Former Times-Standard sports writer Sean Quincey's observation about how everybody views all-time top athletes and teams based on their own age, the era they remember most clearly, etc., is accurate.
That's what makes putting my All-Time North Coast Baseball Team together fun and challenging. I had to go back well before I played baseball at Eureka High in the 1970s and then jump to add players who starred up there from about 1995 to date. I couldn't just fall back on my era as the best era because it's the era I most remember.
Perfect example of "Best of..." being so wildly personal is my own little list of all-time great Humboldt-Del Norte League athletes and, in particular, football players.
I would argue, after writing about H-DNL sports for 20 years and following them for 45 that the best athlete and most explosive football player ever on the North Coast was a guy who is totally forgotten on the North Coast today. It's a former Eureka guy ... a guy I played Midget Leauge with ... went to Winship Junior High with ... from a sports family that folks who remember 1965 to 1980 would've insisted was a family that would never be forgotten.
I intend to introduce the most impactful football player, from Eureka High School Class of 1975, to folks here. I hope you'll remember him.
Eureka High's Rob Harrison was as good as any running back in America as a senior in 1980. Everybody's thinking now of NFL linebacker Ray Maualuga who starred at USC. It'd be stupid not to list one of them as No. 1, right?
Wrong.
Hey, woa! You can disagree ... but, you can't call me names! I know what I saw with my own two eyes and I those two greats and ...
Mike Poovey was a running back at Eureka High in 1974 and 1975. He was a 100- and 200-meter H-DNL sprint champion. (And, I played with him on Belcher's Giants in the Eureka Midget League for 3 years. He was a quiet, cocky kid who often left the impression that amazing baseball talent was wasted on him in a game he seemed to find boring.)
Poovey was a touchdown machine. He ran over people. When he hit somebody, Albee Stadium rocked. (I once saw Harrison hurdle defenders. Also impressive!)
Poovey was just so much faster than defenders I found his performances on the field breathtaking -- even as a guy who viewed him as a peer and sort of a pal. He was a sprint champion who hit like a ton of bricks.
Think a minute. How good does a guy have to be to have a peer, 40 years later, say, "He was electrifying!" He has to have been great.
When Poovey hit somebody it made that explosive sound, then the would-be tackler fell straight backwards. And, yeah, I saw him meet defenders at the goal line and knock them on their ass.
If he got a half-step on the defense, he was gone. God, Mike Poovey was a great football player!
Then...in the middle of what would've been an historic senior season, he blew out his knee and his spot in the middle range of all-time rushers and TD scorers hides the fact he was the biggest impact player I ever saw on the North Coast.
Kids didn't play for NCAA Division I scholarships in 1974-75. Poovey didn't have state of the art medical techniques to repair his damaged knee. He came back and played football at College of the Redwoods, but he was never the same ... still good, though.
Mike Poovey. Eureka High Class of 1975. The best I ever saw.
I last spoke to him 12 years ago or so. He was in Sacramento. His brother Dale "Butch" Poovey is a lawyer up there. I remember arguing with an older pal that Butch Poovey was a better quarterback and baseball player than younger brother Mike would ever be. Tom Poovey played baseball with us as kids, the youngest of the clan. John Poovey (EHS Class of '72) was a basketball star on one of the best teams in Loggers' history. He passed away too soon not long ago.
I tried to track him Mike Poovey down, through his family, about a year ago. No luck. He's still impossible to catch.
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
Saturday, August 27, 2011
All-Time North Coast Baseball Team 2011
Ted Note: This is the story featuring the all-time North Coast baseball team that I pieced together with research, in discussions with people who'd followed the game for years, etc. It first appeared in the early 1990s, but has been updated here to include three stars who played in the area since the story first appeared.)
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Selecting the best North Coast baseball players of the century is no more difficult than picking the prettiest star in the evening sky.
Still, as 2000 nears, it's worth taking the time to consider the best of the best who have been the region's "Boys of Summer" in the last many years.
While Major League Baseball has copious statistics going back to 1900, the process of selecting the all-time North Coast baseball team falls to recollections of former players and coaches or media members.
"There have been some great players here through the years," the Times-Standard's the late, longtime sports editor Don Terbush said. "How can you compare them through the years with the change from wooden bats to aluminum? It's tough, but the great ones could have played in any era."
Players are honored here for what they did on the local scene, while considering what they accomplished outside the area, too. The majority of the stars of the last century played pro baseball, although some drew high praise simply for their excellence on the North Coast scene.
The team was chosen after polling local baseball players, baseball historians and media members who have watched this area's finest baseball stars through the century.
The late Carl Del Grande described the 1949 semi-professional Humboldt Crabs in a 1984 newspaper story.
"The club had intensity and brute strength," Del Grande said. "It also had finesse and skill."
Some things never change. That could describe any championship team from any era.
Here's a look at the Times-Standard All-Time North Coast Baseball Team:
First base: Two players who starred at Eureka High before becoming standouts at Stanford University and then enjoying careers in professional baseball earn the nod.
Mark Lucich, who graduated from Eureka in 1972, and Rick Lundblade, who starred in the late 1980s, both left their mark locally and then starred for the Cardinal.
"Mark was just a great hitter. He hit for average and with power," said former Alaska Summer League teammate Lee Iorg, who played against Lucich at Eureka High.
Lundblade, at one time, held the all-time Stanford career home run record.
Lucich spent time in the Cincinnati Reds organization while Lundblade was a Philadelphia Phillies farmhand.
Infielders: Although he's best known as a legendary Humboldt-Del Norte League coach, Bob Bonomini ranks among the greatest players in history. He was a superb player at St. Bernard High (Class of 1958) before shining at Fresno State and, then, for years as the second baseman for the Humboldt Crabs.
Wally Scott was a shortstop for Arcata High School and Humboldt State in the 1940s. He was a brilliant fielder with an outstanding bat. He wound up playing professional baseball.
"You can't pick an all-time team without Wally on it," Terbush said.
Eureka's Scott Eskra became the rare Humboldt County player of modern vintage to star in high school, at College of the Redwoods -- and absolutely sparkle at a powerful NCAA Division I school. He had a brilliant 1997 season at the University of Mississippi in the Southeastern Conference.
Eskra anchored one of the finest Eureka High School teams of the last quarter-century and starred for a magnificent Humboldt Eagles Connie Mack League team that dominated throughout the western region of the United States.
John Schlesinger (Eureka High, 1968) was among the first in a crop of standout Loggers to shine in the infield and then go on to play professionally. This Loggers grad spent years in the Yankees farm system.
One player stands head-and-shoulders above the rest at this position -- former Eureka and Humboldt Crabs sensation Reco Pastori. Pastori was a brilliant middle infielder in the 1940s for the early editions of the semi-pro baseball powerhouse. He played second base for the Crabs.
"Reco was our Ty Cobb," Del Grande recalled. "He was a good percentage hitter and could convert a walk or single into two bases with his exciting base running."
Garth Iorg was a shortstop for Arcata High from 1971-73, then moved on straight from high school to the minor leagues.
He spent a long, storied career as a third baseman for Toronto Blue Jays. He is currently a coach with the Milwaukee Brewers.
Once again, a player from years gone by is considered by many the best in North Coast history at the hot corner.
Former Arcata High star Eddie Oliveira was a brilliant third baseman for the Tigers in the 1940s and remains, in the opinion of many, the best at the hot corner in the history of the Humboldt Crabs.
"Oliveira had excellent bat control," Del Grande recalled. "He usually led our team in hitting. He was very good at the hit-and-run play. He was a great athlete."
Catchers: After a brilliant career at Eureka High and with the Humboldt Crabs, Carl Del Grande earns a spot on the all-time team as a catcher. He was power hitter in the 1940s here before playing professional baseball with the Detroit Tigers and Pittsburgh Pirates organizations.
"Carl could play the infield, the outfield, and he was a catcher, too," Terbush remembered. "He could really hit the long ball."
McKinleyville High's John Jaso went from being a slugging Panthers' star in the early 2000s, to community college stardom. He was drafted by the Tampa Bay Rays and currently sees action behind the plate for the AL East team.
Jaso ended a long spell where not a single North Coast player was drafted, signed and made a Major League Baseball Roster.
Greg Kane was a home run-hitting sensation for Arcata High in the early 1970s before moving on to a professional career where he showed defensive prowess to go with a booming bat.
Outfielders: Dane Iorg was a star at Arcata High (1968), was a standout for the Humboldt Crabs and Brigham Young University and then had a long and successful big league career with the St. Louis Cardinals and Kansas City Royals. While with the Royals, he played against younger brother Garth, who was with the Blue Jays, in the American League Championship Series.
"I think Dane was the best all-around player ever to come out of this area," said Iorg's brother Lee.
Some would disagree.
"Lee Iorg was considered by many the best overall talent of the three Iorg brothers," Terbush said.
Lee Iorg was not to be outshined as a center fielder from Arcata High (1970) with great speed, fine defensive skills and strong bat. He is considered by some baseball historians here as the most physically gifted of the brothers. He played in the New York Mets organization.
"Dane and I played different positions. I prided myself on my defense and my hitting," Lee said. "It's kind of nice that people remember you were a pretty decent player."
Buster Pidgeon was as outstanding a multi-sport athlete as the area has ever produced, starring for great Eureka High teams in the 1960s.
It was as a baseball star at Eureka High, College of the Redwoods and then in the Philadelphia Phillies organization that he made his mark on North Coast history. He continues to leave his mark on area baseball with son Matthew pitching in the Florida Marlins organization and by Buster coaching the Connie Mack League Humboldt Eagles, with Matthew at Eureka High School and on his own time with young players from throughout the county.
Paul Ziegler was another multisport hero for Fortuna High (1976). He was a mercurial center fielder who led many Humboldt Crabs teams to glory while starting in center field in a four-year career at the University of Southern California.
Greg Lorenzetti is another Fortuna grad who, like Ziegler, was a football quarterback and a basketball star, coming along in the 1980s. He went on to become a baseball standout at Stanford University, and played for the Crabs, before signing professionally with the Toronto Blue Jays.
Shane Zerlang is the third Fortuna High grad to crack this mythical squad. He was a superior lefty swinger with speed and power. He went on to play professionally in the Los Angeles Dodgers organization in the mid-1980s.
Pitchers: Joe Oescheger came out Ferndale High to pitch for decades in the major leagues in the 1900s. The right-hander pitched in the longest game in major league history for the Brooklyn Dodgers.
"He gained so much recognition nationally for the longest game that some people don't remember he pitched here," Terbush said.
Wade Hammond was named California's Medium School Player of the Year in 1956, leading Eureka High through a magical season in which he pitched five shutouts before signing a professional contract.
Greg Shanahan went from St. Bernard High (1968) to Humboldt State's now defunct baseball program. His career didn't end until he had worked his way through the Los Angeles Dodgers system and into the big leagues.
Nick Seely was a Eureka baseball product from Little League through Babe Ruth League. He went on to star as a slugging outfielder and pitcher at St. Bernard High School (Class of 1999) for former Crusaders' head coach Al Brisack.
While Seely was a switch-hitter with power to all fields, he went on to star in college and for the Humboldt Crabs as a submarine-throwing pitcher. The hard-thrower starred at every level he played.
Bob Wilson was a versatile player at Eureka High (1969) but really earned his stripes as a pitcher in one of the most gifted groups of baseball players the area has ever produced. He signed and played pro ball for the Phillies.
"Bob Wilson just had a great fastball," Lee Iorg remembers. "Back then, we didn't know how hard guys threw without a radar gun to measure speed. We just knew it was hard to hit. Bob had a good curve, but you really respected his fastball."
Bobby Box was a dominating left-hander for Arcata High and still holds many College of the Redwoods pitching records. He had a long career in the Atlanta Braves farm system after starring for the Humboldt Crabs during their glory days.
Randy Niemann is another lefty who had a long big league career, pitching for a number of teams.
He starred at Fortuna High (1973) and then headed to College of the Redwoods before signing first with the Yankees. Niemann is currently a pitching coach in the New York Mets' organization, based at the spring training complex in Florida.
Burt Nordstrom pitched at Arcata High and for Humboldt State. The right-hander wound up his career playing professionally for the Cleveland Indians system.
"Burt was one of the best pitchers of the era I played in, for sure," Lee Iorg said of his former Arcata High teammate.
Gary Wilson, Arcata High's versatile righty, was a star in the 1980s who went to Sacramento City College and, eventually, found his way to a stint on the big league roster of the PIttsburgh Pirates.
Wilson is currently a regional scout for the Colorado Rockies based in Sacramento.
Billy Olsen is remembered as one of the best high school pitchers ever here. He was a star at Eureka High School (1967), then jumped directly to be the No. 1 starter for the Humboldt Crabs where he dominated major-college foes. He was signed by the New York Yankees before arm injuries cut short a brilliant career.
"Billy Olsen was the best pitching prospect I've seen," said Crabs chief scout and former general manager Ned Barsuglia who spent his life following North Coast baseball.
"Olsen was one of the best pitchers the Crabs ever had -- and that's saying something," Terbush said.
Gene Johnson, out of Eureka High, starred for the 1949 Crabs as one of the finest hurlers ever produced here.
"Gene had a variety of deliveries," said Del Grande in that 1984 story. "He had a good fastball and refused to be intimidated by batters."
Johnson reached the highest level of minor league baseball in the Triple-A Pacific Coast League.
Head coach: This was the easiest choice of all, with Humboldt Crabs founder Lou Bonomini the clear choice. Bonomini was a star player at Eureka High School in the 1930s and, rightfully, deserves a spot for his exploits as an infielder and pitcher before founding and managing one of the greatest semi-pro baseball organizations in America.
"Lou's philosophy was that a club that doesn't settle for less than victory will be a winner," Del Grande recalled more than two decades ago. "That philosophy made winning a fetish for Lou and his teams. That makes for real enjoyment of the game. He wanted that effort from every player on the team."
(If you find value in the work you read here, please consider clicking the "Donate" button above. All you need is a minute of your time and a bank card. $1...50 cents...a little more or less...will help enable me to monetize this site. -- Ted Sillanpaa)
Health club humiliation knows absolutely no bounds
(If you enjoy what you read, I hope you'll click the "Donate" button above to the left. This work provides my income so ... $1, 50 cents, a little more, maybe less ... will allow me to keep writing. A minute and a bank card is all you need. Regardless, thank you for reading. -- Ted Sillanpaa)
-----
It's not enough that guys like me are carrying 30 or 40 more pounds to go workout.
It's not enough that, really, my aching joints and muscles move me to want to punch the next jackass who says, "50's the new 30, you know?"
It's not even enough to have had a woman in her early 70s watch me lift weights and then remark, "Ohhhh! That machine isn't really big enough for a man ... like you!" (What? I'm fat? No? The 70-year-old woman in the teal sweatpants and "AARP" tee shirt was flirting with me?)
No. There's never an end to the embarrassment that comes with my having let myself get out of shape to the point that my primary goal upon visting the health club is to avoid making a fool of myself.
