upfromdysfunction.com

The Bohrers were discussing how a friend tensed up golfing with family.

“Would you be that way in front of my dad? asked The Little One.
“Absolutely not…” said her hubby, “Your father’s the least competitive person I know.”

Ouch. (This, even coming from a Cub fan, is no compliment).

Does my son-in-law truly believe I was born bald, fat and 60? …that the competitive fires of his generation burn brighter than ours ever did….than mine ever did?

When Stacy told the story I chuckled. She tried to clean it up, saying Jason not only didn’t know I’d golfed, but actually never thought I’d been outdoors.

“We’d hitch down Green—me and Wieder—to putt on the practice green at Highland for free,” I told her. (She didn’t care). “I used to ride my bike to Lyndhurst Golf Course at Mayfield by Brainard.” (She wasn’t listening).

“It’s OK, Dad, he loves you.”

That’s not enough, I said. Let’s have, shall we say…a competition. Eye on my July visit, we agreed to an eighteen hole tournament…for dinner. Winner take all. “Check with Bones,” I insisted. “Don’t want to pressure him.” “Oh, I added, “And find out if he wants medal play or match play?”

It’s funny how kids view us. Like we never were young, never loved or lost, never jumped, fell…competed. Heck, like we never had lives. Don’t get me wrong: I’m glad that by the time Stace met Jace I’d toned down, but part of me wishes he’d seen the fire and ice I shared with compatriots on the fields of the past.

Wish he’d have been on campus when the guy broke his leg tagging from third and in a matter of seconds Wieder not only protected a big late-inning lead but also created a new anti-Semite. If only he’d heard Snyder taunt Johnny Palladino as the latter stepped in a Gordon Park batter’s box. Or seen the blood behind the skating rink when Robbie Epstein’s pivot and throw split the runner’s forehead. “You’re supposed to aim between his eyes,” he noted.

Golf competition? Give me a break. Aren’t you really “playing against the course?”

We grew up on the mean streets of South Euclid in world void of video games, replete with live contests and real people, some of whom were allowed to play just so they wouldn’t beat us up. (More about Bobby Stain later).

We learned, then, to compete at a young age. For example, our dad, whether it be baseball or cards (his two major sports), never lied down. He’d take us to Forest Hills Park back then. For softball. He’d be pitching to us, underhand—no arc. “Albert,” our mom would scream, “Ease up a bit; let them hit it!” “Why?” he would ask.

Little League was no different. He’d sit on the bench, scoring games. Every once in a while I’d ground a ball—a shot—. The fielder would touch it, (or maybe not), and it would get through. ERROR, my Dad would note. “If it was a clean hit you’d get it” he’d smile.

Cards were no different. We’d sit there, parents and kids pre-divorce, playing hearts. Teams. To this day Hal has nocturnal flashbacks of a small kitchen on Bayard, and the consequences of passing our Dad the Queen without protection.

“It’s only a game!” said our mother (played by Audrey Meadows). “Let him do it over, Al.” And Ralph Kramden glared back: “How’s he going to learn?”

It never changed. Not even in college. Our mom and Hal were gone, but Walt was there…and it was still hearts. In a game that had one winner and two losers, I’d pay a penny a point per loss, Marc two and my Dad three cents….winner take all. Each triumph you’d bump an extra cent per point going forward. And we always paid.

Those days, though, are gone. And Jason never saw them. Never viewed, even, the married years…when the wife and I would trek to Columbus and, as the ladies cleared dishes, the cards came out. Gin. And though the ladies might retire, the game went on. Can’t recall if it was one or two cents/point, but it was always ba#$s to the wall. Oh, he’d hold my check from time to time—wait ‘til I said to cash it—but it was always a competition. “It’s not the money,” my father’d say. “If I tear this up, you’ll never enjoy your victories.”

And no, Jason never saw my tennis with Herzog. For years Alan wondered why when at his first point I’d shout “Five-love,” but with mine it was always “FIFTEEN-love.” Competition, I knew even then, was subliminal

I could tell him how Fenton would give people the Hawaiian Witch Chant behind their backs at bowling. I could email about the time at Drackett when someone was picking on Stuart so I challenged the bully to a boxing match. We fought, gloves, referee and all, by the fourth floor elevators.

I could tell the story of the 1969 Boobus Bowl, where, risqué as it was for the time, we hoisted a full bed sheet banner reading “MUCK FANDEL” and strung it from the endzone fence at Rowland…but I won’t.

I could share how, as an obnoxious coach, I’d once called consecutive times out just to “ice” a sixth grader at the foul line at Hilltop. But I shan’t.

No, as much as I love the man, this is a message to be delivered in the ring…on the course…in person. If I text him anything at all, it will be the number to Carson’s Ribs. After all, we’re playing for dinner.

I’m an educated man. Rearing in the then-stellar South Euclid-Lyndhurst school system was supplemented by thirteen years of religious training, four years of undergrad, three years of law …and months nurtured as an army medic. My brother too is well-schooled. His OSU degree was followed by a Masters at UNC. Neither of us are idiots.

Why then, with all our formal education, all the hands-on experience…can we never have the right answer for our aunt? Ever.

My first year with the White Sox we were managed by Mr. Wendel. His single message that season, the one thing he’d plead to our bench: “Before every pitch…ask yourself ‘What will I do if the ball comes to me?’” It was a lesson I carried to Mr. Minadeo’s Brooklyn in the Pony League, to Waxman Plumbing and Sol’s Boys, and even honored playing out my string with Bruce Block in the 80’s. WHAT DO I DO IF THE BALL COMES TO ME? Time honored dogma, was it not the Jewish version of the Boy Scouts’ “Be prepared.”?

