting at the now-defunct Caribou, perhaps a few days later, we moved straight ahead.

Repentance it was, mutual at that, and God knows how long ago — without reconciliation.

Tshuvah, (if I grasp it correctly), is my religion’s mandate to identify wrongs as a requisite for repentance. That goes (I’m thinking), to cleansing one’s soul. As for relationships — cleansing them — I’m not sure that matters.

Not once in the decade plus have I ever looked back. I’m guessing, in fact, that neither has H. Never has it come up, that schism. Indeed, friends eyeing our 2015 bond might well not believe it. In today’s world it doesn’t compute. It would be like, say, trying to convince my grandchild that once there were only three TV stations.

Sometimes time needs time. Sometimes, like with my brother and me, it’s both time and change.

I live in a world where I’d rather be happy than right, and I’m all the better for it.

There was a half hour left, last Saturday, when that scene was shown. In the bittersweet of the final segments, I watched the screen but I kept thinking back.

— To the day H and I reunited in heart without reconciling the facts.

It was a poignant movie and tears rolled down my face. From both eyes they fell, (but only one was for Glen).

* And in a related story, the weather forecast for Plainview, NewYork this weekend calls for temperature in the forties.

Courtyard by Marriott, Dublin, Ohio, 10PM December 31…

“Are you falling asleep?” asked the scantily clothed beauty.
“Not at all,” I lied. “Do you want to play gin?”

A photomontage of the day passed before me: the early “study hall” at Starbucks, breakfast with the boys and a half day in the office had all proceeded our trip down south. Still, even ‘though Carrie did the driving, didn’t I have a right to be tired? I mean, c’mon…physical specimen that I am, I’m just not a kid anymore. And besides, since hitting Columbus hadn’t we spent time together, then hours at the casino …. not to mention the Chinese food in bed? So what if it’s New Year’s Eve?

“You can go to sleep if you want,” she offered.

I really didn’t want to sleep, but God, the clock wasn’t moving! And besides —what more did we have to accomplish? It had been a day of passion and poker and frankly, if it wasn’t the last day of the year, we’d be down to Seinfeld and snooze.

“Not a chance!” I proclaimed, rising (if you’ll excuse the expression) to the occasion.

11 PM, at the same motel…

One thing about Carrie: she’s always willing to engage in me in conversations others might roll eyes at — ‘though she often rejects my suggestions.

“Don’t you think the television’s in the wrong spot…based on the way our bed’s facing?”

(Her silence deterred me not).

“I think we should move the bed and turn it ninety degrees,” I continued. “Either that or we should sleep with our heads the other way.”

“We can’t do that!” she objected, giving me somewhat the same look she’d shot when I’d suggested putting a urinal in one of the bathrooms at her new house. (I mean, really: if she truly wants separate restrooms in the condo…so she can have her “powder room” or whatever … why might I not install a wall unit, as such, which would not only be a convenience, but also serve to preclude receipt of the frequent “Please aim” admonitions?).

Our conversation, needless to say moved on. Indeed, the ensuing half hour brought the best of our banter. Never in our near thirty months have we suffered dead air; this time was no different. From her kids to mine … her mom to my aunt, her shtick or mine, the next minutes brought love, laughter, and finally repose…

“You know,” I pointed out, “If we’re not staying up until 1AM our time then it really doesn’t matter when I call Stacy. It still won’t be New Years where she is.”

— So called her, at 11:35, told her I loved her, and hung up.

“And I’ll text H and Margie,” I reasoned. “They might be sleeping.”

“And I’ll call Helen now. ‘Might as well knock her down.”

My aunt (of course) didn’t answer. Half the time she doesn’t hear the phone before ten or so rings, but this night I figured she’d either be perched by the phone or just plain asleep. Twenty times I counted, before hanging up.

We were sitting on the bed now, feet hanging over the right side…actually facing the screen. Ten minutes we had, and a bag of popcorn to be shared.

“What does it mean ‘sea salt’”, I complained.
“Just eat it. It’s not as strong as Kosher salt.”

So we snacked and we watched … all the crap on TV.

I wasn’t in the mood for Kathy Griffin and can’t stand Anderson Cooper. Carrie likes everybody, but I had to break it to her (at 11:55) that Dick Clark was dead.

12:00 AM. Still facing the TV…

I kissed her for the first time this year and then called New York. Michael was in the car; our talk was short.  (I told him I loved him and hung up).

Within moments we had found the covers.

“We can sleep in tomorrow,” she observed as I ceded the remote control. The lights were off; I was already fading.

“Good night.”
“Good night.”