Don't you love how you can load your tiny, little iPod with all your favorite music? Isn't it so much easier to work up a sweat, feel the burn in your muscles and power on when Rick Astley's "Shout!" comes on. (Hey! Who put a Rick Astley song on my iPod?)
It's enough for me to pay to go to the gym after spending a lifetime staying fit running hills and trails by myself or doing sit-ups and push-ups on the living room floor. I refuse to pay for the little arm band to carry my iPod in while I exercise.
I think that thing that holds the iPod is right behind a white headband for making someone like me look utterly ridiculous. "It's not enough that his blood pressure's through the roof? He won't get on the treadmill without his music ... and something to hold his iPod for him? Loser!"
So, I typically set the iPod gently on the control panel of whatever exercise machine I'm using. If I'm upstairs lifting weights (relax ... that rarely happens), I'll clip the iPod on the waistband of my gym trunks. (Yes! I'm so old I call them gym trunks!)
I won't spend the $15 to buy the band that holds the iPod in place because it makes me feel like a workout clown. I did buy the plastic iPod protective cover. It has the clip on the back so I can connect it to my shorts. (And, yeah, so what if my love handles have knocked the iPod loose when I've been sitting on a weight machine?)
And, no, it's not enough that my love handles are sufficiently out of control so that if I bend just so that they fly uncontrollably over the waistband of my shorts.
Whether I put the iPod on the console of the exercise machine or whether I clip it to my waistband, I'm constantly sending the damned thing flying right in the middle of a cardio workout.
If it's on the console in front of me, I'll be 20 minutes into a workout at 24-Hour Fitness. It'll be crowded, of course. I'll absent-mindedly reach up to wipe sweat from my brow ... forget about the ear buds and get the wire caught on my hand and send that iPod flying.
Yes, in fact, yes an iPod with a hard plastic cover does make a great deal of noise when it hits the ground. And, in you're wondering, at least one of the ear buds stays in my ear but the other other one is always left hanging.
There's nothing worse than digging around a Stairclimber looking for the plastic cover or the iPod itself. I once had to ask a neighbor to stop her workout so that I could grab my iPod out from under her. There was a time when I could get a woman to stop working out so that I could get her phone number.
If the iPod is clipped to my waistband, there's still an excess of ... um ... ear bud wire hanging in front of me. I tried running the wire under my shirt, but felt like I was working undercover for the FBI. It didn't feel right. So, I leave the chord hanging.
And, two or three times a month, I'll be on the ski-glider contraption and somehow get the wire caught on the handles and ... it goes flying!
There's no cool way to respond to something so inordinantly stupid.
I have to draw the line on how much money I'll spend to try to get in shape.
I also have to draw the line where I refuse to admit that I'm such a damned dummy that I can't keep from sending my iPod flying across the health club. I might put somebody's eye out, but I'm determined to regain some measure of coordination to avoid the accident.
What could be worse?
-----
It's not enough that guys like me are carrying 30 or 40 more pounds to go workout.
It's not enough that, really, my aching joints and muscles move me to want to punch the next jackass who says, "50's the new 30, you know?"
It's not even enough to have had a woman in her early 70s watch me lift weights and then remark, "Ohhhh! That machine isn't really big enough for a man ... like you!" (What? I'm fat? No? The 70-year-old woman in the teal sweatpants and "AARP" tee shirt was flirting with me?)
No. There's never an end to the embarrassment that comes with my having let myself get out of shape to the point that my primary goal upon visting the health club is to avoid making a fool of myself.
Don't you love how you can load your tiny, little iPod with all your favorite music? Isn't it so much easier to work up a sweat, feel the burn in your muscles and power on when Rick Astley's "Shout!" comes on. (Hey! Who put a Rick Astley song on my iPod?)
It's enough for me to pay to go to the gym after spending a lifetime staying fit running hills and trails by myself or doing sit-ups and push-ups on the living room floor. I refuse to pay for the little arm band to carry my iPod in while I exercise.
I think that thing that holds the iPod is right behind a white headband for making someone like me look utterly ridiculous. "It's not enough that his blood pressure's through the roof? He won't get on the treadmill without his music ... and something to hold his iPod for him? Loser!"
So, I typically set the iPod gently on the control panel of whatever exercise machine I'm using. If I'm upstairs lifting weights (relax ... that rarely happens), I'll clip the iPod on the waistband of my gym trunks. (Yes! I'm so old I call them gym trunks!)
I won't spend the $15 to buy the band that holds the iPod in place because it makes me feel like a workout clown. I did buy the plastic iPod protective cover. It has the clip on the back so I can connect it to my shorts. (And, yeah, so what if my love handles have knocked the iPod loose when I've been sitting on a weight machine?)
And, no, it's not enough that my love handles are sufficiently out of control so that if I bend just so that they fly uncontrollably over the waistband of my shorts.
Whether I put the iPod on the console of the exercise machine or whether I clip it to my waistband, I'm constantly sending the damned thing flying right in the middle of a cardio workout.
If it's on the console in front of me, I'll be 20 minutes into a workout at 24-Hour Fitness. It'll be crowded, of course. I'll absent-mindedly reach up to wipe sweat from my brow ... forget about the ear buds and get the wire caught on my hand and send that iPod flying.
Yes, in fact, yes an iPod with a hard plastic cover does make a great deal of noise when it hits the ground. And, in you're wondering, at least one of the ear buds stays in my ear but the other other one is always left hanging.
There's nothing worse than digging around a Stairclimber looking for the plastic cover or the iPod itself. I once had to ask a neighbor to stop her workout so that I could grab my iPod out from under her. There was a time when I could get a woman to stop working out so that I could get her phone number.
If the iPod is clipped to my waistband, there's still an excess of ... um ... ear bud wire hanging in front of me. I tried running the wire under my shirt, but felt like I was working undercover for the FBI. It didn't feel right. So, I leave the chord hanging.
And, two or three times a month, I'll be on the ski-glider contraption and somehow get the wire caught on the handles and ... it goes flying!
There's no cool way to respond to something so inordinantly stupid.
I have to draw the line on how much money I'll spend to try to get in shape.
I also have to draw the line where I refuse to admit that I'm such a damned dummy that I can't keep from sending my iPod flying across the health club. I might put somebody's eye out, but I'm determined to regain some measure of coordination to avoid the accident.
What could be worse?
Friday, August 26, 2011
Fringe group out to mainstream pedophilia; stay calm and be prepare to protect children
(If you enjoy what you read, I hope you'll click the "Donate" button above to the left. This work provides my income so ... $1, 50 cents, a little more, maybe less ... will allow me to keep writing. A debit or credit card and about 30 seconds of your time is all it requires. Regardless, thank you for reading. -- Ted Sillanpaa)
Don't confuse pedophilia with homosexuality.
Normally, it would seem a given that pedophiles who committ sex crimes against children couldn't possibly be considered in the same breath as homosexuals. Homosexuality isn't a crime, after all.
It seems that there is a move afoot to try to normalize pedophilia in the United States. It's too ridiculous, too heinous, to take really seriously. However, being a member of the Association of Liberal Bleeding Hearts leads me to acknowledge that the move to somehow mainstream pedophilia could actually gain support.
B4UAct is the name of the organization working to have pedophilia changed legally from a perversion to a syndrome -- an official mental health disorder.
See? If you're like me, you're already thinking, "I can see how pedophilia could be considered a mental health problem." In fact, I made that case earlier to a clear-thinker on the opposite side of the political spectrum from me. If pedophiles are getting more attention from a more helpful mental health community, we're all better off.
Right? Pedophiles are going to live among us, so we might as well identify them and help those who want help before they committ a crime against a helpless child
Go to B4UAct.com and read the outfit's goals and plans for yourself. I checked the website and it reads in a way that seems to make sense. It seems harmless. And, it is harmless until we consider what my conservative-thinking pal explained.
Homosexuality was long considered a perversion. Hey, don't kill the messenger. I'm absolutely supportive of the gay lifestyle in America. I support gay marriage. Still, for many years homosexuality was considered perverted.
It took decades of effort for homosexual groups and supportive heterosexual organizations to show that homosexuality isn't a threat to society. Again, don't rant on about how different religions view homosexuality. OK? There's nothing illegal or perverted about the gay lifestyle in a country where there's a difference between religious beliefs and the rule of law.
It took media campaigns, work with medical organizations and the support of the mental health community for homosexuals to begin the long, painful, ongoing process of being accepted in the United States.
My friend, who is someone I trust to have done the research necessary to support his claim, explained that pedophiles are trying to take the same path to acceptance as homosexuals did years ago.
It's actually an interesting approach. Pedophiles are hoping to make talk of pedophilia accepted. They're hoping to get me and other liberals with hearts that bleed without ceasing to stop wanting to have them punished harshly and start trying to see them as victims of a mental health syndrome.
B4UAct, folks who have some reason to support the mainstreaming of pedophiles, forget that they can't take the path that homosexuals took. They can try, but the path that B4UAct and similar groups are on hits an insurmountable obstacle when even a liberal who can find hope and reason to help almost anybody says, "Pedophiles commit crimes against children. Sex crimes. There's no room in mainstream America for pedophiles."
At some point on the path, too, B4UAct will run into gays and lesbian who are upstanding members of communities across the country who will point out that they want absolutely no connection to pedophiles. They are nothing alike. Nothing alike at all. Pedophiles hurt children.
So, it's important that you take a moment and remind yourself that homosexuality and pedophilia aren't at all alike. You might disagree with the homosexual lifestyle and oppose gay marriage, but you have to see the grave difference between a sexual perversion that threatens children and a sexual lifestyle that you either don't understand or just don't like.
We, liberals and conservatives, don't have to agree on gay marriage. Non-believers don't have to agree with members of any faith that doesn't acknowledge the gay and lesbian lifestyle. It's imperative that, for once, we agree to disagree and keep our eye out for the bigger, potentially growing problem.
We have to be prepared with a reasoned response to the attempt to get society to normalize and accept pedophilia as a mental health syndrome that will lead to the crimes that result from the syndrome being punished less severely.
B4UAct can work with medical professionals to inform, educate and help treat pedophilia. There are surely pedophiles who haven't committed a crime. If they come forward for medical help, it would help society if mental healthcare providers knew as much as possible about pedophilia.
B4UAct can work with the prison system to get pedophilia whatever help is necessary on the inside to help them live among us without threatening our children. Pedophiles do live among us, right? So, certainly we can support them using their time serving harsh prison sentences preparing to live among us without acting on their impulses again.
There's no reason for alarm, but we need to be ready to agree ... all of us. Church folks and non-believers have to be prepared to stop fighting and respond in unison if the path pedophiles are on reaches them. Conservatives and liberals need to be ready to join forces to say, "Pedophilia endangers our children and will never be accepted as normal in our country."
Don't confuse pedophilia with homosexuality.
Normally, it would seem a given that pedophiles who committ sex crimes against children couldn't possibly be considered in the same breath as homosexuals. Homosexuality isn't a crime, after all.
It seems that there is a move afoot to try to normalize pedophilia in the United States. It's too ridiculous, too heinous, to take really seriously. However, being a member of the Association of Liberal Bleeding Hearts leads me to acknowledge that the move to somehow mainstream pedophilia could actually gain support.
B4UAct is the name of the organization working to have pedophilia changed legally from a perversion to a syndrome -- an official mental health disorder.
See? If you're like me, you're already thinking, "I can see how pedophilia could be considered a mental health problem." In fact, I made that case earlier to a clear-thinker on the opposite side of the political spectrum from me. If pedophiles are getting more attention from a more helpful mental health community, we're all better off.
Right? Pedophiles are going to live among us, so we might as well identify them and help those who want help before they committ a crime against a helpless child
Go to B4UAct.com and read the outfit's goals and plans for yourself. I checked the website and it reads in a way that seems to make sense. It seems harmless. And, it is harmless until we consider what my conservative-thinking pal explained.
Homosexuality was long considered a perversion. Hey, don't kill the messenger. I'm absolutely supportive of the gay lifestyle in America. I support gay marriage. Still, for many years homosexuality was considered perverted.
It took decades of effort for homosexual groups and supportive heterosexual organizations to show that homosexuality isn't a threat to society. Again, don't rant on about how different religions view homosexuality. OK? There's nothing illegal or perverted about the gay lifestyle in a country where there's a difference between religious beliefs and the rule of law.
It took media campaigns, work with medical organizations and the support of the mental health community for homosexuals to begin the long, painful, ongoing process of being accepted in the United States.
My friend, who is someone I trust to have done the research necessary to support his claim, explained that pedophiles are trying to take the same path to acceptance as homosexuals did years ago.
It's actually an interesting approach. Pedophiles are hoping to make talk of pedophilia accepted. They're hoping to get me and other liberals with hearts that bleed without ceasing to stop wanting to have them punished harshly and start trying to see them as victims of a mental health syndrome.
B4UAct, folks who have some reason to support the mainstreaming of pedophiles, forget that they can't take the path that homosexuals took. They can try, but the path that B4UAct and similar groups are on hits an insurmountable obstacle when even a liberal who can find hope and reason to help almost anybody says, "Pedophiles commit crimes against children. Sex crimes. There's no room in mainstream America for pedophiles."
At some point on the path, too, B4UAct will run into gays and lesbian who are upstanding members of communities across the country who will point out that they want absolutely no connection to pedophiles. They are nothing alike. Nothing alike at all. Pedophiles hurt children.
So, it's important that you take a moment and remind yourself that homosexuality and pedophilia aren't at all alike. You might disagree with the homosexual lifestyle and oppose gay marriage, but you have to see the grave difference between a sexual perversion that threatens children and a sexual lifestyle that you either don't understand or just don't like.
We, liberals and conservatives, don't have to agree on gay marriage. Non-believers don't have to agree with members of any faith that doesn't acknowledge the gay and lesbian lifestyle. It's imperative that, for once, we agree to disagree and keep our eye out for the bigger, potentially growing problem.
We have to be prepared with a reasoned response to the attempt to get society to normalize and accept pedophilia as a mental health syndrome that will lead to the crimes that result from the syndrome being punished less severely.
B4UAct can work with medical professionals to inform, educate and help treat pedophilia. There are surely pedophiles who haven't committed a crime. If they come forward for medical help, it would help society if mental healthcare providers knew as much as possible about pedophilia.
B4UAct can work with the prison system to get pedophilia whatever help is necessary on the inside to help them live among us without threatening our children. Pedophiles do live among us, right? So, certainly we can support them using their time serving harsh prison sentences preparing to live among us without acting on their impulses again.
There's no reason for alarm, but we need to be ready to agree ... all of us. Church folks and non-believers have to be prepared to stop fighting and respond in unison if the path pedophiles are on reaches them. Conservatives and liberals need to be ready to join forces to say, "Pedophilia endangers our children and will never be accepted as normal in our country."
Positive thoughts, self-image alone things better? Quick, tell the Giants!
Every time a San Francisco Giants' hitter swings at and misses a bad pitch, I feel their pain.