Try as we may, when it comes to our aunt, Hal and I will never get Merit Badges. H says, “It’s always what you don’t expect.”

A half century after Fred Wendel, it matters not the subject and matters not the situation. Upcoming Helen interactions demand team meetings. H and I, therefore, convene, asking “What do we say if she asks…” There is give and take, an open airing of perspectives, of theory, of stratagem….”And what, we ask, do we counter with when she says ….” Since we rarely see her together, as we’ll each be “on our own,” we think it through…anticipate: WHAT DO I DO IF THE BALL COMES TO ME?

In baseball there’s a “book.” Man on first, single to the outfield, he throws to third. Man on second, same situation….throw home through the cutoff man… Simple you might say, the steadfast fundamentals that made Wieder’s good teams great.

There’s no book on Aunt Helen!

This is, of course, more an issue for Bruce than Harold. Once, as the first born “b’chor,” the proud graduate of Hebrew High School, I’d been the family’s Golden Boy. Those sentiments were neutered by my life, wounded when our father died, and buried with Grandma Bogart in ’89. Since then it’s been Aunt Helen (Queen Mother), Hal as Ray Romano and….of course, Everybody Loves Raymond. Perhaps a function of time, perhaps not, but today Helen considers me the bad nephew and Hal the good son.

Which is why preparation so important! (Even for Hal). He knows full well that while in her eyes he can do no wrong (except, perhaps by defending me)….that any discord between his aunt and his brother will “not be good for the Jews,” especially one named Harold. There’s always fallout.

So we prepare. Together. We anticipate. Together. We plot. Together. But there is no book!

Consider: Two months ago I was cast in “The Music Man.” A glorious musical, it provided the perfect vehicle for her to not only be with family, but revisit the wheelhouse of her life.

Ah…but as Hal says, “It’s always what you don’t expect.”

“How’s the show going?” she inquired in May.
“Flat,” I said. “
“Should I not come to see it?”
“I told Hal not to come,” said I, but advised her she’d love it, that Weiskopf would bring her to a matinee. (What I hadn’t told her—it was a surprise—was that I’d dedicated my performance to her….in the program). Her birthday is mid-run; I thought it would be nice).
“If it’s not good enough for your brother,” she told me, “I too shall abstain.”
“But YOU will love it,” I insisted.
“Please…why must you be argumentative?….I don’t love bad theater.”

Time passed. Tech week approached. She needed chicken.

“Do you still want your brother not to come?” she asked, all the while checking the Boris receipt…again.
“Actually,” I noted, “The show’s quite good. I told him the other day he’d like it. He’s coming.”
“Really…?” she shrugged (a la Jack Benny).
“He’s going to call you,” I promised.

And he did. And…again….it’s always what you don’t expect.

“I’m going to Bruce’s play,” said The Good One.
“Is Margie coming?”
“Probably not.”
“Will you go if I don’t go?” she asked him.
“No,” he replied. “I wouldn’t go alone.”
“Then I will not go!” she said.
“But I will go with you,” he implored.
“Clearly,” she insisted, “I do not wish to see a show you do not wish to see.”
“But—“
“If you were not going anyway I don’t want to go.” she said.
“But I AM GOING with you,” he pointed out.
“Please,” she insisted, “Don’t be argumentative.”

Then Hal stopped. On a dime. And why not? My brother is not only educated, but subtly brilliant. Keeping his mouth shut gave him victory on her court. Our aunt would feel good about intending to go if only Hal was going anyway and H, of course, would get credit for being willing to take her. Clearly, if the saga were to end here it would be Win-Win.

It can’t though. Not for the bad nephew. I, you see, must now make a special trip to her house to deliver the program…on an “off week.” And that, please note, mandated a meeting first, with Hal.

What if she asks if he knew of the dedication? If I say Yes she’ll want to know why I told him and not her. If I say No she’ll say that if indeed the performance was dedicated to her she should have been there for it. And did Margie know? And why? And why not?

My brother smiled as I took the field. The ball was clearly coming my way.

It’s always what you don’t expect, he reminded. “You’ll be fine.”

It’s easy for him to say, I thought. Easy for him to laugh. No matter what comes out of my mouth, no matter how textbook-right my answers are, I’m not Hal, I’m Robert…

And Everybody (especially Aunt Helen), Loves Raymond.

                 “Life imitates art far more than art imitates life.” 

                                                               (Oscar Wilde)

If he hadn’t been so right about “Mad Men,” I never would have tried “The Sopranos.” Once again, though, Michael nailed it. As such, it seemed only fair May 22, that I tell him first. “No haircut in four weeks… “ my email read. “…Shooting for Paulie ‘Walnuts’.’’ It was 8:40 AM and, less than a minute later response came:

“TV is not life,” he admonished. (I guess he didn’t like the idea).

For a moment I thought of writing back. But why? He certainly wasn’t wrong. Still, I pictured his eyes rolling as they often do,…and I was just having fun….Sort of….

It occurred to me, not days later…Michael was wrong, or perhaps not as right as he’d think. I was watching Seinfeld and it was the episode where Kramer bumps into Gail Cunningham, a girl that had basically thrown Jerry to the curb after three dates.

“What did you say to her?” Jerry asked. “I snubbed her,” said Kramer. It was his duty, he noted….his “obligation.”