In the pitch dark of the room … o’er the backdrop of a “Friends” rerun … a few moments passed when from the sweet spot of semi-conscious, I felt Carrie’s nudge:

“Your aunt’s on my phone” she said, handing it over.                                                                                                                                                 “Hello, Aunt Helen,” I greeted.                                                                                                                                                                                           “Why would you not call me, Bruce.  You always call me!”

“

       “…The sun goes down
       The stars come out
       And all that counts
       Is here and now…”

Like so many before it, this past year was fueled by family, friendship and fellowship. A series of ordinary moments to be sure, but as life unfolds, it’ll yield some extraordinary memories. As such: a quick glance back…

It was the year Eli turned one, and Aunt Helen one hundred.

—The year I got a Medicare card from my Uncle Sam and sixty-five birthday cards from the masses.

It was a year of learning…

My children taught me to eat and to dress. “Close your mouth when you chew,” one instructed. “And can you take smaller bites?” “No tee shirts with printing,” another prompted. “And who wears mock turtles anymore? You look like a gay man from the 90’s.” (Not that there’s anything wrong with it).

Ah, but the most teachable moment came from a two year-old last winter. There I was snowbound in Chicago — four days sans planes, trains or automobiles. Pleasant but purgatory, thought I, awaiting the thaw. Playing with Pappy, smiled a bubbling Lucy, with better priorities.

Ed.Note 1: For an avid non-traveller, ‘twas a geographically banner year. 365 days and but for the trifecta of New York, Chicago and Columbus, I slept each night at home.

It was a year for the arts.

—Letterman announced his retirement and, much as I tried to see a taping ‘ere his final “Good night everybody”, he just wasn’t filming during my week east last August.

—On a local level, I wasn’t cast as Oscar in “The Odd Couple”, but did get to sing and dance as a father in “The Fantastiks”. The only way I could rationalize all this was my deduction that the first director was dumb and latter was deaf and blind. (Nor was I cast in the movie they filmed about our breakfast club.  That really hurt.  Think about it — for years the Creative Director at Fine Arts has chided me that all I do on stage is play myself in a different costume each show…and here was this movie guy saying, in fact, that I wasn’t even good enough to play myself!).

And it was a year for concerts: three. Billy Joel was ageless and Jerry Lewis?  He is timeless. Hal’s brainstorm Hall & Oates? Let’s just say it was a night to count ceiling tiles. (Not for all of us, actually.  Just this curmudgeon).

It was a year too for baseball journalism: Bruce Bohrer wrote a book (“Best Seat In The House”) in Chicago while I read a book (“Baseball As A Road to God) in Cleveland.

And a year for play — from gin games with Carrie to a poker tourney with great nephew Ethan.

And  for music — from both the young and the less-young! I heard Max sing “Call Me Maybe” out east, watched Elyse play piano back home,  and captured each on my cellphone for later.

And television, from “Mom” to “Madam Secretary” to “Morning Joe”. You know: it’s still right to lean left in my world.

— And a year for comic irony. Emil, the landlord Aunt Helen hated for twenty years finally sold the house. Two decades she’d waited to hear such news.  “Evil”, she’d called him, (to his face).  Ed. Note 2: Her first disgust with the new owner was evidenced at the 36-hour mark, which actually made me money. The over/under, you see, was 48, and I bet the “under”.

Ah, and it was a year for acknowledgement. (We take it as we can). “I love my family,” said Leesa one evening.   After the most pregnant of pauses she looked up and added: “And you too Bruce.” Apparently finding it hard to characterize my nexus to it all, she finally endorsed my status as not part being part of her house, but an “attached garage”.  Ed. Note 3:  I took that as notch above “visitor”, but a plus in any event.

Speaking of visitors, though…Alan came in from Portland this year, and Julius from Israel.  (At different instants, of course).

There was time also, this year, for conversation — from the isolated ones like sharing “war stories” with Gary in Westchester to sharing different types of “war stories” with Brother Greg in Chicago — from periodic reminiscences with Harriet to weekly Wednesday laughter with the boys to nightly banter with Carrie — each regimen treasured in its own right.

Unfortunately though, it was also a year of loss. I knew Harriet Mandel for fifty-plus years. This was a special person.

Best of all however, 2014 was a time of merriment, nonsense and loving! I cradled Eli, danced with Max, bounced with Lucy and even got to walk my Adam. Ed. Note 4:  YES, all the while I was being told not to drop Eli, not to knock over the coffee table with Max, not to get on Lucy’s trampoline lest I break it, and … via remote text messaging: to “be sure to pick up after Adam when he’s done.”

Lucky I am that the soundtrack of my year features many voices, from family to friends to acquaintance. Blessed I am by children that still want to be with their “old man”, friends and family that still wish to break bread, and by gazing each morning into the warmest set of Ocean Eyes anyone could ever wish to wake up to.