Thousands of fans in the ball park boo batters like Cody Ross or Aubrey Huff -- sort of shouting, "C'mon! It's not that hard! Let's go! You can do it! Get a hit!" Then, after the game, they write and talk about how Huff, Ross and the rest just don't get it.
That's a great deal like what people are telling me. I've been unemployed more often in the last four years than in the previous 30 years combined. The five months that I've been out of work this stretch is the biggest professional slump that I've ever been in. Sort of like the 2011 Giants being in the biggest slump the club's been in since 2009.
"C'mon! Get out there! Don't feel sorry for yourself! You've got talent! You can find a job job! You just have to work at it! You can do it!"
Giants like Ross, Huff and Aaron Rowand shuffle, heads down, back to the dugout after a horrendous at-bat in the middle of the team's epic fall from first place to the point where stringing together back-to-back victories seems impossible. It doesn't do them any good to have fans shouting at them or berating them.
I've actually gone to bat, looked foolish trying to hit what seemed to be hittable pitches and had people shout at me. Then, I've gone right out and misplayed an easy grounder. I wasn't thinking about the botched at-bat when I booted the grounder. Honest.
It's my guess that it's no more helpful to have 42,000 people boo and shout at the failed hitter who then flops in the field than it was to have a small crowd at a high school or college game express their disgust with my effort.
Folks who are frustrated by the Giants' increasing inability to win are beginning to step into an area that I've really been thinking about lately. It's an area people go whenever they, in the name of caring for me and helping me, tell me that I just need to be positive, to believe in myself, in order to get that job that has been eluding me.
Giants' analyst Mike Krukow, a former big league pitcher who should know better, talked this morning on the radio about how the Giants' body language is beginning to show the depths to which they've fallen. He talked about how the club has lost it's confidence and no longer believes it can get the key hits and that the lack of confidence carries over to shoddy defensive efforts.
My initial reaction was to conclude that Orlando Cabrera and Carlos Beltran have probably tried striding more purposefully, standing tall, shoulders back ... after a pop out to second base or a called strike three. At some point in their long careers, I'm sure somebody would've mentioned that their body language impacts their ability to make solid contact at the plate and that their plate appearance must be disconnected from their play on defense.
Right? They couldn't have lasted this long or played this well if they needed somebody to tell them that sort of thing.
Still, Krukow and others who know a great deal less about baseball than he does are worried that Huff's shoulders are slumped.
People in my life are worried that my body language and my mindset are at the root of my being unemployed. They feel that five months without landing a job, after 38 years of active effort in the workforce, has shaken my confidence to the point that I'm now my own worst enemy.
Huff had a particularly horrendous at-bat Thursday night in a 3-1 loss to the Houston Astros. He took a Henry Sosa fastball, straight as a string, over the inner-half of the plate for a strike. Then, he swung wildly at a breaking pitch that landed in the dirt ... maybe even on top of home plate.
He was out right then, even though Sosa had to throw another pitch to make it official.
Huff is self-aware. Every big leaguer has to know himself to become a big leaguer. He, more than any fan or analyst, knows he's so out of whack that he let pass a pitch he should've crushed and then flailed at a pitch that bounced before it reached him. Given his keen sense of self-awareness, Huff knows he's in a profound slump. So does Ross ... Rowand ... Cabrera ... Beltran, etc.
Given my keen sense of self-awareness, and increasing debt, I know that I've been out of work for five months and that I need to generate income more than I've ever needed to generate it. I'm 54 years old. It's a given that I should be working or be retired, cashing checks that resulted from wise investments. (I actually wound up living on limited cash from wise investments when the employment slump hit four years ago.)
I'm unclear how Giants' hitters are supposed to feel good about their stroke, their batting eye and their ability to hit when they're proving time and again that they're largely confused and lost with a bat in their hands.
Similarly, how does a fellow who has been unemployed for five months convince himself that all those jobs he hasn't gotten, those interviews that he hasn't received, don't mean anything and that he can turn it all around if he just believes he can? I'm actually going to increase my chances of generating income by standing taller and thinking more positive thoughts?
Now, if somebody finds a flaw in a batter's swing ... the batter can fix it. That makes sense. The flaw has a clear impact on a batter's inability to hit the ball hard.
When a friend pointed out that my resume and cover letters were archaic and that, "I see why you aren't getting job interviews, let alone jobs. Your resume is old-fashioned," it helped. I can modernize my resume. That can lead to my getting more interviews that can lead to getting a job.
Huff and the rest of the Giants aren't sitting around thinking negative thoughts. They lost last night, but they'll all be at the ball park today taking batting practice and doing the same things they do every day to prepare to hit the ball, catch it, throw it straight, etc. They'll do what they've done their entire professional lives.
When I got up this morning to drive my son to school, I knew I'd work at the job that I've done my entire adult life ... even though it's not a job today that results in income to pay bills. (Writing is my work.)
I knew I'd do the same things today that I've been doing to look for jobs that I've done for months. I'd write, like I do every single day. My confidence in my ability to generate income today isn't hindered by the fact I didn't generate much yesterday. (Ted Note: The work reflected here has generated some income, actually. I thank the readers who've found monetary value in the work.)
I don't think it actually helps the Giants or me to announce, with confidence, that today's our day! We know how things have been going. We're professional. We know what we've done and we know what we can do. The successes we had, on far different scales in radically different professions, weren't predicated on positive self-talk. We're all convinced that we're pretty good at our jobs.
It's going to help us if we express that confidence, supremely, to the world? How?
A friend insists that even writing like this is hurting my cause. I'm explaining that I'm not sure how body language, frame of mind and expressing positive thoughts will help me find a job. They insist that even thinking about failure and how I got to this point will keep employers from hiring me.
Yeah, I suppose that ... no, nope! It doesn't make sense.
Those who are Giants fans insist that the Giants need to shake the lethargy that has become apparent, even Krukow called for lineup changes, "Just to get a different look ... to change things up in the clubhouse."
That sounds like folks believe that if manager Bruce Bochy confidently produces a lineup with young slugger Brandon Belt in the lead-off spot and the struggling star Beltran batting second ... it will be Bochy showing the Giants how confident he is that the slump ends today. If the club unloads Rowand and fellow veteran Mark DeRosa to replace them with unproven minor league successes like infielder Brett Pill ... that it just might be what the club needs.
Pill hasn't played an inning in the big leagues. Ever. Belt would only bat first to start a game, after that the batting order doesn't mean anything. Krukow insists shaking things up would help.
That doesn't make sense.
It's the work that matters. It's about plugging along. Never giving up.
Sooner or later, one Giants' hitter is going to run into a pitch ... a pitcher's going hit somebody's bat with runners in scoring position ... and, then, the club will start to feel more confident. The added pressure of playing defense with runners on base will force the other team into a mistake. That'll make the Giants start walking more upright, with the cocksure appearance they've been lacking.
The same thing will happen to me. It always has. The law of averages lean in favor of the guy who keeps chipping away, who doesn't give in to what appears to be the reality of another negative outcome.
It has to work that way because ... for it to work any other way just doesn't make sense.
Thousands of fans in the ball park boo batters like Cody Ross or Aubrey Huff -- sort of shouting, "C'mon! It's not that hard! Let's go! You can do it! Get a hit!" Then, after the game, they write and talk about how Huff, Ross and the rest just don't get it.
That's a great deal like what people are telling me. I've been unemployed more often in the last four years than in the previous 30 years combined. The five months that I've been out of work this stretch is the biggest professional slump that I've ever been in. Sort of like the 2011 Giants being in the biggest slump the club's been in since 2009.
"C'mon! Get out there! Don't feel sorry for yourself! You've got talent! You can find a job job! You just have to work at it! You can do it!"
Giants like Ross, Huff and Aaron Rowand shuffle, heads down, back to the dugout after a horrendous at-bat in the middle of the team's epic fall from first place to the point where stringing together back-to-back victories seems impossible. It doesn't do them any good to have fans shouting at them or berating them.
I've actually gone to bat, looked foolish trying to hit what seemed to be hittable pitches and had people shout at me. Then, I've gone right out and misplayed an easy grounder. I wasn't thinking about the botched at-bat when I booted the grounder. Honest.
It's my guess that it's no more helpful to have 42,000 people boo and shout at the failed hitter who then flops in the field than it was to have a small crowd at a high school or college game express their disgust with my effort.
Folks who are frustrated by the Giants' increasing inability to win are beginning to step into an area that I've really been thinking about lately. It's an area people go whenever they, in the name of caring for me and helping me, tell me that I just need to be positive, to believe in myself, in order to get that job that has been eluding me.
Giants' analyst Mike Krukow, a former big league pitcher who should know better, talked this morning on the radio about how the Giants' body language is beginning to show the depths to which they've fallen. He talked about how the club has lost it's confidence and no longer believes it can get the key hits and that the lack of confidence carries over to shoddy defensive efforts.
My initial reaction was to conclude that Orlando Cabrera and Carlos Beltran have probably tried striding more purposefully, standing tall, shoulders back ... after a pop out to second base or a called strike three. At some point in their long careers, I'm sure somebody would've mentioned that their body language impacts their ability to make solid contact at the plate and that their plate appearance must be disconnected from their play on defense.
Right? They couldn't have lasted this long or played this well if they needed somebody to tell them that sort of thing.
Still, Krukow and others who know a great deal less about baseball than he does are worried that Huff's shoulders are slumped.
People in my life are worried that my body language and my mindset are at the root of my being unemployed. They feel that five months without landing a job, after 38 years of active effort in the workforce, has shaken my confidence to the point that I'm now my own worst enemy.
Huff had a particularly horrendous at-bat Thursday night in a 3-1 loss to the Houston Astros. He took a Henry Sosa fastball, straight as a string, over the inner-half of the plate for a strike. Then, he swung wildly at a breaking pitch that landed in the dirt ... maybe even on top of home plate.
He was out right then, even though Sosa had to throw another pitch to make it official.
Huff is self-aware. Every big leaguer has to know himself to become a big leaguer. He, more than any fan or analyst, knows he's so out of whack that he let pass a pitch he should've crushed and then flailed at a pitch that bounced before it reached him. Given his keen sense of self-awareness, Huff knows he's in a profound slump. So does Ross ... Rowand ... Cabrera ... Beltran, etc.
Given my keen sense of self-awareness, and increasing debt, I know that I've been out of work for five months and that I need to generate income more than I've ever needed to generate it. I'm 54 years old. It's a given that I should be working or be retired, cashing checks that resulted from wise investments. (I actually wound up living on limited cash from wise investments when the employment slump hit four years ago.)
I'm unclear how Giants' hitters are supposed to feel good about their stroke, their batting eye and their ability to hit when they're proving time and again that they're largely confused and lost with a bat in their hands.
Similarly, how does a fellow who has been unemployed for five months convince himself that all those jobs he hasn't gotten, those interviews that he hasn't received, don't mean anything and that he can turn it all around if he just believes he can? I'm actually going to increase my chances of generating income by standing taller and thinking more positive thoughts?
Now, if somebody finds a flaw in a batter's swing ... the batter can fix it. That makes sense. The flaw has a clear impact on a batter's inability to hit the ball hard.
When a friend pointed out that my resume and cover letters were archaic and that, "I see why you aren't getting job interviews, let alone jobs. Your resume is old-fashioned," it helped. I can modernize my resume. That can lead to my getting more interviews that can lead to getting a job.
Huff and the rest of the Giants aren't sitting around thinking negative thoughts. They lost last night, but they'll all be at the ball park today taking batting practice and doing the same things they do every day to prepare to hit the ball, catch it, throw it straight, etc. They'll do what they've done their entire professional lives.
When I got up this morning to drive my son to school, I knew I'd work at the job that I've done my entire adult life ... even though it's not a job today that results in income to pay bills. (Writing is my work.)
I knew I'd do the same things today that I've been doing to look for jobs that I've done for months. I'd write, like I do every single day. My confidence in my ability to generate income today isn't hindered by the fact I didn't generate much yesterday. (Ted Note: The work reflected here has generated some income, actually. I thank the readers who've found monetary value in the work.)
I don't think it actually helps the Giants or me to announce, with confidence, that today's our day! We know how things have been going. We're professional. We know what we've done and we know what we can do. The successes we had, on far different scales in radically different professions, weren't predicated on positive self-talk. We're all convinced that we're pretty good at our jobs.
It's going to help us if we express that confidence, supremely, to the world? How?
A friend insists that even writing like this is hurting my cause. I'm explaining that I'm not sure how body language, frame of mind and expressing positive thoughts will help me find a job. They insist that even thinking about failure and how I got to this point will keep employers from hiring me.
Yeah, I suppose that ... no, nope! It doesn't make sense.
Those who are Giants fans insist that the Giants need to shake the lethargy that has become apparent, even Krukow called for lineup changes, "Just to get a different look ... to change things up in the clubhouse."
That sounds like folks believe that if manager Bruce Bochy confidently produces a lineup with young slugger Brandon Belt in the lead-off spot and the struggling star Beltran batting second ... it will be Bochy showing the Giants how confident he is that the slump ends today. If the club unloads Rowand and fellow veteran Mark DeRosa to replace them with unproven minor league successes like infielder Brett Pill ... that it just might be what the club needs.
Pill hasn't played an inning in the big leagues. Ever. Belt would only bat first to start a game, after that the batting order doesn't mean anything. Krukow insists shaking things up would help.
That doesn't make sense.
It's the work that matters. It's about plugging along. Never giving up.
Sooner or later, one Giants' hitter is going to run into a pitch ... a pitcher's going hit somebody's bat with runners in scoring position ... and, then, the club will start to feel more confident. The added pressure of playing defense with runners on base will force the other team into a mistake. That'll make the Giants start walking more upright, with the cocksure appearance they've been lacking.
The same thing will happen to me. It always has. The law of averages lean in favor of the guy who keeps chipping away, who doesn't give in to what appears to be the reality of another negative outcome.
It has to work that way because ... for it to work any other way just doesn't make sense.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Baseball fan suspects he's entering his last September with beloved Giants
It occurred to me tonight, watching the San Francisco Giants suffer another agonizing loss, that I'm running out of seasons as a baseball fan.
What began in 1963 or 1964 as a curiosity, as a child falling in love with baseball and its heroes, turned into one of the cornerstones of my life. No, I didn't paint my face orange and black or call radio talk shows to rant about how "WE can still win the World Series" or "If the Dodgers can't beat US, we'll be OK." I fell in love with the nuances of the game.
To fall in love with the strategy of a game played at a snail's pace requires a fan to be absolutely immersed in a team, its players and the ebb and flow of a season. Everyone seems to think they know something about baseball strategy, but it takes a different level of knowledge to sit through a serious slump like these Giants have gone through without saying, "There must be something more productive I can do than watch them fail to hit the ball hard or often for 2 1/2 hours a day!"