It reminded me, backdoor, of a real-life scenario that occurred with Ed and me.

Some time ago I’d gone out with a girl—once. It was weird: she asked me to call her again and…when I did…she blew me off! Weiskopf was aware of it as it was clearly fodder for the coffee house. We joked, we analyzed a bit—but at the end of the day there’d been no emotional investment. I didn’t care; he didn’t care. Case closed…or so we thought.

Months later Ed called me.

“Guess who wants to go out with me?”
I knew not.
“Carmella,” he stated. Word had come through Ed’s sister-in-law—she wanted to meet him.
“I really don’t want to,” he said, (but my mind was working).
“Does she know we’re friends?” I asked.
“Absolutely—Donna told her.”
“Then you have to go out with her.”
He hesitated. It was clear my pal didn’t quite grasp the situation.
“You HAVE to go out with her!” I repeated. “If you don’t…she’ll think I vetoed it.”
(The light began to shine in his eyes; it was sinking in).
“Please,” I continued, “You need to at least call her—make contact.”

“I really don’t want to,” he groaned, like a kid trying to avoid overnight camp.

And then I went for the jugular: “When,” I asked him, “Was the last time I ever asked you to do anything…ever?”

Silence. Dead silence.

“I don’t have the time,” he grumbled, “And I don’t want to spend the money…’”

My friend, clearly weakening, then heard my greatest soliloquy:

“That’s bullshit!” I told him. “You piss away more money at Red than anyone I know.”
“Don’t you see,” I continued, “This isn’t about you, or even her. This is about me and my integrity in the marketplace. You have a mandate to protect it.”

It is rare that Ed Weiskopf yields…on anything. It is rarer, though—perhaps never, that he fails a friend. And he didn’t.

It cost Ed less than a hundred dollars to fall on his sword. His example of friendship, however, was priceless.

That was time ago, but in my mind yet again just Monday. We’re in rehearsal for “The Music Man,” opening Friday.

“Bruce,” the director asked during notes. “How would you feel about shaving your head for the show?”

Silence.

“I think it’ll add something.” he said.

Nodding assent, not particularly thrilled, I thought of the irony. Michael was wrong after all. TV isn’t life after all. Theater, though, just may be… at least until my hair grows back

Burnside held a crumpled napkin in his right palm. Stopping, slowly arching the trajectory, he lofted a missile up and some six feet ahead to a four foot waste basket. Swish!

“It’s all in the follow-through,” the shooter chuckled.
“Like in pitching,” I said.
“And golf,” he added.
“And…” (leaving a recovery meeting, I was compelled to be profound)…like in life.”

Fact is, though…it’s true. Still, it took this clown half a lifetime to see—to realize all I need to do is use the gifts I’ve been given—whatever they are—and things will be OK. When I really look at it, my level of acceptance relates NOT to how things play out as much as whether, deep down, I know I’ve done all I can, leaving nothing in the locker room. There’s a peace in being all in. A serenity.

For so long I was your “three inning player,” that great starter but poor (if at all) finisher. Losing interest (perhaps), fearing failure (at times), I’d tell myself it really didn’t matter, I somehow didn’t care or it wasn’t for me. Truth was I lacked not inner strength so much as inner faith that if I truly put it all out on the table, win, lose or draw, I’d succeed. Today I get it.

Today I follow through. Today I know I don’t have to be THE best—I need to be MY best. I’m changing from a boy with promise to a man with commitment, and— win, lose or draw, I can live with the outcomes.

As an English major, my minor was theater, (at least for three innings). Theater 165 however, mandated working stage crew a month at Mershon Auditorium. (I learned this two weeks in, of course, finally reading the syllabus).

SOUTH went my passion for the arts. Dropping the course, there went I, a college senior, changing minors. Cramming eighteen psychology hours (six three’s) into one quarter, I emerged a psych minor. (I still recall The Jersey Girl joining me for Monday evening’s Psch 120, “How To Study”. In a class full of freshmen we both got A’s).

The signs were there, back then. I was always looking for the easier, softer way. How often did I just mail it in…do just enough to get by? That record I set junior year— cut 100 classes one quarter—kept a chart! Funny then, not so… now.

We sold Highlights on weekends. Long before Breakfast At Wimbledon there was Breakfast On Albert. Each Saturday he’d confirm our awakening by feeding us and assure our production by offering free dress shirts to those with ten sales. We’d spread out across town, running oh so qualified leads, and, week-in, week out three things occurred: it rained in Wieder’s neighborhood, I hit 10 on the nose, and Stuart led the pack. How was it that I always seemed to get that tenth sale at 1 just as the Bucks kicked off? Each week? Why was it that Fenton worked ‘til 3? Each week.

I know now what it was: I had promise; Stuart showed commitment.

It all came so easy to me…even law school. Daily I’d drop the wife at work, run to breakfast at Corky’s, then down the hill for class. Morning classes—always morning classes. Afternoon, you see, meant soaps. Beginning on ABC, it was “All My Children” at 1, then a switch to Channel 3. “Days Of Our Lives,” “The Doctors,” “Another World In Bay City,” “Another World-Somerset,” and….for a time “Bright Promise.” Never mind studies…I was living the dream, never once thinking perhaps B’s could be A’s.

The list of things I’ve done well, but perhaps not well enough is sobering. Hindsight, of course, is 20-20. What would have been had I worked harder at marriage…at fatherhood…at life? I’m not beating myself up….just thinking.