I embrace this past year, then, as memories in gestation — gifts wrapped with gratitude — to be reopened later. I am walking a path of faith, family, friendship and fellowship, where even the bad days are good, and …

(As long as I do so, I figure, it will be a happy new year).

       “…My universe will never be the same
       I’m glad you came….”

(Mac, Hector, Drewett)

There we were: first row, forty-yard line at the NFL Championship! It was Dark Ages, mind you. Before there were playoffs, before there was a Super Bowl, this title tilt was not only the ultimate game of the season, but for the World Championship! It was December 27, 1964 — 50 years ago today — and at old Lakefront Stadium, Alan and I, two budding teenagers from a middle-class suburb with barely more than bus fare in our pockets, had hit the motherload!

I wonder if we knew it at the time.

Let’s draw some perspective:

We haled from Cleveland, then the eighth largest city in the U.S.. While glittery L.A. had only been home to the Dodgers five years at that time, the Indians had a solid history and had, in fact, been to the World Series but a decade earlier. Moreover, in times where baseball too had no playoffs — just two leagues with winners taking all — even then, the Tribe, as recently as ’59 had fought to a tense September in a thrilling pennant chase.

We lived in Ohio, with its bumper crop of football talent — home to the Woody Hayes Buckeyes and three national championships in the recent decade alone, not to mention the already legendary coach.

We lived in Cleveland and had the Browns, the CLEVELAND Browns. Still in the afterglow of its dynasty years, the team smelled more like Renaissance than Last Hurrah.

Yes, we were winners in a town that was winning! We were fifteen years old and had it all!

I’ve been to some signal games since then. (No championship games, of course, but some major matches). There was the Purdue game in’68, and the Michigan game that year. In fact, that three year run in Columbus — especially the year Wied, Walt and I sat on the 50 in C-Deck — we had the world by the balls. Oh, and there was the Clarett game with my first/born, the set-up for the title win over Miami. Stacy was there in the crowd, and it was the only time I’d ever had a cell phone fail due to crowd volume.

But that was it — for a half century. The Injuns — oh, they had their run in the ‘90’s, but no gold. And Yes, the Brownies had The Drive and The Fumble and God, how I froze through Red Right 88. And the Cavs? Even before Lebron there was the Miracle Of Richfield…

But no champagne.

Who knew? Who knew that the Browns, 11 point dogs facing the league’s premier offense AND premier defense, would provide our town the trophy to last a half century?

(And counting).

Certainly not Alan Vernon Wieder and his buddy Bruce.

Certainly not the two upstarts that scored tickets days before the game through a radio contest…

The two clowns so semi-cool that they’d once bussed downtown to sit in the audience at the locally produced “Mike Douglas Show”… so sophomoric that, indeed, at the same Douglas taping, one of them rose from the audience, went on camera,  and danced “The Elephant Twist”.

No, it’s a good bet that ‘though we’d treasured that day, from the pre-game hoopla in the stands through the post-game press conference at the old Sheraton Hotel ballroom — it’s a good bet neither of us knew how unique the day was…

How unique it would be.

Dan Marino, quarterback for the Miami Dolphins, went to the Super Bowl in his second season. They lost that game to the 49ers, but I read years later that Marino, years later toward the end of his great career, had regretfully mused that it hadn’t occurred to him early on that he’d never get back to the Super Bowl. The team was good, and he’d just assumed they’d be back.

But they never returned – not in the FIFTEEN more seasons he played   Alas, the Hall Of Famer holds that January 1985 day close to his heart, even now.

Like we do with Sunday, December 27, 1964.

Fifty years ago today.

Stuart had a notion last summer and brought it up at Red as we dined with the guys. “Let’s go around the table,” he proposed, “And everybody tell something which, as long as we’ve known each other, we never shared about ourselves…you know: something nobody knows.”

His idea died.

“I didn’t come here to be psychoanalyzed,” one remarked; no others pushed back. Pure nonsense then ensued, of course. With fluff and friendship we were right in our wheelhouse.

Still, it would have been nice…

I’ve said it before: when my Dad died there were no stories untold between us nor were there feelings left on mute. Same (for that matter), when my Mom passed. Indeed, through her last rusting years not only did we laugh all the laughs and cry all our tears, but in the most lucid of her moments this product of her times felt compelled yet again to justify her 1963 divorce.

“I loved you boys,” she asserted, “And you should know these things.”

It wasn’t so much that WE needed to know, of course. It was, clearly, that SHE wanted to tell, to share, to complete. She needed to leave nothing left unsaid.

(As my father had with me. As Stu’d suggested with the guys).