And, for most of my life as a Giants' fan, I've understood the strategy. I know why pitchers sometimes take 20 seconds between pitches (it allows them to mess with the batter's mind). No matter how often a Giants player like Aubrey Huff strikes out on 3 pitches or pops up meekly to the infield, I understand exactly how hard it is to hit a baseball solidly. The pitcher, after all, is trying to throw the ball at a speed the batter doesn't expect and to a spot the batter can't reach.
In 1966 and 1967, I spent September watching the National League championship slip through the Giants' grasp in a way that only a 10- or 11-year-old kid could survive without wanting to jump off a roof. Although, in 1967, when Sandy Koufax beat the Phillies on the final day of the season (on 2 days rest, when the Giants simply needed the Dodgers to lose to force a one-game playoff for the league title) ... I was sitting on the roof of my house hitting rocks into the forest with a baseball bat.
When the score of Koufax's win over the Phillies came across my transistor radio ... the idea of jumping did cross my mind. How many painful Septembers could an 11-year-old take?
The Giants were my summer friend. Even when I was chasing girls, riding bikes all over town with my pals, playing baseball myself (knowing I was good, but that one had to be simply fantastic to play in the big leagues) -- the club and games on the radio were my most faithful companions. Oddly, I never talked to my Little League teammates or my junior high pals about the Giants. Heaven knows I never let a girlfriend close to my relationship with the Giants, with baseball. I was trying too hard to be cool, so talking about staying up nights listening to the radio broadcasts, then doodling out possible trades and potential Giants' lineups was just ... just ... something I didn't discuss with anyone.
I'm not a statistics nerd either. I don't care about all the new stats like OPS, WHIP, etc. Sabermetics helps baseball analysts determine the value of a player or a team using scientific formulas. They're really not interesting to me at all. I know when the Giants should, maybe, bunt ... and I know that bunting is just giving up an easy out in a game where every team only gets to make 27 outs before a winner is determined. If I see a slow-footed infielder let a ball roll into the grass, I don't need a formula to tell me that the Giants could have a better defender at that position.
My summers with the Giants are numbered, I suspect. At least, the summers I can spend as immersed in the agony and ecstasy of a team that will break my heart one night and remind me that anybody who claims to know what's going to happen in a baseball game is a moron the next.
I'm totally into this year's Giants. They're in position to reach the playoffs and defend the World Series championship they won in 2010 -- the World Series championship I'd been waiting for for 47 years. They're also playing so incredibly badly that I could make the case for them not winning another game all year. I understand the game. I know every player on the team's roster.
I have time on my hands, so I know about the teams they're playing, too. I'm unemployed, at age 54. I've not had this much time to pay this much attention to the Giants in decades. My knowledged of the club and the game wasn't as detailed the year I covered the Giants in the 2002 World Series as it is now. I have more time to pay complete attention to everything ... and I do mean everything. Covering the 2002 Giants in the postseason was my job. It was work. I wasn't into that team for me, but rather so that I could tell the stories to other Giants fans in a completely objective manner.
This year? I need the Giants to distract me like I haven't needed them ever before.
It's scary to be unemployed at age 54. It's more frightening given that I spent a career in the newspaper business, a dying industry. I'm looking for work and the work I do best is now being done for free, or for pennies on the dollars we used to make, by fans with blogs or newspaper writers who double as kings of Twitter, masters of Facebook and hosts on talk radio and TV sportscasts. I'm not sure why truly invested fans would read some foolish diatribe by a disgruntled Giants fan and consider it a news report. If I hear a professional writer tweet out a fact, then post it on Facebook, then mention it twice in the electronic media ... I'm not really interested in reading it in his story.
So, yeah, I'm scared. I've got little to do with myself, once I'm done job-hunting each day. I need the Giants like I haven't needed them since the summer my mom died in 1975 when I was 18.
While I'm not into stats or the Sabermetric formulas, I know the numbers don't lie. So, tonight, when I thought taking my dog for a walk might change the Giants' luck in the fourth inning, I realized I probably won't have another September with the Giants like this one.
If September of my 55th year rolls around and I'm back at work, Wal-Mart needs greeters and Sports Authority his hiring, I won't have time to give to the 2012 Giants. Don't get me wrong, I'd much rather have a job and an income (and health benefits) than to be this invested in the San Francisco Giants. I'm just aware that if I have a job next season, then 2011 will likely have been my last summer, alone with the Giants.
If I can't find a way to generate income (the idea of finding a job is too daunting, so I try to imagine just ... generating income), my 55th year will lead me to places I never thought I'd be. People need a television set, with some sort of cable of satellite connection, to follow the Giants. They need a house, with a room to put that TV in, too. While I'm certain I could follow the Giants on an empty stomach, I know that the ability to buy food, pay utility bills, etc. is important to following a team and ... if I'm 55 and I'm not generating income ... it just feels like investing in the San Francisco Giants will be difficult and, finally, impossible.
So, I'm going to follow the San Francisco Giants all the way to whatever end this season reaches. With each passing day, it feels like the playoff race ... the final weeks of the season ... could be my last September with the Giants.
Friday, August 19, 2011
No Neighborhood For a Lost Dog
(If you enjoy what you read, I hope you'll click the "Donate" button above to the left. This work provides my income so ... $1, 50 cents, a little more, maybe less ... will allow me to keep writing. Regardless, thank you for reading. Ted Sillanpaa)
Dozer's a 9-year-old dog who my son saved from a shelter about four years ago. He has, through circumstances difficult to explain, become my most reliable source for attention and affection.
He is not, nor can he ever be, this man's best friend. My best friend wouldn't take off into the night and leave me calling his name as I flashed the light from my cell phone into neighborhood yards.
Hold it.
My best human friends, actually, disappeared completely and I haven't heard from them in awhile. So, I suppose I should leave open the possibility that Dozer is this man's best friend. I know why Dozer took off on me tonight. Who knows why my best pal from Eureka hasn't been in touch in years?
Wait. I'm mad at Dozer and don't want to stop being mad at him simply because he's a good pal who happens to like to jump into my bed and lick my face.
Dozer's part pit bull, part boxer part Indian shepard dog and part knucklehead. The years and time he's spent with me have chased from him the wild habits he had when my son first saved him.
Dozer won't walk out the open front door because, I imagine, he knows the people who feed him and pet him and let him sleep on their beds are inside the house. Four years ago, he was looking through the screen in our front window, saw a family walking past the house and leaped through the screen and onto the front lawn. He ran up joyfully welcoming the family to the neighborhood.
Oddly, the family didn't see anything but a pit bull-boxer mixing sprinting toward them. The mom and two daughters screamed.
I've grown to trust Dozer. We're both living in less than optimum circumstances, so I feel bad for him, too. He's got a yard to patrol, but I know he needs to run. I'd heard on the "Today" show that walks are good for a dog's mental health. We walk a fair amount. I like to let him run sometimes.
If walking around the neighborhood clears his mind, I've determined that letting Dozer ride in the truck to the grocery store should do the same. Tonight, for the first time in awhile, we went to Safeway together.
Upon arriving home, Dozer jumped over me and out the door of the truck. He landed on the street. He did not, however, take off running toward the neighbor dogs who are stuck in a yard, barking and whining day after day, night after night.
"Good idea, pal! Stay here!"
Dozer sprinted toward the front door.
"Atta babe ... ah, c'mon ... c'mon ... you can walk awhile!"
Every so often, I feel like I did tonight and believe Dozer understands what I'm saying. He spun on all four paws and quick-stepped it toward me. I walked alongside him to the corner. No leash. It was dark. Nobody's outside in this neighborhood at 9 at night.
Nobody's outside much after dark in Fairfield. There is a fairly high crime rate. Even in the nicer suburb where Dozer and I were strolling, there are break-ins, daytime burglaries, that type of thing. So, it would take a lunkhead who grew up in a small town and his big, goofy dog to be out walking after dark.
Dozer was ... he was just razor sharp tonight. He ran ahead, whizzing on every other tree. Sniffing every bush. I called his name a couple times and -- he hesitated, waited for me to catch up. I felt like the dog whisperer.
About 5, 6 blocks from home I figured that I'd given Dozer plenty of run.
I shouted, "Stop! Dozer!"
The darned dog stopped.
I walked to him, he sat back and I petted him.
"Way to go! That's the ticket! Let's go back!"
And, together, we turned toward the house.
I felt good about my friend.
My friend felt like exploring.
Dozer bolted toward the biggest front yard he could find. I thought I saw him taking a dump.
Uh, no ... I didn't have a plastic bag to carry his business home in. Heck, I couldn't see anything in the dark.
I didn't want to wake up the neighborhood shouting at Dozer. So, I whispered his name. I heard his footsteps.
I said his name out loud.
"Stop! Dozer! Stop!"
Hey, it worked once.
I heard his breathing as he rushed into some bushes. Which bushes, I wasn't certain because ... it was pitch black.
This was one of those times when Dozer was more parts knucklehead than anything else. He listened to me, until he didn't want to hear anymore.
My stern tone turned to the sound of a man pleading for his dog to come back out of the dark.
More bushes rustling, more dog sounds. So, I pulled out my cell phone and flipped on the flashlight app.
Handy little app.
It didn't shine a light on Dozer. Dozer was gone. I was certain that I heard his whimper ... from the other side of the neighbor's fence.
This isn't my hometown. Nobody really knows anybody in this neighborhood. I'm a guy out walking a big, mean-looking dog at night to everybody, you know?
Someone peeked out their front window, then pulled away quickly. There's no way to show people who don't know you that you're innocent ... that you mean them no harm ... that your dog's just an idiot ... not at 9:30 at night in Fairfield.
I tried to look as harmless and innocent as humanly possible. Then, I walked toward the bushes and crawled through them to find ...
... a gaping hole in the fence that could've given Dozer entry to somebody's backyard.
Oh, it could've given him a way back out, too. But, he's a dog. He once broke through our back fence, got free and realized he'd broken into the neigbor's locked dog kennel. He wasn't going to find his way back out of the yard.
It occurred to me that I was doing what a burglar would do and doing it where a burglar would be doing it ... at a time a burglar might be doing it.
I whispered Dozer's name and sounded as pathetic as I could. I imagined neighbors starting to call 9-1-1, then thinking, "A criminal wouldn't sound that pathetic ... that sound. He sounds like he lost his best friend!"
When I heard the dog whimper again, it sounded like Dozer. I peeked over the fence into the adjacent yard and ... there were two big, goofy mutts romping around.
No Dozer.
The guy who lives in the house with the two dogs actually heard, then ignored me. I'll remember that if I ever get into the burglary business. I rustled the bushes and thought the guy said, "Who's out there?" I said, "I think my dog's in your yard!"
The guy turned and walked into his house.
Thanks, pal.
Dozer had lost his mind, briefly, so I imagined he was in the other yard looking for his bed, looking for our patio door, looking for my daughter to let him inside. A yard's a yard to Dozer in the dark.
So, I brushed the leaves and gunk off my shirt and knocked gently on the neighbor's door.
"Who's OUT THERE?!?!"
See? In my hometown, they'd answer the door. Here, they shout at you and ... expect that a criminal would say, "I'm here to rob you!"
"I live down the street and I think I lost my dog in your back yard!"
That time, I didn't have to try to sound pathetic.
No one answered the door, but I heard the lady in the house shout, "Eric! Eric! Come here!"
I stood on the stoop for a few minutes. It occurred me to telephone my 13-year-old daughter to have her run down the street to help me look particular innocent of any intention of committing my crime.
The lady popped out from around the side of the house.
"Come on back and see if he's back here!"
She smiled.
Eric must've assured her that a robber wouldn't use the "I lost my dog" story.
The backyard looked enough like Dozer's regular yard to confuse him in the dark. I flashed my flashlight app. I called him. It's hard to be embarrassed and mad at Dozer while hoping he'd come rushing with that big, dumb grin on his face.
No Dozer.
I walked back toward the side gate.
"He's not back here! I'm so sorry for bothering you guys so late but ..."
The lady smiled and said, "Is this him?"
Dozer was standing outside the gate, headed toward the gate that looked like our gate at the next nearest house.
He'd gotten away, lost me, then doubled back and found me.
It is possible to be simultaneously pissed, embarrassed and happy to see a dog who made you mad in the first place.
I grabbed Dozer's collar, gently, and we headed home. After a few steps, I let him go and shouted.
"Hit the road, meathead!"
He sprinted to the house and met me at the front door. When I arrived he looked at me. His face seemed to pose the question, "Where did YOU go? I turned around and YOU were gone!"
Dozer's a 9-year-old dog who my son saved from a shelter about four years ago. He has, through circumstances difficult to explain, become my most reliable source for attention and affection.
He is not, nor can he ever be, this man's best friend. My best friend wouldn't take off into the night and leave me calling his name as I flashed the light from my cell phone into neighborhood yards.
Hold it.
My best human friends, actually, disappeared completely and I haven't heard from them in awhile. So, I suppose I should leave open the possibility that Dozer is this man's best friend. I know why Dozer took off on me tonight. Who knows why my best pal from Eureka hasn't been in touch in years?
Wait. I'm mad at Dozer and don't want to stop being mad at him simply because he's a good pal who happens to like to jump into my bed and lick my face.
Dozer's part pit bull, part boxer part Indian shepard dog and part knucklehead. The years and time he's spent with me have chased from him the wild habits he had when my son first saved him.
Dozer won't walk out the open front door because, I imagine, he knows the people who feed him and pet him and let him sleep on their beds are inside the house. Four years ago, he was looking through the screen in our front window, saw a family walking past the house and leaped through the screen and onto the front lawn. He ran up joyfully welcoming the family to the neighborhood.
Oddly, the family didn't see anything but a pit bull-boxer mixing sprinting toward them. The mom and two daughters screamed.
I've grown to trust Dozer. We're both living in less than optimum circumstances, so I feel bad for him, too. He's got a yard to patrol, but I know he needs to run. I'd heard on the "Today" show that walks are good for a dog's mental health. We walk a fair amount. I like to let him run sometimes.
If walking around the neighborhood clears his mind, I've determined that letting Dozer ride in the truck to the grocery store should do the same. Tonight, for the first time in awhile, we went to Safeway together.
Upon arriving home, Dozer jumped over me and out the door of the truck. He landed on the street. He did not, however, take off running toward the neighbor dogs who are stuck in a yard, barking and whining day after day, night after night.
"Good idea, pal! Stay here!"
Dozer sprinted toward the front door.
"Atta babe ... ah, c'mon ... c'mon ... you can walk awhile!"
Every so often, I feel like I did tonight and believe Dozer understands what I'm saying. He spun on all four paws and quick-stepped it toward me. I walked alongside him to the corner. No leash. It was dark. Nobody's outside in this neighborhood at 9 at night.
Nobody's outside much after dark in Fairfield. There is a fairly high crime rate. Even in the nicer suburb where Dozer and I were strolling, there are break-ins, daytime burglaries, that type of thing. So, it would take a lunkhead who grew up in a small town and his big, goofy dog to be out walking after dark.