Recovery, to be sure, has taught me follow through. Today, be it fun, family or frolic, I’m in it to win it. As I can, whatever the endeavor, I try to be the best Bruce I can be. And yes, I often fall short.

Would I prefer to see my kids more? Of course! Did I tell them to leave town? Still I’m the best brother I can be, the best friend I can be…even the best ex-husband I can be…regardless of endeavor, it’s been a long time since someone’s said to try harder. Today, if only today, I finish what I start.

Would I like to spend more time reading poker, perfecting that skill? Of course I would. Should I watch my weight better? Respect the dollar more? Obviously. How well I know! Still, even as a work-in-progress, I’m comforted knowing it’s not the speed I’m travelling but the direction I’m facing.

So seldom these days do I think shouldda, wouldda, couldda. Once a bright kid with all kinds of promise, I’m now older, wiser, and all in. No wonder even my bad days are good. No wonder even when I miss the shot my life goes….Swish!

It’s all, as Burnside says, in the follow through.

The signage on I-71 read MEDINA as Margie, from the backseat, reminded that us the world was ending. It was Saturday, and with Caroline aside her, it prompted Hal and me to address immediate concerns:

“Other than Mom or Dad,” I asked, “Who is the first person you’ll call?”
“In heaven?”
”Yeah.”

He hesitated but slightly: “Grandma Cele.”
“What about Grandma Bogart?” I protested.
“We weren’t as close.”

I guess I’d forgotten, but he was spot on. Instantly he spoke to all the times sleeping, swimming and otherwise hanging out with her. It was, we agreed, a function of logistics. One grandma was worldly and drove; the other was “old-country” and didn’t. (Speaking of logistics, FYI, the discourse took a ten minute detour when I casually noted that indeed, Cele Porter’d been the first person I’d seen—oh so inadvertently—south of her Mason Dixon line). “How old were you?” asked Hal between laughs.

“Who would be next?” I pushed, getting back on course, “Grandpa Irv?”

(H adored Cele’s husband, although politics neutered me. A caring man, he did, however, espouse my parents’ divorce and once told me “You’re father’s a loser.” I was thirteen back then. “Nuff said).

“No,” continued Hal, “It would be Grandma Bogart.”
“What about Grandpa Irv?” I pushed back.
“Dad would get mad.”

Approaching ASHLAND, my brother explained. No, it was not that our father would expect us to rotate sides of the family, per se…Heck no. It was more the fact that he’d be pissed it was Irv Porter.

“I’d like to think there’s no resentment in heaven.”
“Let’s not have a fight our first night there,” he said.

We passed MANSFIELD.

“Who do you think. “ I wondered aloud, “Harriet will see first…Dad or Fred?”
“Dad,” said H; “You’re dreaming,” said I, turning to Margie for support. She has, by all accounts, the objectivity of a surgeon.
“Fred,” said the doctor. (Case closed).

If the world were indeed ending, this was a drive to end all drives. We spoke of our kids, of course, but bragged of worldly pursuits.

“You have to admit,” I said, “Finding Fromin was remarkable!” My brother agreed, but then, blowing his own horn, added:  “What about my still picture of Herschel standing on his head?”  Again, Margie and I concurred: “You can’t compare the two!”

How, I wondered, could Hal equate our brunch with Fromin, (a man dead for thirty-five plus years), with mere photography of a late cousin, (albeit standing on his head)?

“Narishkeit!” Grandma Bogart would say. Hal Bogart thought otherwise. In what historians may some day dub the greatest sacrilege of all time, my brother’s exact words (and you can call Margie on this), were:

“The still picture of Herschel standing on his head is the clearest proof of all of the existence of God.”

(If that was true, thought I, this would be the end of the world as we know it).

We hit Columbus, this final day, dropped C-line on campus, and…on to Harriet.  A wondrous trip, we were, (for not spending a lot of money), going out in style.

Late afternoon was spent, frankly, the way you’d like to honor your last day. With family. Kin out-of-state, we huddled with our father’s life’s love, spoke to present and past, and…as always…laughed.

Harriet, by the way, can also play with a half deck.

“Who will you see first?” we asked her….”Fred or our Dad…be honest.”
“Why, your father, of course.”
“That’s nonsense,” I retorted. “You—(but she interrupted)
“…Fred’s not waiting for me—your father is. Fred’s busy with his first wife!”
(I don’t know what fascinated more: the sincerity of her answer or our group shock that she DID answer. Who said this was a stupid topic?).

The world, of course, didn’t end that night. Dinner at McCormick & Shmick’s was followed by, aptly, viewing tapes of “Modern Family.” And sleep.

We awoke Sunday to not only sunshine but breakfast with Harriet. 7AM she was all smiles. Leaving for the 5K, a family hug ended with our admonishment that when Helen asked her what we talked about, the answer was “Nothing.”

“Remember,” said Hal, “You don’t even know us.” And we left for Bexley.

Mother and daughter did the 5K in tandem that morning. Me? I trudged the streets of Bexley alone, knocking time off last year, all the while, listening to Michael’s radio, and thinking.

I thought of my kids out-of-state, and the grandkids…I thought of my family and friends and my relative health….

I thought of the fun we were having and the words in the songs on the radio I was only beginning to figure out and the new office and even my new haircut.

And I thought about the summer approaching, my travel plans east and west, and…

Even the play coming up and how I had the proverbial “loaf of bread under each arm.”

And I realized, yet again, that this was not, as that clown had stated, the end of the world as we know it, but, as always…Only the beginning.