And so it was that, driving from Chardon the other day, lyrics from the radio triggered my thoughts. Stuey’s suggestion (I surmised) was an inadvertent yet enlightened head start on what indeed my mother had spent her last five years trying to accomplish. He was trying to achieve completeness — allness, if you will. Stuart yearned, (I sensed), whether he realized it or not, to give our quality friendships an even greater integrity. He wanted to up the game.

Laying in bed next to a snoozing Carrie — it was 10 pm — I found myself revisiting Fenton’s suggestion. Ruminating, some hours after a song in the car had jarred my thoughts, I wondered:

Was this a teachable moment?

Just a few months ago this lifelong friend — someone who for fifty-nine years I’d shared every level of win and loss with — had filled a card to me with comments codifying sentiments we’ve both long shared. This, from a man of few words! With pen in hand he had detailed things one-on-one that he might well have said at Red, (perhaps in a corner).

Was this his way?

That whole thing about sharing the heretofore unshared got to me. Is there more that I want to say to those the points of light in my life? Is there more that I need to say?

I resolved that there was.

This morning I wrote a letter — perhaps the first of many. Hard copy, (not email). 

I shared a smile and a frown, and a feeling or two.

Then I mailed it…

And smiled.

It’s been hectic this past week, what with people trying to cram four weeks work into the first two weeks of this holiday-laden month. Throw in some Chardon rehearsals, a Beachwood audition, the lunch runs for Helen and meetings, and—

Which is why laughter — even nonsense — is still the best medicine!

Last Saturday we hit the 11:50 AM screening of Chris Rock’s new movie. Let it be known that if ever you want privacy at the cinema, catch a morning show.

Sharing a tub of popcorn, we entered the auditorium. (Ed. Note 1: I clearly prefer that we each get our own snack. It’s not about being stingy; it’s just that I’m territorial about food, and at any given moment I like to know what’s left in my inventory. Still, they suck you in at the theater: the cost of the large is but a buck more than the medium. It doesn’t make sense, then, to buy two mediums when one mammoth vat is so cost-efficient).

(Ed. Note 2: Carrie rarely sees this side of me, although Stacy knows it well. How often have I been with my Little One at a restaurant when, once our food’s been served she wants to try mine. “If you want it, order your own,” I admonish. “But I only want a bite, Daddy”.).

Anyway, there we were, a solid ten minutes before even the previews would begin. Moreover, this being the day’s first showing, the lights were still on and the seats were still empty.  Indeed, those first several minutes it was just the two of us…in an empty theater…with opportunity.

“Take a picture of me,” I urged, sprinting to the front of the house. She grabbed her phone as I urged her forward. “Stand over here, so you can get the empty seats. Put it on ‘video’”.

And then, to the sheer delight of only me as it turned out, Carrie filmed me addressing no one. “We’re here,” I announced on film, “To honor our friend Bob.”

She rolled her eyes while laughing, I sent it to Stuart.   In the meantime we sat. Just the two of us. Eating popcorn.

“You know,” I marveled (in an “Ah ha!” moment), “The guy said free refills with the Large.”
(She nodded).
“Let’s refill now,” I proclaimed, our vat barely dented.

I reached in my left jacket pocket and, whipping out my hand, brandished a clear plastic bag that had once carried Aunt Helen’s mail. In one fell swoop we emptied the bucket to the bag and before you could say “We’re here to honor our friend Bob”, Carrie was hustling to the lobby to refill our order.

(It takes so little to make us happy).

(Ed. Note 3: Another couple showed up, finally. They passed by our aisle and sat near the back. Neither was toting food).

***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** ***** *****

Good as it is to make our own fun, great as it is to just play, the best laughs still come when I look at myself.

Monday evening— we’d just gone upstairs. Traditional ritual was on tap: the first two segments of “Olbermann”, a repeat of “Seinfeld”, “The Daily Show”, Letterman’s monologue….

“Do you want to go to a funeral tomorrow?” I inquired.
“No. Who died?”
(So I named the lady and that I might hit it on my way uptown).
“Do you even know her?” asked Carrie.
“No, but Stuart does and he suggested I go.”

And then…it all happened at once: her slapping my shoulder…her raucous laughter … her admonition:

“How OLD are you?” she mused. “You’re 65!”
(By now I was laughing too).
“You mean to tell me,” she continued incredulously, “That you’re willing to go to the funeral of a stranger because your friend Stuart said to?”
“He’s never given me a ‘bum steer’” I was trying to say…but I just couldn’t stop laughing.

She was giving me the look Cheryl Hines always gave Larry David on “Curb”, but… but… she was laughing too.

We both were.

We had so much fun with our own nonsense, I might add…that we never quite caught “The Daily Show”.