Dozer was ... he was just razor sharp tonight. He ran ahead, whizzing on every other tree. Sniffing every bush. I called his name a couple times and -- he hesitated, waited for me to catch up. I felt like the dog whisperer.
About 5, 6 blocks from home I figured that I'd given Dozer plenty of run.
I shouted, "Stop! Dozer!"
The darned dog stopped.
I walked to him, he sat back and I petted him.
"Way to go! That's the ticket! Let's go back!"
And, together, we turned toward the house.
I felt good about my friend.
My friend felt like exploring.
Dozer bolted toward the biggest front yard he could find. I thought I saw him taking a dump.
Uh, no ... I didn't have a plastic bag to carry his business home in. Heck, I couldn't see anything in the dark.
I didn't want to wake up the neighborhood shouting at Dozer. So, I whispered his name. I heard his footsteps.
I said his name out loud.
"Stop! Dozer! Stop!"
Hey, it worked once.
I heard his breathing as he rushed into some bushes. Which bushes, I wasn't certain because ... it was pitch black.
This was one of those times when Dozer was more parts knucklehead than anything else. He listened to me, until he didn't want to hear anymore.
My stern tone turned to the sound of a man pleading for his dog to come back out of the dark.
More bushes rustling, more dog sounds. So, I pulled out my cell phone and flipped on the flashlight app.
Handy little app.
It didn't shine a light on Dozer. Dozer was gone. I was certain that I heard his whimper ... from the other side of the neighbor's fence.
This isn't my hometown. Nobody really knows anybody in this neighborhood. I'm a guy out walking a big, mean-looking dog at night to everybody, you know?
Someone peeked out their front window, then pulled away quickly. There's no way to show people who don't know you that you're innocent ... that you mean them no harm ... that your dog's just an idiot ... not at 9:30 at night in Fairfield.
I tried to look as harmless and innocent as humanly possible. Then, I walked toward the bushes and crawled through them to find ...
... a gaping hole in the fence that could've given Dozer entry to somebody's backyard.
Oh, it could've given him a way back out, too. But, he's a dog. He once broke through our back fence, got free and realized he'd broken into the neigbor's locked dog kennel. He wasn't going to find his way back out of the yard.
It occurred to me that I was doing what a burglar would do and doing it where a burglar would be doing it ... at a time a burglar might be doing it.
I whispered Dozer's name and sounded as pathetic as I could. I imagined neighbors starting to call 9-1-1, then thinking, "A criminal wouldn't sound that pathetic ... that sound. He sounds like he lost his best friend!"
When I heard the dog whimper again, it sounded like Dozer. I peeked over the fence into the adjacent yard and ... there were two big, goofy mutts romping around.
No Dozer.
The guy who lives in the house with the two dogs actually heard, then ignored me. I'll remember that if I ever get into the burglary business. I rustled the bushes and thought the guy said, "Who's out there?" I said, "I think my dog's in your yard!"
The guy turned and walked into his house.
Thanks, pal.
Dozer had lost his mind, briefly, so I imagined he was in the other yard looking for his bed, looking for our patio door, looking for my daughter to let him inside. A yard's a yard to Dozer in the dark.
So, I brushed the leaves and gunk off my shirt and knocked gently on the neighbor's door.
"Who's OUT THERE?!?!"
See? In my hometown, they'd answer the door. Here, they shout at you and ... expect that a criminal would say, "I'm here to rob you!"
"I live down the street and I think I lost my dog in your back yard!"
That time, I didn't have to try to sound pathetic.
No one answered the door, but I heard the lady in the house shout, "Eric! Eric! Come here!"
I stood on the stoop for a few minutes. It occurred me to telephone my 13-year-old daughter to have her run down the street to help me look particular innocent of any intention of committing my crime.
The lady popped out from around the side of the house.
"Come on back and see if he's back here!"
She smiled.
Eric must've assured her that a robber wouldn't use the "I lost my dog" story.
The backyard looked enough like Dozer's regular yard to confuse him in the dark. I flashed my flashlight app. I called him. It's hard to be embarrassed and mad at Dozer while hoping he'd come rushing with that big, dumb grin on his face.
No Dozer.
I walked back toward the side gate.
"He's not back here! I'm so sorry for bothering you guys so late but ..."
The lady smiled and said, "Is this him?"
Dozer was standing outside the gate, headed toward the gate that looked like our gate at the next nearest house.
He'd gotten away, lost me, then doubled back and found me.
It is possible to be simultaneously pissed, embarrassed and happy to see a dog who made you mad in the first place.
I grabbed Dozer's collar, gently, and we headed home. After a few steps, I let him go and shouted.
"Hit the road, meathead!"
He sprinted to the house and met me at the front door. When I arrived he looked at me. His face seemed to pose the question, "Where did YOU go? I turned around and YOU were gone!"
Wednesday, August 17, 2011
Eureka Memories: Hometown dating doofus to lion king to disaster
(Please consider expressing whatever enjoyment you gain from reading by clicking on the "Donate" button above and contributing a dollar, 50 cents, a little more or a little less to my PayPal account. Writing is my life's work -- how I pay the bills. I hope you'll consider a financial donation. Regardless, thank you for reading! -- Ted Sillanpaa)
It's the type thing that could only have happened in a small town.
Knowing it could, really, only have happened in Eureka doesn't make me feel a great deal better.
Nearly 20 years later and I feel like a moron.
I'd gone through a messy divorce after I'd fouled up a marriage taking my wife for granted and investing all my time in my two sons and hobbies that most 34-year-old men wouldn't have time for after a long, hard day at work.
I was 35, raising two kids (having a blast) and divorced. After a self-imposed, six-month ban on even thinking of how women fit into my post-divorce life, it occurred to me that I'd never really dated.
Damn! I knew I should've paid more attention to my wife. I cared about her and I lost her to a one-eyed truck driver who carried a big knife in his boot ... because I didn't pay enough to attention to her in the final months of our 13-year marriage.
I was working out every day at Cal Courts to burn off the stress of life reimagined for my kids and I. I wasn't the single guy cruising the only health club in town trying to pick up women. I worked. I raised my kids. I went to the gym.
My frame of reference for this new life stemmed solely from work, the gym and being a dad.
Working out at the only health club in my hometown meant that I was seeing the same women all the time. And, the only place I'd ever see women was at the gym.
I knew that I wasn't ever going to be good at the bar scene. It was 1989 and Club West and The Ritz were Eureka hot spots for people much younger than I was. The fact that I hadn't had a drop of alcohol since about 1981 made making the bar scene a questionable decision for me, too.
The last time I picked up a woman, all I had to do was walk across the Eureka High School girls' gymnasium floor and ask her to dance. We danced. We dated. We got married. Then, she met the one-eyed truck driver.
In month eight of my six-month, self-imposed ban on thinking about women -- I saw the most beautiful female I'd ever seen at Cal Courts.
I'm not exaggerating, OK? She was beautiful.
She had long, dark brown hair that fell all over the place in long, loose curls. She had near perfect, dark-complexioned skin. Brown eyes. Stunning smile.
She was, I decided, exactly the female I'd want to date at this point in my life. The last thing I wanted was to get seriously involved with a woman. Well, the last thing I wanted was to be divorced, but that ship had sailed. So, if was going to date -- why not imagine it being with a woman who fit the simple-minded physical requirements every man keeps stored away in his mind?
Plus, the amazing creature frequented the only place I went outside work and home. So, she was perfect. Her being a club regular made her more attractive.
On the most surface level ... the woman with the long, dark hair and pretty smile was ... perfect. She was erotic.
I know. Eureka. I was 34. What did I know from erotic? She was small-town erotic. She was also exotic -- to a man who only knew the women at Cal Courts. A man defines exotic and erotic for himself.
No pick-up line I'd ever used would work with this woman. I couldn't walk up and say, "Do you wanna dance?" or "Hey, would you like to go to the winter prom with me?"
Then, one day, I noticed she was looking at me.
I'm not that guy who thinks every woman is looking at him. I've never imagined being that guy who thinks he brings to the table the things that attract women's attention.
I'd been married awhile so, really, I figured that I was invisible to women.
The first time I saw her looking at me, I turned away. Thus, I broke the first law of displaying mutual attraction. I learned over time that making and maintaining eye contact is the first step.
She wasn't one of the women who waltzed around the health club loving all the attention she got. She seemed impervious to it or innocent. I couldn't decide, but I liked the idea of her ignoring the men crusing the health club looking for women.
Our eyes met a few more times from across the club. I smiled. She smiled.
Oh, yeah, this took weeks. I saw her all the time, but it took weeks to get from, "Is she looking at me?" to "I think she might be interested in me," to "Oh, there she is ... I'm gonna go talk to her ... "
Then there was a period of talking myself out of going to talk to her. It's hard to be 35 years old with the social skill set of a 14-year-old boy.
One Sunday afternoon, her and I were the only people in the club. I built the nerve required to approach this lovely brunette.
I decided I would say something like ... ah, I had a whole thing planned. I'd say I'd seen her at the gym a lot, joke about working out alone on a Sunday, then introduce myself and then ... then ... then, I hoped she'd take over the conversation.
I finally managed to be in the same part of the weight room she was in and walked up to her. That was a victory, honest.
She looked at me and smiled. A second victory!
"Hi ... I've seen you around here ..."
Oh, God! She'd seen me see her around there. What an idiot! I trashed my plan and cut directly to introducing myself.
She was shy. Comfortable enough talking, but shy. I thought that'd make it easier for me because I was incredibly bashful.
I could've sworn she was slightly thrown by me approaching her.
I figured she was put off by the sweat running down my face or something. But, it felt, to a guy who hadn't really done that type thing, like she was surprised yet pleased that I would approach her like men were always approaching women at Cal Courts.
She introduced herself. Her name was Heather and ... I didn't catch her last name because all I could her was my heart beating in my ears. She had a Latino last name, I knew that much.
Oh, I had some moves.
"Interesting last name! My family came here from Portugal and changed their last name from Rodriguez to Rodgers. How do you spell your last name?"
It didn't come of my mouth as smoothly then as it easily as it springs to mind today.
Still, bells and whistles were going off in my head. She was still standing there, smiling. And, she spelled out her last name. I listened carefully.
I maintained eye contact, a little like Charles Manson explaining himself during his probation hearings, I'm sure.
She spoke softly and I couldn't hear much. I only heard myself saying, "Yippee! Hooray! I can't believe it!"
I decided I'd take my small victories and leave with a smile on my face.
She didn't give off any sort of, "Don't ever dream of talking to me again, jackass" vibe. I took that to be a definite go-ahead to spend days and days contemplating what I could do next to know her better.
It didn't take long to realize that we'd talked for five, six minutes but I didn't know anything except her name and that she spoke the same language I did.
When I'd last dated, tons of things were givens. We were all the same age. We had roughly the same backgrounds -- kids at Eureka High School, right? What was there to learn?
Ah, I couldn't sweat what I didn't know so I looked this woman up in the phone book. There it was Heather With the Latin Name I Could Spell ... in Eureka. I scribbled down her number as I sat, alone, at my kitchen table.
She didn't blow me off when we'd met. The worst thing she could say to an invitation to a movie was ... oh, I thought of lots of terrible things that could happen if I actually even got her on the line. Who was I kidding?
I telephoned any way.
Heather sounded legitimately happy to hear from me. Well, given that I hadn't called a woman out of the blue in decades I supposed she sounded happy. She sounded happier than my ex-wife had the last time I'd spoken to her.
The small talk I practiced went OK. I steered clear of stuff I was really interested in like, oh, my sons and my custody case. She wasn't hard to talk to but I still didn't have a ton of chatter in my brain so I cut to asking her if she'd be interested in a movie, maybe dinner.
"Yeah ... sure ... I mean ... when?"
There was extended silence as though she was thinking things through. Cool. I was in no hurry. As long she started by thinking enough to agree to go out because ...
I was king of the jungle! When she said, 'yeah..." I ruled my world. The black clouds disappeared. The sun came out! All I needed was a marching band to play the Lovin' Spoonful's "Do You Believe In Magic?"
Only in Eureka could a small-town Dating Doofus who couldn't even imagine speaking to a woman wind up on a date with the woman he chose first, a gorgeous woman, an exotic, erotic woman who would get him back into dating shape.
I rocked! Where was that marching band, baby?
"Oh, how about Thursday night?" I said, returning to earth long enough to remember that I worked Friday night and that my kids had games all weekend.
Silence from the other end rattled me, but nothing could have prepared me for ...
"Aww! Thursday? I can't! I've got lots of homework ..."
A college girl? OK. Cool. Men my age dated college girls all the time ... in the movies and stuff.
"My parents don't like me to go out on weeknights either ..."
College girls go out when they feel like it.
I'd asked a high school girl on a date.
My euphoric self-talk turned to something like, "You incredible jackass! She's not even 18 years old? No wonder she seemed naive and surprised and ... her parents don't like her to go out on weeknights???"
To my credit, I kept myself from crying out, "Please, tell me you're at least 18!"
Hey, I know lots of men with solid reputations who wouldn't have blinked at the idea that she was young ... a girl who looked like a woman. They'd have focused on the "Yeah, sure ..." and the "Aww ... I can't."
I had a prize catch on my line and she was hooked. All I had to do was be patient, reel her in on a weekend ... and be able ignore that her parents didn't like her going out on weeknights.
My not immediately suggesting a weekend night threw her, I'm sure. I don't think many guys who asked her out and had her accept stammered about the date and time.
Boys were surely falling over themselves to date her any old night she was free.
Briefly, I hoped that I seemed like a cool, sophisticated adult who lived life on the edge and thought she was more woman than girl. Ideally, she'd think, I had lots of women and if she couldn't make it, too bad. Maybe I'd impressed her as some type of swinger as I talked my way off the phone.
So, I felt beyond stupid? So, I felt like a complete jackass? She could at least have a good opinion of me.
I tried to believe that knowing a girl bursting with beauty and sexuality would date me was just a good thing. Finding out that she was 17 would turn the whole deal into a tawdry memory and a complete loss for me. I really needed a win.
First time out of the box ... landed the woman o' my dreams ... except she was a girl.
Time passed. I stayed away from Cal Courts at the times I typically had noticed Heather working out.
I had this vision of shooting baskets with my sons, then 10 and 8, and a girl closer to their age than mine walking up and saying, "What about dinner?"
"Dad ... you were going to dinner with my friend Bobby's sister!"
Six months or so after the phone conversation, I noticed a tour group forming in my newspaper office lobby. High school classes often killed a day touring the newspaper plant.
Of course she was in the high school tour group! Of course!
Still just ... you know ... gorgeous ... based on what I could see from hiding and peeking at her from around the door of the conference room.
It's the type thing that could only have happened in a small town.
Knowing it could, really, only have happened in Eureka doesn't make me feel a great deal better.
Nearly 20 years later and I feel like a moron.
I'd gone through a messy divorce after I'd fouled up a marriage taking my wife for granted and investing all my time in my two sons and hobbies that most 34-year-old men wouldn't have time for after a long, hard day at work.