Approaching Caribou my eyes caught Michael, mid-fifties. Coffee in hand, head in paper, he was oblivious. Imperceptibly I altered my angle and kept walking. Not that he’s a bad guy. He’s not. Actually, the man’s a friend. He is, though, mad at me now— over the top, I might add— and dying to talk to me. Screw him. He’s nuts. It can wait. Frankly, I’ve enjoyed for four days watching him seethe.

Some people I just love to screw with: especially those with no sense of humor. They ask for it. Heck, they beg for it.

Michael’s OK, but he’s anal retentive. Once he focuses, he only sees and hears what he wants. No matter what one says, he stays on his message and clearly, no matter what he hears he does his own thing. The beauty of it all is, of course, that no matter how much you f with him, he comes back for more.

Ya gotta love it.

Years ago…I had just started “not dating” Rochelle and we sat with her daughter in the basement of Zin. As luck would have it, Michael strolled in for open mic night and was immediately (and visibly) enamoured with Julie who, just as visibly was attractive, single, but half his age. My phone, of course, rang the next day.

“Bruce, I want you to call Julie and see if she’ll go out with me. I’d do it myself but I don’t really know her and it might be awkward.”
“Michael, PLEASE…don’t ___ things up for me. These people think I’m normal.”
He wouldn’t relent.
“Just make the call,: he pleaded. “If she’s not interested —fine.”
One thing I knew even then: Michael’s a good guy but a loose cannon. If I made the call at least I’d control the fallout. (Either way, this could not end well).

“Julie,” I said. “My friend Michael wants to go out with you. What do you want me to tell him?”
“Tell him not to call,” she smiled by phone.
“Can I quote you?”
“I don’t care what you say. He’s too old,” and then she used an expression I’d not heard before: “I don’t even want to go out with him just for shits and giggles.”

I put off the call. There was absolutely no chance in the world he wouldn’t call me. I was right.

“She says don’t call,” I reported. Those were my exact words, enunciated with British precision. “She says don’t call.”

He called her, of course, the very next day.

Fast forward a decade…to now. At my suggestion pal Michael, an extremely talented song and dance man, read for, was cast in a show I’m doing. Frankly, he’s a perfect fit.

The one thing you must know, though, about community theater…is that the players, more than anything else, play. Humor dominates the pre and post games, and eighth grade humor dominates this writer. Moreover, at this particular venue, with this particular director, filtering propriety is not required. No subject is taboo, no taste is too bad, and no fun is left un-had. ‘Tis why, perhaps, I love doing shows there. The only prerequisite, EVER…the only issue…is…is it funny.

There’s a deaf kid in the production. Kevin, late 20’s, was actually a card player in last fall’s “The Odd Couple.” We bonded back then as he didn’t drive and I’d pick him up for rehearsals and shows. Anyway…Kev survives by lip reading and the curtain’s rise had him sitting to my right, back to the phone. Midway through the scene the phone would sound and Kevin’s part was to answer it. Of course, he couldn’t respond to a ring he couldn’t hear, so we needed to cue him. My stomp, nightly, under the table, shook the stage just enough that our buddy’d get up and answer the call. It goes without saying (or perhaps it doesn’t), but in the six weeks we rehearsed and the three weeks we ran, whenever ANYONE at the theater wanted Kevin for anything, I would urge that they stomp their foot. They still do (and I take pride in that).

And so it was that I was sitting in the theater with Kevin last Tuesday, studying Michael on stage.
“You see that guy, “I pointed out. “You know he’s legally blind.”
Kevin’s head tilted quizzically, much like my dog Adam’s.
“Yeah,” I continued, “I guess he sees just enough to get by—memorizes steps, things like that…takes city streets to get here—he’s afraid to drive freeways.”
“Ahhhhhhh,” hummed Kevin, buying in.

The balance of the night, of course, was spent, whenever possible, subtly but noticeably helping Michael on and off the stage. Indeed, at 9:30, as we all left, with Kevin within earshot, I even asked Michael if I could walk him to his car.

“You’re a funny guy,” shrugged the director, watching it all. “Too bad you can’t act.”
Those, I knew, were words of love.

At breakfast the next day a text came.

       “What was that nonsense about you helping me off stage and to my car? I’m not sure where you’re coming from but I hope we’re   not headed for a problem!”

       “Sorry if you took it the wrong way,” I responded.

       “I’ll talk to you about it later,” he retexted.

       Think again, thought I

It’s been days now, and he sits on the patio waiting to grab me. Cleary, he wants to talk.

I’ll see him tomorrow, at rehearsal. It’s at 2PM and trust me, I’ll have Kevin at my side.  Michael can talk to HIM, I figure. Kevin, after all…can’t hear.

I had to laugh. Was it really about batting ninth? Pulling himself from the New York lineup last weekend, Jorge Posada had me chuckling for two reasons. Initially, it was the Yankees–’nuff said. Secondly, I thought to the lack of ego shown by my friends over the years…playing just a game.

Team sports being what they are…the human condition being what it is….why is it kids on a sandlot can better perceive of their relative worth? How was it playing just “for fun,” when it might have made sense to be democratic… to take turns batting first, be quarterback, shoot…why is it WE all knew our place (and were just glad to have it)?

My intro to team sports was “swift pitching.” Played against a brick wall, it was generally two on two with one pitcher and one fielder per team. Never the source of intra-squad squabble, we all got it: the strong arm threw, the other chased balls. It was a law both unwritten and time-honored…and no one sulked.

The best was when more bodies showed. South Euclid was growing and Jews, in the midst of “white flight,” were beginning to infiltrate. We’d play, back then, on the north lawn of Rowland. With home facing east, long balls hit left– if missed—or too foul, would roll down the hill. When I first moved in, they were all older guys. There were the neighborhood veterans: Bulb, Turd, Fromin and Bobby Stain. Not to mention Johnny Matejka, Paul Erlich and Bernie Pleskoff. There was even that bully Jerry Wolf. (The older guys didn’t let him play. Once they left and we got the field, Wolf would grab our ball and throw it on the roof). Me? I was new and an unknown commodity. I’d hang around, await my chance, and in the interim, be happy for the little action I got:

“Hey, go get that ball!” they’d yell as it rolled down toward Belvoir.

Schlepping down the hill, I’d return like Pavlov’s dog, sit idly, and wait for the next foul ball. As years passed, of course, Stuart and I got in. The torch passed to a new generation as our kid brothers Hal and Ricky groaned, smiled, and trudged down and up the hill.

Football was no different. We all knew our place. There was a team in sixth grade. Practice lunchtime in Raisin’s backyard…Snyder always quarterback….no questions asked. Everyone else would just “go out.” I quit that team when my Dad forbid I play tackle. Bob, for one, didn’t find out; he never threw to me anyway.

High school brought basketball. Wieder formed a team and got us in a tournament at Cudell Recreation out on Cleveland’s west side. Snyder, Cohen, Kraut, Alan…me. (Perhaps even Codgie). One practice I missed a layup and heard from Alan:

“You’re job,” he told me, “is not to shoot.” If I couldn’t shoot, I wondered, (being neither a runner nor a jumper), what WAS my job? Then it occurred to me. We’d piled five of us in my Mom’s green Chevy to head ‘cross town. My job was to drive.

By college I played football again. My friends, oddly, were not. When Hal’s peers included me, though, I was not only thrilled, but noted again that YES there was a caste system, and NO, no one bitched. Dick Baskin led one team, and while he could pass we were run-oriented. Nary a peep was heard from Herzog, Ross or the two Bogarts as our bread ‘n butter was just Baskin sweep right, Baskin sweep left. Across the line was Mandel’s team. Bruce’s squad included brother Dooey, Dick’s brother Tommy, and interchangable wide receivers. Our huddle was always peaceful; I can’t speak to theirs. (What I do know is that Bruce rarely threw to his brother—he always made him block—and that one day Doug, for whatever reason, up and left the country).

No one, though, complained. (Well, almost no one). Pear (not his real name), was traded annually. Named not for his gonads but his silhouette, Steve constantly beckoned “I can get open. Throw it to me!” Fact is that he couldn’t and they didn’t.

Well…that’s not true either. You see, there was this unwritten rule. As players tired…when the troops were pretty much in agreement that we’d had enough…there’d be a signal. THEN, whoever was quartering Steve’s opponent, on cue, would intentionally throw an interception Pear’s way. Both teams would then jump all over him and grind him to the ground before going home. (Not that he was unhappy, though. Steve always left gloating, proud of his “pick”).

The most fertile ground for dueling egos, of course, could have been Sol’s Boys. It never was. A team of core friends improved by talent met in high school or college or competition, we not only never fought, but we jelled. Geographers note that from embryonic days as Waxman Plumbing to the last trophy in the last year for Sol, Arthur kept moving across the outfield getting further from the left field line. He never questioned, never sulked. Others too wound up in positions less prestigious than those they’d earned their bones on in Little League or beyond. No one cared. It was, truly, all about the game.

Which reminds me of one more story. Pay attention, Jorge:

’69 was not only the summer of contact lenses and the summer of my Mustang, but also the season of my batting title. To the surprise of many (most specifically my teammates), I led our league in hitting. As the team won two titles, I’d outhit the stars.

Where, you might ask, do you think Wieder batted me? Leadoff? No. That was Bobby. Always. (In his contract). Tenth? No. That was Arthur. Always. (Alan told him it was an honor…a set up for the top of the lineup).

No. The league’s leading hitter hit NINTH. NINTH. And guess what? I never sulked. Never complained.

It was all about the game.

Dear Kids,

It occurred to me recently that you were but 10, 12, and 15 when your parents separated. As such, though you lived through the end of a marriage, none of you bore witness to its ascent, those halcyon days when, inexplicably Opie Taylor fell for Grace Slick. Even in the profound neutrality of today, I think back to those first sixty days and smile. You should, too. This then, is how I met your mother.

My junior year: Living off campus with Arthur I was, not unlike today, vibrant, busy, and loveless. Days were spent not going to classes; nights were with friends or my Dad (who’d taken in Dick Baskin), or cards….or….all of the above. Uncle Hal was but a freshman, Harriet had just shown up…the world was indeed younger.

I’d been given your mother’s name by a still Jeff-less Linda Yankow. Oddly, as insecure as I was, I’d never feared the fix-up. (Snyder once told me the reason I went on so many blind dates was because a girl would have to be blind to go out with me. He had—back then— “street cred.” I believed him).

Saturday, October 18, 1969: Meeting her was NOT the highlight of the day. Indeed, I’d spent that pre-cable afternoon with thousands watching OSU beat Minnesota 34-7 on a closed circuit feed to St. John’s Arena. Your mother was at best, the after-party.