I was 35, raising two kids (having a blast) and divorced. After a self-imposed, six-month ban on even thinking of how women fit into my post-divorce life, it occurred to me that I'd never really dated.
Damn! I knew I should've paid more attention to my wife. I cared about her and I lost her to a one-eyed truck driver who carried a big knife in his boot ... because I didn't pay enough to attention to her in the final months of our 13-year marriage.
I was working out every day at Cal Courts to burn off the stress of life reimagined for my kids and I. I wasn't the single guy cruising the only health club in town trying to pick up women. I worked. I raised my kids. I went to the gym.
My frame of reference for this new life stemmed solely from work, the gym and being a dad.
Working out at the only health club in my hometown meant that I was seeing the same women all the time. And, the only place I'd ever see women was at the gym.
I knew that I wasn't ever going to be good at the bar scene. It was 1989 and Club West and The Ritz were Eureka hot spots for people much younger than I was. The fact that I hadn't had a drop of alcohol since about 1981 made making the bar scene a questionable decision for me, too.
The last time I picked up a woman, all I had to do was walk across the Eureka High School girls' gymnasium floor and ask her to dance. We danced. We dated. We got married. Then, she met the one-eyed truck driver.
In month eight of my six-month, self-imposed ban on thinking about women -- I saw the most beautiful female I'd ever seen at Cal Courts.
I'm not exaggerating, OK? She was beautiful.
She had long, dark brown hair that fell all over the place in long, loose curls. She had near perfect, dark-complexioned skin. Brown eyes. Stunning smile.
She was, I decided, exactly the female I'd want to date at this point in my life. The last thing I wanted was to get seriously involved with a woman. Well, the last thing I wanted was to be divorced, but that ship had sailed. So, if was going to date -- why not imagine it being with a woman who fit the simple-minded physical requirements every man keeps stored away in his mind?
Plus, the amazing creature frequented the only place I went outside work and home. So, she was perfect. Her being a club regular made her more attractive.
On the most surface level ... the woman with the long, dark hair and pretty smile was ... perfect. She was erotic.
I know. Eureka. I was 34. What did I know from erotic? She was small-town erotic. She was also exotic -- to a man who only knew the women at Cal Courts. A man defines exotic and erotic for himself.
No pick-up line I'd ever used would work with this woman. I couldn't walk up and say, "Do you wanna dance?" or "Hey, would you like to go to the winter prom with me?"
Then, one day, I noticed she was looking at me.
I'm not that guy who thinks every woman is looking at him. I've never imagined being that guy who thinks he brings to the table the things that attract women's attention.
I'd been married awhile so, really, I figured that I was invisible to women.
The first time I saw her looking at me, I turned away. Thus, I broke the first law of displaying mutual attraction. I learned over time that making and maintaining eye contact is the first step.
She wasn't one of the women who waltzed around the health club loving all the attention she got. She seemed impervious to it or innocent. I couldn't decide, but I liked the idea of her ignoring the men crusing the health club looking for women.
Our eyes met a few more times from across the club. I smiled. She smiled.
Oh, yeah, this took weeks. I saw her all the time, but it took weeks to get from, "Is she looking at me?" to "I think she might be interested in me," to "Oh, there she is ... I'm gonna go talk to her ... "
Then there was a period of talking myself out of going to talk to her. It's hard to be 35 years old with the social skill set of a 14-year-old boy.
One Sunday afternoon, her and I were the only people in the club. I built the nerve required to approach this lovely brunette.
I decided I would say something like ... ah, I had a whole thing planned. I'd say I'd seen her at the gym a lot, joke about working out alone on a Sunday, then introduce myself and then ... then ... then, I hoped she'd take over the conversation.
I finally managed to be in the same part of the weight room she was in and walked up to her. That was a victory, honest.
She looked at me and smiled. A second victory!
"Hi ... I've seen you around here ..."
Oh, God! She'd seen me see her around there. What an idiot! I trashed my plan and cut directly to introducing myself.
She was shy. Comfortable enough talking, but shy. I thought that'd make it easier for me because I was incredibly bashful.
I could've sworn she was slightly thrown by me approaching her.
I figured she was put off by the sweat running down my face or something. But, it felt, to a guy who hadn't really done that type thing, like she was surprised yet pleased that I would approach her like men were always approaching women at Cal Courts.
She introduced herself. Her name was Heather and ... I didn't catch her last name because all I could her was my heart beating in my ears. She had a Latino last name, I knew that much.
Oh, I had some moves.
"Interesting last name! My family came here from Portugal and changed their last name from Rodriguez to Rodgers. How do you spell your last name?"
It didn't come of my mouth as smoothly then as it easily as it springs to mind today.
Still, bells and whistles were going off in my head. She was still standing there, smiling. And, she spelled out her last name. I listened carefully.
I maintained eye contact, a little like Charles Manson explaining himself during his probation hearings, I'm sure.
She spoke softly and I couldn't hear much. I only heard myself saying, "Yippee! Hooray! I can't believe it!"
I decided I'd take my small victories and leave with a smile on my face.
She didn't give off any sort of, "Don't ever dream of talking to me again, jackass" vibe. I took that to be a definite go-ahead to spend days and days contemplating what I could do next to know her better.
It didn't take long to realize that we'd talked for five, six minutes but I didn't know anything except her name and that she spoke the same language I did.
When I'd last dated, tons of things were givens. We were all the same age. We had roughly the same backgrounds -- kids at Eureka High School, right? What was there to learn?
Ah, I couldn't sweat what I didn't know so I looked this woman up in the phone book. There it was Heather With the Latin Name I Could Spell ... in Eureka. I scribbled down her number as I sat, alone, at my kitchen table.
She didn't blow me off when we'd met. The worst thing she could say to an invitation to a movie was ... oh, I thought of lots of terrible things that could happen if I actually even got her on the line. Who was I kidding?
I telephoned any way.
Heather sounded legitimately happy to hear from me. Well, given that I hadn't called a woman out of the blue in decades I supposed she sounded happy. She sounded happier than my ex-wife had the last time I'd spoken to her.
The small talk I practiced went OK. I steered clear of stuff I was really interested in like, oh, my sons and my custody case. She wasn't hard to talk to but I still didn't have a ton of chatter in my brain so I cut to asking her if she'd be interested in a movie, maybe dinner.
"Yeah ... sure ... I mean ... when?"
There was extended silence as though she was thinking things through. Cool. I was in no hurry. As long she started by thinking enough to agree to go out because ...
I was king of the jungle! When she said, 'yeah..." I ruled my world. The black clouds disappeared. The sun came out! All I needed was a marching band to play the Lovin' Spoonful's "Do You Believe In Magic?"
Only in Eureka could a small-town Dating Doofus who couldn't even imagine speaking to a woman wind up on a date with the woman he chose first, a gorgeous woman, an exotic, erotic woman who would get him back into dating shape.
I rocked! Where was that marching band, baby?
"Oh, how about Thursday night?" I said, returning to earth long enough to remember that I worked Friday night and that my kids had games all weekend.
Silence from the other end rattled me, but nothing could have prepared me for ...
"Aww! Thursday? I can't! I've got lots of homework ..."
A college girl? OK. Cool. Men my age dated college girls all the time ... in the movies and stuff.
"My parents don't like me to go out on weeknights either ..."
College girls go out when they feel like it.
I'd asked a high school girl on a date.
My euphoric self-talk turned to something like, "You incredible jackass! She's not even 18 years old? No wonder she seemed naive and surprised and ... her parents don't like her to go out on weeknights???"
To my credit, I kept myself from crying out, "Please, tell me you're at least 18!"
Hey, I know lots of men with solid reputations who wouldn't have blinked at the idea that she was young ... a girl who looked like a woman. They'd have focused on the "Yeah, sure ..." and the "Aww ... I can't."
I had a prize catch on my line and she was hooked. All I had to do was be patient, reel her in on a weekend ... and be able ignore that her parents didn't like her going out on weeknights.
My not immediately suggesting a weekend night threw her, I'm sure. I don't think many guys who asked her out and had her accept stammered about the date and time.
Boys were surely falling over themselves to date her any old night she was free.
Briefly, I hoped that I seemed like a cool, sophisticated adult who lived life on the edge and thought she was more woman than girl. Ideally, she'd think, I had lots of women and if she couldn't make it, too bad. Maybe I'd impressed her as some type of swinger as I talked my way off the phone.
So, I felt beyond stupid? So, I felt like a complete jackass? She could at least have a good opinion of me.
I tried to believe that knowing a girl bursting with beauty and sexuality would date me was just a good thing. Finding out that she was 17 would turn the whole deal into a tawdry memory and a complete loss for me. I really needed a win.
First time out of the box ... landed the woman o' my dreams ... except she was a girl.
Time passed. I stayed away from Cal Courts at the times I typically had noticed Heather working out.
I had this vision of shooting baskets with my sons, then 10 and 8, and a girl closer to their age than mine walking up and saying, "What about dinner?"
"Dad ... you were going to dinner with my friend Bobby's sister!"
Six months or so after the phone conversation, I noticed a tour group forming in my newspaper office lobby. High school classes often killed a day touring the newspaper plant.
Of course she was in the high school tour group! Of course!
Still just ... you know ... gorgeous ... based on what I could see from hiding and peeking at her from around the door of the conference room.
Sunday, August 14, 2011
Eureka Memories: Traumatic gym class divided otherwise really happy kids
(Please consider expressing whatever enjoyment you gain from reading "Eureka Memories" by clicking on the "Donate" button above and contributing a dollar, 50 cents, a little more or a little less to my PayPal account. The blog is 100 percent financially self-supporting so if you find value in the work, I hope you'll consider a financial donation that will help me continue to present my work to you. -- Ted Sillanpaa)
First rule of gym class ... don't complain about gym class.
Second rule of gym class ... it could be a lot worse.
Take, for instance, the popular game that is now judged so anti-social and violent that it is outlawed in most schools. Consider, the game of dodgeball as it was played at Eureka junior highs and at Eureka High School in decades past.
Dodgeball.
The people who enjoyed and were good at the game were athletes, not bullies. So, we preferred to call the game War. (Well, lots of the athletes were incredible bullies, too. I wasn't. We just called it War at Winship in my youth because we didn't rightly know what smearing a queer had to do with our game. We were blissfully naive.)
War was everything that I loved and lots of people hated about gym class in Eureka.
The physical education instructor would choose two team captains. He always chose from the same pool of athletes, so I would get more than a fair share of chances to choose a team made up of elusive kids who could throw accurately and spot a ball in the corner of their eye and catch it just before it hit them.
I loved the strategy of selecting a team. Friendship didn't come into play until we picked the best players. Get 7, 8, 9 players into the process and then being somebody's friend played a role in your selection or whom you chose to select.
Life was simpler in the 1960s and 1970s when all we knew about games is that we played to win. People who didn't try to win in gym class had grades that reflected their lack of interested in becoming triumphant at any cost.
My closest friends were captains and, for the time, sensitive young men. We weren't the athletes who were bullies. We didn't need education code revisions to insist that we treat others like we wanted to be treated. Still, we never paid any attention to the fact that the same kids wound up picked last or nearly last every time we chose teams for War.
Gym class taught us lessons about a chain being only as strong as its weakest link.
Knowing that you were being forced to stand in line waiting to be chosen because you weren't very good at a game you didn't like had to have been traumatic.
We were sensitive kids, but ... we weren't going to pick a kid too early just to help him feel better about himself.
The two teams spread out on opposite sides of the basketball court. It would've been safe and civil if we'd put a team on each baseline under the basketball hoops in the full gym. It was, literally, war with teams using half the gym and throwing the volleyballs from one sideline to another. There was no time to react and anybody with a strong throwing arm, and hands big enough to grip a volleyball, could do some serious damage. (Even to the kids who stood with their backs slammed up against the gymnasium bleachers.)
I loved War, perhaps, more than any other gym class activity. I didn't question the barbarism because the kids who were treated in a barbaric manner never complained. If they complained, the bullies just made their miserable experience even more miserable.
It didn't make sense to announce that one hated War and hated being hit by the ball and didn't like to throw a ball at other people. Somehow such a statement would've been interpreted in my youth like this:
"Please. Please! Give the 7 biggest, strongest guys the volleyballs and let them stand right up front and, please, make them throw the balls at me ... full speed ... all at once. And, don't forget to aim at my head!"
The P.E. teacher would say the same thing before every War game.
"Gentlemen ... we're aiming for the waist down."
The P.E. teacher must've figured that comment meant he avoided being subject to a lawsuit. We all ignored him.
The target was always the torso. If that meant the slightly angrier, more aggressive War specialists missed the discussion of anatomy where it was explained that the head wasn't part of the torso ... too bad for the easy targets.
I wasn't a headhunter. Unless, I got a chance to take out one of the bullies who was a headhunter. If team captain types turned on one another, it seemed to please the coach and the other kids. Honest.
When I became a P.E. teacher at Cutten School in the 1980s, I let different kids pick teams. I'd have the athletes/bullies sit out sometimes so that the others could enjoy the game. It wouldn't have been hard to make War fun for everybody, but P.E. teachers in the 1960s and 1970s were, arguably, less sensitive than most kids in their classes.
Distance running is trendy now. At Winship in the 1970s, I didn't know anyone who like running "The 600."
Before the class activity and after calistentics, we had to jog through the parking lot, around the island with the redwood tree in the middle and back. It was about 600 yards.
We all hated it. The fact that some gifted distance runners, usually bookish types who weren't good at games, took it as their moment to shine didn't help. We loathed The 600. We'd finish the run gasping for air, even those of us who were involved in team sports.
How on earth could a jog of 600 yards have seemed so inhumane? My son's 15 and he runs 2, 3, 5 miles -- for fun or to stay fit for organized sports. My daughter, 13, decided to follow her brother's lead for a couple weeks and ran a mile a day -- easy. The old man bitched like an old lady about a 600-yard run. Running was hard and running wasn't cool. So, we despised it.
Eureka High P.E. teachers made things easier by making us run around that area where basketball courts existed directly across from the gym. It was a small city block, not nearly 600 yards. We still griped and griped.
We laughed once, too.
Mark Parris was a tall, quiet, but truly funny kid from Winship. He said things we didn't expect. Did things no one else thought of and was, if a kid can be such a thing, pithy.
Mostly, Mark was funny. He was funnier than I ever remember him being by sheer accident, though.
The run around that tiny block at EHS required we file past the cement post that was used to help block the school driveway with a chain after school hours.
The posts on either side of the driveway were about hip high to most kids -- maybe a little higher for some. A little lower for taller kid like Mark Parris.
Kids likely jogged by those cement posts for 25 years thinking, "I should jump over that thing." I say it was likely because history indicates that high school boys had a boundless ability to come up with stupid ideas. And, trying to jump a cement post while jogging was about as stupid an idea as one can imagine.
Mark Parris was an A student and more thoughtful than most. Then, one morning, he decided to jog at the cement post, put both hands on top and try to vault it ... legs spread wide ... to impress us and make us laugh.