Those days boys couldn’t go to girls’ rooms. Calling from the lobby, I stood at the base of Taylor’s elevators, and still picture this tall, leggy coed strutting past me, aimlessly looking for a more hirsute guy.

We doubled that night. Saw “Butch Cassidy And The Sundance Kid” with Walt and Andy Wolf (a junior up from Miami). The typically platonic agenda was movie and dinner (Emil’s), a dime in the booth’s jukebox (“I Take Alot Of Pride In Who I Am- Dean Martin), and home. After dumping the ladies, Marc and I returned to his frat house. It was there that I announced in the dorm area that I’d never go out with her again.

Like I said, though, these were busy times. The next week was homecoming and, nerd that I was, I’d had a date for weeks. Brenda was a nice girl…had been to her Cinci home. Still, for reasons I’d come to learn later, we never did turn the corner.

It didn’t matter. I was having fun finally coming into my own! Contact lenses and a new Mustang convertible provided confidence I’d never felt before. I was so happy to be able to talk to girls (without fear), that the thrill of it all trumped any urge for romance.

Take Homecoming, for example: There was the DPhiE Brunch, the Bucks’ 41-0 scouring of Illinois, then the Blood Sweat And Tears concert. My scorecard read clearly: Day full, plate full, life full.

It was my birthday that year that I next thought of your mother. Longert threw a surprise party and in the midst of it all, suggested I call her.

“She thought you were different,” said Linda.
“Good different, or just different?”
“She’s not sure, Bruce…Just call her.”

Our second date was another movie. Safe venue, thought I. Crestfallen—OSU had lost to Michigan that day—I acquiesced to your mother’s eerily prescient suggestion, the stoner film “Easy Rider”. (Was I the only one on campus not to like it?) Afterward we went back to my apartment, sat on the couch, and kissed slightly. (It wasn’t my idea. Snyder said I had to take her back, if only so she wouldn’t wonder about me). Again, though….no magic.

I’d like to say our third time was a charm; it wasn’t. Dateless, sitting on tickets for The Association…it was default and destiny calling. No one hit it out of the park that night. Still, it wasn’t three strikes and you’re out, either. We fouled off a few; we stayed alive.

Something…whatever it was…was beginning to kick in. After days delaying, after sensing perhaps, an emotional investment), I called again. We had a few “study dates.” Nothing major. The worm, alas, was beginning to turn.

Friday, December 12: A month had passed. Fear and Thanksgiving had paused the process and an accident had totaled my Mustang. Still, in an orange Plymouth Barracuda (Al Bogart loved the color), I picked up your mother for yet another movie, another meal. (I just never had GAME).

It was a classic night. We saw “The Sterile Cuckoo,” (starring Liza Minnelli, NOT your aunt). In the dark of the theater, though, I saw only your mother. Gone were her purple sunglasses, on was her Estee Lauder. For some reason, that evening she thought everything I said was funny. Just as suddenly, I began to actually understand her Jersey accent…and thought it cute.

A light bulb went on.

The next night, a Saturday, the Bucks were at home. Basketball. (Wieder would miss the game, going to the hospital with swollen eyes). Me? I saw your mother before the game, having dinner at IHOP. The flag, (no pun intended), was up!

It’s a funny thing about confidence. When I have it…when I’ve got that swagger…I’m fearless.

“You’re funny,” she told me again, (which I interpreted as a seismic pronouncement of emotion).

Buoyed, I asked her for New Years in Cleveland. She passed but it mattered not.  “Going home,” she said, but…”You can take me to the airport.”

Port Columbus, back then, offered metered parking. Right up front.

Tuesday, December 16, 1969: I parked on the circle, walked toward the trunk, and pulled out her bags. She stood there, your Mom did, DPhiE friend to her side. And I kissed her—right then and there, in front of her friend, in front of other travelers, in front of the world.

“Really going to miss you,” I said (to no response). Beet red, flustered, she’d pivoted and scrambled away—MORTIFIED.

It mattered not. I worried not. The future looked bright. (It always does when you’ve got the swagger).

Just remember that,
Love, Dad

Roz took my order, but not before asking AGAIN how New York was. (Hadn’t we had this conversation just yesterday? Did she think it changed?) “Great,” I repeated as my phone rang.

“Hello Bruce, “came the voice. “I thought you would call me about the weekend.”
“New York was phenomenal,” I reported.

It’s hard to speak of Max these days. Sometimes I feel like the late-night talk host that introduces each guest as “the lovely, the talented…” It’s difficult, though, not to dwell in superlatives. No, impossible.  I love that kid so much.

“What did you guys do?” she asked. (Fact was we did nothing special. When I’m with the right people, the whole is always greater than the sum of its parts).

I wonder if Max knows the power he has. He sits there, focus of everyone, and whether he smiles, sighs or sleeps, we drool. Surrounded by attention, his bills all paid, he’s got (as Ben Selzer would say, “The world by the kalooms.”)

     “I can see a new expression on my face
     I can feel a strange sensation taking place
     I can hear the guitars playing lovely tunes
     Every time that you are in the room.”

OK, I’m a pushover. When the kid’s around even dirty diapers are fun and games

Heading upstate Saturday, Michael noted the next exit was Ossining, home to Don Draper. “Could we drive through there on the way back?” I asked, (unwittingly opening the door). Does Michael bust anyone’s chops but mine?

“Dad, did you really think they filmed it there?”
“Yes, Michael…–“
“And I suppose they filmed ‘Seinfeld’ in Manhattan?” he chided.
“Actually,” I told him, “I figured the outdoor scenes, yes.”
(He was still laughing, muttering something about a soundstage or studio as Max yawned).

Time was that Michael’s teasing made me insecure. Those days are gone. Our rapport today is cemented by a profound sense of family.  (Max, FYI, slept through it all).

Returning to Great Neck, I was exhausted from the fun of it all, the simplicity of it all. Could there be a greater joy than sitting in the backseat right next to The Prince?

It was a weekend replete with love.

As nights fall, SOP at Chez Bogart mandates quiet for Max and whatever adults be present retreat to the bedroom. Meredith cradles a black-and-white video monitor but all eyes see the baby in color.

“What do you think of your grandson?” asked Caryn. (My smile was my answer).
“That’s some kid you got there,” urged Stuart.

     “I can feel that something pounding in my brain
     Just anytime that someone speaks your name…”

It was family night at the compound. Five of us sat on and around the bed, laughing, cajoling, much like kids in a dorm room. Indeed, there was a collegiality to it that just cannot be manufactured.

Sunday Michael played ball. He was, I sensed, in the twilight of a great career. Not unlike his father, he was playing out the string still getting his hits, but surrounded by teammates that hit puberty long after Michael’d hit his prime. (He’d have started for Sol’s Boys, I thought as they swept the double-header).

Food followed, of course, at the Great Neck Diner.

”Where’s the baby?” they greeted us. I beamed as Michael brought the buggy. We were in a hurry for breakfast—lunch was approaching!

It was an afternoon of further warmth. Mothers Day, Casa de Miller…a family affair:  women in one room kvelling over the Max—men in another kvetching of the Yanks. Jeter, alas, was having a good day and Brother Matt felt vindicated. (Fools gold, thought I. My son’s career has more future).

Day’s end was approaching—the highlight yet to come. Rejoining the women, I found them feeding The Prince. Politely, I hung around.

“Do you want to feed him?” they asked in unison. My smile, again, was my answer.

Spoon in right hand, I eased toward his mouth. In an instant no less momentous than Moses parting the Red Sea…it opened! Not a clean shot, I’ll admit. Most of the rice, though, wet, sloppy as it was…found his gums.

One time was enough, (I figured), handing the spoon to the lady in the on-deck circle.  I was on the board having fed my boy. Dayenu!

I looked at the kid…and smiled. Soon I’d be returning to Cleveland. 

I packed my bags that night enriched not only by the weekend, but by the firm belief that I too, had the world by the kalooms.

     “…Everytime that you are in the room.”

                                      Jackie DeShannon

My mother was not perfect. Stubborn—at times self-centered, the lady was, if nothing else, honest. Indeed, to my knowledge, she lied to me but once.
It was 1963 in the parking lot—Cedar-Taylor Optical–we were discussing her marriage. “Your Dad moved out,” she said, “But only for a while.” This, of course, was untrue, (unless “a while” can be defined “forever”).

Her comment, to be sure, was borne of concern, of need to protect…and it was what I needed to hear at that time. Elaine Delores Hoffman Bogart (86 Bogart) Lerner Turner was but the first of many to love and nurture me. In the years that followed, while remaining my father’s son, I also stayed coachable…gleaning lessons from a myriad of beautiful women

Cele Porter was our mother’s mother. First of the food chain born in the States, she married twice. Husband Harry, (my granddad), died in ’49 to be followed by Irv Porter. Cele, having lived through The Great Depression, wanted more for her kids. As such, our Mom out did her, marrying thrice. To this day, though, I
close my eyes and picture Grandma Cele’s apartment, filled to the brim with aunts, uncles, cousins…of Seders and Chanukah parties. Flipping memory’s screen I see her wading in the pool at The Riviera, tongue deeply imbedded in her false teeth…ready, willing and able to splash her six grandchildren at play. The water was never too cold for Cele Porter.

Our Dad’s mom was different…of a different world. Gladys (nee Baronovich) Bogart hailed from Lomza, Poland. Educated, devoted to Judaism, accepting of almost anything, she rarely rocked the boat. Except once: It was the second Seder. South Euclid’s Little League had scheduled a managers’ meeting and our was ripping through the service. “Albert,” she admonished her grown son (with that Russian-Polish edge), “They would never have a meeting on Good Friday.” “Ma, please,” whined my father, sitting and slowing his pace, and pouting.

My college years brought two new faces. Junior year, I fell for The Jersey Girl and met HER mom. Lil Selzer, raised in the Jewish aristocracy of rural western Pennsylvania, would some day be my mother-in-law. I cherish not only her memory, but the lesson of her steadfast devotion to family.

Enter Harriet.

Experts said there would be a man on the moon before our father’d fall in love again. They were right. And so it was that in autumn, ’69 we met our Harriet
So smitten was the old man that he summoned Marilyn to make Chanukah latkes for a planned impromptu introduction to his future. (And ours). Decades after our meeting at 20 East 14, she continues to weave the lesson of family.

But it all started, (I’m reminded this Mothers Day), with our Mom.

“Just remember, Buddy Boy,” she’d tell us, “After I’m gone you’ll only have each other.” If she said it once, she said it a thousand times. “After I’m gone, there’ll only be the two of you….Remember that!”

Elaine Turner closed her eyes in April, 2009. Her last years were spent watching Bruce and Hal, two boys from Hopkins Avenue, Cleveland, clearly loving each other. My gut tells me that, having seen this, she saw no further reason to live. My heart tells me, seeing this, she died happy.