He made us laugh.
Little is funnier to a group of teen boys than to see a friend slam his crotch directly into a cement pole. I was there. I'm absolutely certain. It wasn't just the sight of Mark Parris slamming his crotch into the cement pole that was hysterically funny.
Boys know that nothing hurts like getting hit, ah, down there. I broke into tears and moaned for nearly a half hour once ... when struck in the nether region by a plastic baseball tossed gently in my direction. It hit a soft spot. Mark Parris slammed his boy body parts into a cement post.
It has been over 35 years and the story makes me smile more every time I tell it. I've only told it 100, 200 times.
The question that went unasked when playing War was, "Why are we playing a game where we try to hurt each other?"
The question I had about running 600 yards was, "Why are we running at all?" I'm not sure a P.E. teacher of that time could've explained cardiovascular fitness to me or anybody else. Not that jogging 3, 4, 5 minutes was a cardio workout. We ran because, you ran in gym class. You played a game. You took a shower.
Who didn't despise school square dancing?
Oh? We all hated it?
Square dancing was to some just as traumatic as being chosen last for War was to others. I dreaded the long walk toward a long line of girls to find one whose eyes didn't shout, "Don't ask me! DON'T ask ME to dance!"
In my square dancing youth, every girl's eyes seemed to be shouting that at me. And, I was in the middle of the pack of boys girls could tolerate, I figured. There were guys girls wanted no part of ... ever.
Square dancing was supposed to teach social skills. However, just forcing a group of boys to each pick a girl and ask them to square dance doesn't do anything but reinforce to the cool kids that they stayed together because they were superior and to remind the rest of us that we didn't understand anything about ourselves, our primal urges or the other sex.
Winship was nightmarish for me. I had worry warts on my hands. The only reason I never had a girl refuse to dance with me is that I was a good judge of where I stood in the social order and asked girls in their gender's corresponding order to dance.
Square dancing actually taught interactive gender diplomacy.
I would never in a million years have rushed over to ask Brenda Anderson or Rene Rosenberg to square dance. Never! I decided who was in which league and they were way out of my league. So, I'd leave room for the popular dudes to get to the popular girls and get on with it.
If P.E. teachers wanted to teach social skills, they could've let us pick partners and then shook the couples up so that the popular boys had to dance with girls not their equal in the brutal high school societal structure. Brenda Anderson or Rene Rosenberg would've had to dance with me and found it was tolerable to dance with a guy too nervous to speak to them. Maybe, I'd have found Brenda Anderson a chatterbox and not just a girls I thought was prettier than any girl at Winship.
But, teachers just stood there and started the record player.
Nothing happens in gym class these days, you know? It's all different. It's like a free period to most kids who balk at games and don't care what the P.E. teacher says.
My son insisted that 98% of the kids in his middle school class refused to run the mile ... ever. The mile run at Green Valley Middle School became my son trying to run down a magnificently conditioned eighth-grade girl who could run like the wind. The other kids walked.
"I would've caught her in the final 400 yards today," he once said, "but, I had to weave in and out of the kids who just walk."
Last year at his private Catholic high school, he complained that P.E. class was wasted walking around the track.
"I feel like an idiot. If I walk, I hate it. Today I ran the entire 15 minutes and ran past a girl who give me trouble for showing off," he said. "I'm just getting a workout in. What should I do?"
I told him it could've been worse. He could've had to ask her to square dance with him.
First rule of gym class ... don't complain about gym class.
Second rule of gym class ... it could be a lot worse.
Take, for instance, the popular game that is now judged so anti-social and violent that it is outlawed in most schools. Consider, the game of dodgeball as it was played at Eureka junior highs and at Eureka High School in decades past.
Dodgeball.
The people who enjoyed and were good at the game were athletes, not bullies. So, we preferred to call the game War. (Well, lots of the athletes were incredible bullies, too. I wasn't. We just called it War at Winship in my youth because we didn't rightly know what smearing a queer had to do with our game. We were blissfully naive.)
War was everything that I loved and lots of people hated about gym class in Eureka.
The physical education instructor would choose two team captains. He always chose from the same pool of athletes, so I would get more than a fair share of chances to choose a team made up of elusive kids who could throw accurately and spot a ball in the corner of their eye and catch it just before it hit them.
I loved the strategy of selecting a team. Friendship didn't come into play until we picked the best players. Get 7, 8, 9 players into the process and then being somebody's friend played a role in your selection or whom you chose to select.
Life was simpler in the 1960s and 1970s when all we knew about games is that we played to win. People who didn't try to win in gym class had grades that reflected their lack of interested in becoming triumphant at any cost.
My closest friends were captains and, for the time, sensitive young men. We weren't the athletes who were bullies. We didn't need education code revisions to insist that we treat others like we wanted to be treated. Still, we never paid any attention to the fact that the same kids wound up picked last or nearly last every time we chose teams for War.
Gym class taught us lessons about a chain being only as strong as its weakest link.
Knowing that you were being forced to stand in line waiting to be chosen because you weren't very good at a game you didn't like had to have been traumatic.
We were sensitive kids, but ... we weren't going to pick a kid too early just to help him feel better about himself.
The two teams spread out on opposite sides of the basketball court. It would've been safe and civil if we'd put a team on each baseline under the basketball hoops in the full gym. It was, literally, war with teams using half the gym and throwing the volleyballs from one sideline to another. There was no time to react and anybody with a strong throwing arm, and hands big enough to grip a volleyball, could do some serious damage. (Even to the kids who stood with their backs slammed up against the gymnasium bleachers.)
I loved War, perhaps, more than any other gym class activity. I didn't question the barbarism because the kids who were treated in a barbaric manner never complained. If they complained, the bullies just made their miserable experience even more miserable.
It didn't make sense to announce that one hated War and hated being hit by the ball and didn't like to throw a ball at other people. Somehow such a statement would've been interpreted in my youth like this:
"Please. Please! Give the 7 biggest, strongest guys the volleyballs and let them stand right up front and, please, make them throw the balls at me ... full speed ... all at once. And, don't forget to aim at my head!"
The P.E. teacher would say the same thing before every War game.
"Gentlemen ... we're aiming for the waist down."
The P.E. teacher must've figured that comment meant he avoided being subject to a lawsuit. We all ignored him.
The target was always the torso. If that meant the slightly angrier, more aggressive War specialists missed the discussion of anatomy where it was explained that the head wasn't part of the torso ... too bad for the easy targets.
I wasn't a headhunter. Unless, I got a chance to take out one of the bullies who was a headhunter. If team captain types turned on one another, it seemed to please the coach and the other kids. Honest.
When I became a P.E. teacher at Cutten School in the 1980s, I let different kids pick teams. I'd have the athletes/bullies sit out sometimes so that the others could enjoy the game. It wouldn't have been hard to make War fun for everybody, but P.E. teachers in the 1960s and 1970s were, arguably, less sensitive than most kids in their classes.
Distance running is trendy now. At Winship in the 1970s, I didn't know anyone who like running "The 600."
Before the class activity and after calistentics, we had to jog through the parking lot, around the island with the redwood tree in the middle and back. It was about 600 yards.
We all hated it. The fact that some gifted distance runners, usually bookish types who weren't good at games, took it as their moment to shine didn't help. We loathed The 600. We'd finish the run gasping for air, even those of us who were involved in team sports.
How on earth could a jog of 600 yards have seemed so inhumane? My son's 15 and he runs 2, 3, 5 miles -- for fun or to stay fit for organized sports. My daughter, 13, decided to follow her brother's lead for a couple weeks and ran a mile a day -- easy. The old man bitched like an old lady about a 600-yard run. Running was hard and running wasn't cool. So, we despised it.
Eureka High P.E. teachers made things easier by making us run around that area where basketball courts existed directly across from the gym. It was a small city block, not nearly 600 yards. We still griped and griped.
We laughed once, too.
Mark Parris was a tall, quiet, but truly funny kid from Winship. He said things we didn't expect. Did things no one else thought of and was, if a kid can be such a thing, pithy.
Mostly, Mark was funny. He was funnier than I ever remember him being by sheer accident, though.
The run around that tiny block at EHS required we file past the cement post that was used to help block the school driveway with a chain after school hours.
The posts on either side of the driveway were about hip high to most kids -- maybe a little higher for some. A little lower for taller kid like Mark Parris.
Kids likely jogged by those cement posts for 25 years thinking, "I should jump over that thing." I say it was likely because history indicates that high school boys had a boundless ability to come up with stupid ideas. And, trying to jump a cement post while jogging was about as stupid an idea as one can imagine.
Mark Parris was an A student and more thoughtful than most. Then, one morning, he decided to jog at the cement post, put both hands on top and try to vault it ... legs spread wide ... to impress us and make us laugh.
He made us laugh.
Little is funnier to a group of teen boys than to see a friend slam his crotch directly into a cement pole. I was there. I'm absolutely certain. It wasn't just the sight of Mark Parris slamming his crotch into the cement pole that was hysterically funny.
Boys know that nothing hurts like getting hit, ah, down there. I broke into tears and moaned for nearly a half hour once ... when struck in the nether region by a plastic baseball tossed gently in my direction. It hit a soft spot. Mark Parris slammed his boy body parts into a cement post.
It has been over 35 years and the story makes me smile more every time I tell it. I've only told it 100, 200 times.
The question that went unasked when playing War was, "Why are we playing a game where we try to hurt each other?"
The question I had about running 600 yards was, "Why are we running at all?" I'm not sure a P.E. teacher of that time could've explained cardiovascular fitness to me or anybody else. Not that jogging 3, 4, 5 minutes was a cardio workout. We ran because, you ran in gym class. You played a game. You took a shower.
Who didn't despise school square dancing?
Oh? We all hated it?
Square dancing was to some just as traumatic as being chosen last for War was to others. I dreaded the long walk toward a long line of girls to find one whose eyes didn't shout, "Don't ask me! DON'T ask ME to dance!"
In my square dancing youth, every girl's eyes seemed to be shouting that at me. And, I was in the middle of the pack of boys girls could tolerate, I figured. There were guys girls wanted no part of ... ever.
Square dancing was supposed to teach social skills. However, just forcing a group of boys to each pick a girl and ask them to square dance doesn't do anything but reinforce to the cool kids that they stayed together because they were superior and to remind the rest of us that we didn't understand anything about ourselves, our primal urges or the other sex.
Winship was nightmarish for me. I had worry warts on my hands. The only reason I never had a girl refuse to dance with me is that I was a good judge of where I stood in the social order and asked girls in their gender's corresponding order to dance.
Square dancing actually taught interactive gender diplomacy.
I would never in a million years have rushed over to ask Brenda Anderson or Rene Rosenberg to square dance. Never! I decided who was in which league and they were way out of my league. So, I'd leave room for the popular dudes to get to the popular girls and get on with it.
If P.E. teachers wanted to teach social skills, they could've let us pick partners and then shook the couples up so that the popular boys had to dance with girls not their equal in the brutal high school societal structure. Brenda Anderson or Rene Rosenberg would've had to dance with me and found it was tolerable to dance with a guy too nervous to speak to them. Maybe, I'd have found Brenda Anderson a chatterbox and not just a girls I thought was prettier than any girl at Winship.
But, teachers just stood there and started the record player.
Nothing happens in gym class these days, you know? It's all different. It's like a free period to most kids who balk at games and don't care what the P.E. teacher says.
My son insisted that 98% of the kids in his middle school class refused to run the mile ... ever. The mile run at Green Valley Middle School became my son trying to run down a magnificently conditioned eighth-grade girl who could run like the wind. The other kids walked.
"I would've caught her in the final 400 yards today," he once said, "but, I had to weave in and out of the kids who just walk."
Last year at his private Catholic high school, he complained that P.E. class was wasted walking around the track.
"I feel like an idiot. If I walk, I hate it. Today I ran the entire 15 minutes and ran past a girl who give me trouble for showing off," he said. "I'm just getting a workout in. What should I do?"
I told him it could've been worse. He could've had to ask her to square dance with him.
Thursday, August 11, 2011
Eureka Memories: Carnival atmosphere all summer, every summer
(Please consider expressing whatever pleasure and enjoyment you gain from reading "Eureka Memories" by clicking on the "Donate" button above and contributing a dollar, 50 cents, a little more or a little less to my PayPal account. If you find value in the work, I hope you'll consider a financial donation that will help me continue to present my work to you. -- Ted Sillanpaa)
Butler Amusements was to Eureka kids in the 1960s what Nintendo is to youngsters of today.
Butler Amusements was the outfit that operated and, I assume maintained, the rides and attractions at the dozen or so carnivals that popped up in Eureka every spring and summer for decades.
Well, there were likely other carnival crews that set up at the Redwood Acres Fairgrounds, the parking lot at what was Disco before it became Bazaar before it morphed into Beno's and Pay Less before it became "that county office building on Highway 101 headed toward Arcata."
Butler Amusements is the only name that springs to mind, however.
Carnivals popped up in empty lots, too. Whenever a carnival hit town, it was an attraction. When my kids and I see carnival workers who look like escapees from a prison road crew piecing together the Ferris wheel and pint-sized roller coaster at the Westfield Mall in Fairfield, they ask things like, "Who would ever go ride those rides? They're not fast. They just spin in circles and ..."
I used to interrupt my older sons when they'd go off on the inherent stupidity they perceived to be involved in enjoying two-bit carnival rides.
I'd tell them about how my mom would take me to the carnivals in Eureka all the time to ride the rides, play the games and eat cotton candy. Mostly, as I recall, to eat the cotton candy, the popcorn, ice cream and to drink the most sugary soda a fat kid who lived for such delicacies could ever imagine.
There's no real way to make a little carnival interesting to kids who'd spent the morning playing life-like video games on a 64-inch, high-definition television. There was little to be said for spinning in tight circles for three minutes on some sort of whirly gig ride when the kids can entertain themselves with a mind-boggling, rockin' stereo sound system that fits in the palm of their hand.
The carnivals like the one that used to set up in a vacant lot on Broadway, headed out of Eureka to the south, were exotic and entertaining to us. Of course, we also got all geeked up to buy a vinyl LP with 3 "Herman's Hermits" hits and 7 or 8 intolerable tunes by the same group. Most of us thought the world started spinning backward briefly when we got our hands on a circular piece of vinyl with two Elvis Presley songs on it.
My kids make their own music collections on their space-age, hand-held sound systems. They'll never listen to "Meet The Beatles," and suddenly wince, "Why is Paul singing 'Till There Was You,' on here! That song's from 'The Music Man.' "
If we'd had iPods, we'd never even have been exposed to the music Col. Tom Parker forced Elvis to sing in those fer-schnizzly bad movies The King made to avoid competiting for radio air time with the Rolling Stones and the Beach Boys in the 1960s. (I did like "Follow That Dream," however.)
The dozen or so Eureka carnivals were exciting because ... there wasn't much to do in Eureka so we all turned out for every carnival. In Eureka's heyday, we made nothing into something because it seemed that we all did it together.
The carnival that was part of the Redwood Acres Fair every June was better than the carnival in the Bazaar parking lot because there were thousands of us at Redwood Acres.
The Humboldt County Fair carnival was the best, for people who enjoy bigger, better rides, than the carnival in the vacant lot on Broadway. More people meant more friends and more fun and ... there was an exotic selection of food in Ferndale. Give me a chance to eat a dog on a stick and follow it with pink popcorn and an ice cream swirl and I'd forget the rides. After the merry go round ended, it wasn't a long walk to the exhibit hall where they were selling homemade cookies.
This carnival that sets up in my new town is ... empty. The only thing more depressing that all the carnival lights and the roaring heavy metal music blaring into the night two blocks from Macy's is the sight of 6 or 7 teenagers wandering aimlessly and alone inside the carnival gates.
We had to line up behind more than 6 or 7 kids to even take a shot at throwing ping pong balls trying to land one in a goldfish bowl to win the goldfish inside. (Most traumatic existence, all-time, ever: Goldfish who lived in a carnival gold fish bowl.)
We could've bought a goldfish at Fin N' Feather for a quarter. But, we'd spend over a buck to stand for a half hour trying to bounce a ping pong ball into a fish bowl filled with water. If we did win the fish, we'd bitch and moan about having to carry it around the carnival.
Every game was rigged. I'm certain my mom, all parents, knew that. They didn't tell us, all the time. It seems like each of my friends and I individually figured out how different games were fixed to make it near impossible to win, but we did it over years and on our own. If our parents said, "You can't really win that game ... " we'd have just argued.
We threw darts at under-inflated balloons that were impossible to pop. Then, when we did pop a balloon, we'd learn that the accomplishment meant we didn't win one of the many colorful stuffed animals, but rather bought us a chance to pop 2 more balloons to win ... a 3-inch tall stuffed tucan.
The sounds of the carnival distracted us from the games that, really, almost nobody could win. I was a baseball player. I could do nothing if not throw a ball straight and hard, hitting whatever target was placed before me. When my mom tried to talk me out of taking 50 cents to try to knock down milk jugs, I completely ignored her.
"I throw strikes mom!"
The logic of a 9-year-old Cutten League baseball pitcher.
The music, the laughter, the screams from teens riding what seemed to be death-defying rides hadn't given me a chance to pause and watch how the game with the milk jugs worked. So, when I finally got to the front of the line I had talked myself into really wanting a big, stuffed, brown monkey. Really! I wanted that monkey!
When the carny reached down under the counter that separated me from the milk jugs and came up with three, heavy, old, 16-inch softballs ... I died a little on the inside. Heck, I could throw any kind of baseball straight. But ... gee whiz ...
I couldn't even get my hand around a softball 16 inches in circumference. I was too young to even know what circumference meant so I just turned to my mom, with my wee, chubby hands grasping the huge, heavy ball.
"Dammit! See? Next time you'll listen to me!"
Well, I wouldn't actually listen, but I wouldn't knock down those jugs with those monster softball balls either.
The games got easier when we got older and understood how to beat them ... er, understood when we had a chance to beat them. I figured out the dart game angle. One of my basketball-star buddies figured out how to shoot lopsided basketballs through a hoop that a ball could barely fit through that was atop a 13-foot high pole. (A regular basketball hoops fits a basketball and has plenty of room the spare. Honest.)
We were even able as we aged to ignore the sleazy barkers who would say anything to get us to stop and try the games.
When I started double-dating at carnivals, my Becoming A Man card was always at risk. Karen liked the rides ... all the rides. I hated spinning in fast circles. I didn't like going high off the ground. I never got sick to my stomach when I was a tub o' goo waddling around from food seller to food seller. I'd become nauseous the minute I saw the Tilt-a-Whirl.
I had to make sure that I performed with some measure of grace as we'd stroll past the barkers. By the time I was 15, at the carnival with a girl I wanted to impress, I always envisioned this to be the ideal interaction with a carnival barker:
Barker: "Hey! Mr. Letterman's sweater! Afraid you can't knock down the milk jugs in front'a yer girl? She wants a pretty stuffed animal, right? You afraid to win her one?
Me: "Shut the f$#@ up! Nice fingernails, by the way."
The attraction to the girl who, through sheer coincidence wound up being my only date to any carnival ever, was that she didn't care if I won the stuffed animal. She, inexplicably, liked hanging around with me and accepted I was a gigantic candy ass. So, before every carnival, I also envisioned responding something like this:
Me: "Look ... you sit in yer trailer with 5 other guys every night getting drunk, but I'm going home with her because she likes ME! Take that 10-cent stuffed giraffe and stick it up yer ..."
Whoops! Sorry. I fogot. Every memory about everything from my youth is golden...warm and fuzzy...loved those glorious Eureka carnivals. Loved them!
II'd waste time pointing out to Karen, her brother Berk and his date Merijean, that there was simply no way those carnival rides could be safe. I gave the same speech about stoned carneys using unsafe equipment to put together a big wheel that was going to take them around and around in a giant circle 60 feet off the ground.
"Good luck with that! Count me out!"
My friends laughed and went on the ride.
It wasn't as easy to maneuver the carnival when I ran with my pack of boyhood buddies. If one guy wanted to ride, oh, the Tilt-A-Whirl ... we rode it. I'd make it clear I hated the Tilt-A-Whirl, but I'd go on it.
There was a measure of pride to be maintained in the pack. Conversely, there was a measure of grace for a young girl to attach to a sensitive boy willing to admit he was afraid of the rides.
The carney's were not to be trusted. I knew that. Nobody believed me.
At Redwood Acres, when we were in ninth grade, we had a particular blast on the Tilt-A-Whirl because a bunch of cute girls had gone on and paid attention to us. I'm sure a march across frozen tundra would've been a blast in 1970 if pretty girls paid attention to us in the process.
I even forgot that wave of nausea that hit me just looking at people in a half-shell shaped seat that spun in circles on a big, wooden platform that was also spinning in circles.
When kids went to carnivals in Eureka, where the same carnival workers would stop multiple times every summer, we got to know some of the workers. The guy running the Tilt-A-Whirl that night in ninth grade was a carney we loved to laugh about.
That became a point of concern after we'd riden the T-A-W five, six times and were entering for one final spin before closing time. We were ... ninth graders ... big swingin' doinks at Winship Junior High, baby! We'd actually talked to cute girls from Zane. We were bullet-proof when we loaded up, just the six of us, one last time.
Somebody, I don't know who, said something about the carney running the ride. The carney looked crestfallen, then he looked ... really angry. I gave him my ticket and he gave me a stink-eye to end all stink eyes. I realized this wasn't a teen blonde carney trying to talk 9-year-old Teddy into winning a goldfish.
I felt the carney literally slam the T-A-W gate against my rear end, hard, and stomp about to lock my pals into the ride. When he slammed that thing we held on to into my lap, he did so with malice aforethought. My ride-mate Dave Lovfald was a good dude. Quiet. Unassuming. He likely didn't see the fear in my eyes.
The guy cranked up the Tilt-A-Whirl. No music. Something was wrong. There had been music all night. We were going faster, too. I started to tell Lovfald that we're supposed to start slow, then speed up and ... he had his head back with his eyes closed.
Somebody in our crew shouted, "Is this as fast as this thing goes? C'mon, buddy!"
The carney was in my line of sight and his eyes narrowed. He pushed down on one button and pushed forward on what appeared to be a gear shift to his right.
We started spinning faster and harder and in more erratic circles than I imagined a two-bit carnival ride could ... I threw up a little in my mouth. Nice.
I hung on tight. Lovfald woke up. A group of older kids stopped by the Ferris wheel and were just watching us spin out of control. A voice came from another friend and I shouted, "Shut the f^%%$ up! Shuddup!"
My friend apparently didn't realize we were at the mercy of the carney who we'd pissed off on the way into the ride and then angered further by challenging his willingness to crank the ride to warp speed.
There was quite a crowd of people around by the time we got off the ride, dizzy, dazed, confused. It tended to attract a crowd when the Tilt-A-Whirl man let one group of riders go out of control for 10 minutes. Still ... still ... one of my friends said something to the carney on the way out ... we weren't necessarily all that self-aware at age 14.
Me? I just wanted to puke. But, we still had to find a phone to call for a ride and ... the nearest pay phone was a long walk west on Harris Street to the Safeway at the corner of Harris and Harrison. I remember nothing, nothing, but driving home in Jerry McKeown's Oldsmobile station wagon with my head hanging out the window.
Mrs. McKeown shouted, "Oh, Ted ... I don't want you throwing up in my car!"
I wasn't thrilled at the idea either.
"So, you boys have fun? We always had so much fun at the carnival when you kids were little!"
Mrs. McKeown was insufferably upbeat, which made her lovable.
"Teddy, you win anything?"
On that night, I didn't bother to explain that the games were rigged. I just took slow deep breaths out the window.
"We don't play games much," was all I could manage.
"These carnivals ... I loved going to them with my girlfriends when we were little."
Oh. OK. I loved them when I was a kid, too. As a teen, I rethought the love of the carnivals that marked the beginning, middle and end of summer in Eureka for decades.
Butler Amusements was to Eureka kids in the 1960s what Nintendo is to youngsters of today.
Butler Amusements was the outfit that operated and, I assume maintained, the rides and attractions at the dozen or so carnivals that popped up in Eureka every spring and summer for decades.
Well, there were likely other carnival crews that set up at the Redwood Acres Fairgrounds, the parking lot at what was Disco before it became Bazaar before it morphed into Beno's and Pay Less before it became "that county office building on Highway 101 headed toward Arcata."
Butler Amusements is the only name that springs to mind, however.
Carnivals popped up in empty lots, too. Whenever a carnival hit town, it was an attraction. When my kids and I see carnival workers who look like escapees from a prison road crew piecing together the Ferris wheel and pint-sized roller coaster at the Westfield Mall in Fairfield, they ask things like, "Who would ever go ride those rides? They're not fast. They just spin in circles and ..."
I used to interrupt my older sons when they'd go off on the inherent stupidity they perceived to be involved in enjoying two-bit carnival rides.
I'd tell them about how my mom would take me to the carnivals in Eureka all the time to ride the rides, play the games and eat cotton candy. Mostly, as I recall, to eat the cotton candy, the popcorn, ice cream and to drink the most sugary soda a fat kid who lived for such delicacies could ever imagine.
There's no real way to make a little carnival interesting to kids who'd spent the morning playing life-like video games on a 64-inch, high-definition television. There was little to be said for spinning in tight circles for three minutes on some sort of whirly gig ride when the kids can entertain themselves with a mind-boggling, rockin' stereo sound system that fits in the palm of their hand.
The carnivals like the one that used to set up in a vacant lot on Broadway, headed out of Eureka to the south, were exotic and entertaining to us. Of course, we also got all geeked up to buy a vinyl LP with 3 "Herman's Hermits" hits and 7 or 8 intolerable tunes by the same group. Most of us thought the world started spinning backward briefly when we got our hands on a circular piece of vinyl with two Elvis Presley songs on it.
My kids make their own music collections on their space-age, hand-held sound systems. They'll never listen to "Meet The Beatles," and suddenly wince, "Why is Paul singing 'Till There Was You,' on here! That song's from 'The Music Man.' "
If we'd had iPods, we'd never even have been exposed to the music Col. Tom Parker forced Elvis to sing in those fer-schnizzly bad movies The King made to avoid competiting for radio air time with the Rolling Stones and the Beach Boys in the 1960s. (I did like "Follow That Dream," however.)
The dozen or so Eureka carnivals were exciting because ... there wasn't much to do in Eureka so we all turned out for every carnival. In Eureka's heyday, we made nothing into something because it seemed that we all did it together.
The carnival that was part of the Redwood Acres Fair every June was better than the carnival in the Bazaar parking lot because there were thousands of us at Redwood Acres.
The Humboldt County Fair carnival was the best, for people who enjoy bigger, better rides, than the carnival in the vacant lot on Broadway. More people meant more friends and more fun and ... there was an exotic selection of food in Ferndale. Give me a chance to eat a dog on a stick and follow it with pink popcorn and an ice cream swirl and I'd forget the rides. After the merry go round ended, it wasn't a long walk to the exhibit hall where they were selling homemade cookies.
This carnival that sets up in my new town is ... empty. The only thing more depressing that all the carnival lights and the roaring heavy metal music blaring into the night two blocks from Macy's is the sight of 6 or 7 teenagers wandering aimlessly and alone inside the carnival gates.
We had to line up behind more than 6 or 7 kids to even take a shot at throwing ping pong balls trying to land one in a goldfish bowl to win the goldfish inside. (Most traumatic existence, all-time, ever: Goldfish who lived in a carnival gold fish bowl.)
We could've bought a goldfish at Fin N' Feather for a quarter. But, we'd spend over a buck to stand for a half hour trying to bounce a ping pong ball into a fish bowl filled with water. If we did win the fish, we'd bitch and moan about having to carry it around the carnival.
Every game was rigged. I'm certain my mom, all parents, knew that. They didn't tell us, all the time. It seems like each of my friends and I individually figured out how different games were fixed to make it near impossible to win, but we did it over years and on our own. If our parents said, "You can't really win that game ... " we'd have just argued.
We threw darts at under-inflated balloons that were impossible to pop. Then, when we did pop a balloon, we'd learn that the accomplishment meant we didn't win one of the many colorful stuffed animals, but rather bought us a chance to pop 2 more balloons to win ... a 3-inch tall stuffed tucan.
The sounds of the carnival distracted us from the games that, really, almost nobody could win. I was a baseball player. I could do nothing if not throw a ball straight and hard, hitting whatever target was placed before me. When my mom tried to talk me out of taking 50 cents to try to knock down milk jugs, I completely ignored her.
"I throw strikes mom!"
The logic of a 9-year-old Cutten League baseball pitcher.
The music, the laughter, the screams from teens riding what seemed to be death-defying rides hadn't given me a chance to pause and watch how the game with the milk jugs worked. So, when I finally got to the front of the line I had talked myself into really wanting a big, stuffed, brown monkey. Really! I wanted that monkey!
When the carny reached down under the counter that separated me from the milk jugs and came up with three, heavy, old, 16-inch softballs ... I died a little on the inside. Heck, I could throw any kind of baseball straight. But ... gee whiz ...
I couldn't even get my hand around a softball 16 inches in circumference. I was too young to even know what circumference meant so I just turned to my mom, with my wee, chubby hands grasping the huge, heavy ball.
"Dammit! See? Next time you'll listen to me!"
Well, I wouldn't actually listen, but I wouldn't knock down those jugs with those monster softball balls either.
The games got easier when we got older and understood how to beat them ... er, understood when we had a chance to beat them. I figured out the dart game angle. One of my basketball-star buddies figured out how to shoot lopsided basketballs through a hoop that a ball could barely fit through that was atop a 13-foot high pole. (A regular basketball hoops fits a basketball and has plenty of room the spare. Honest.)
We were even able as we aged to ignore the sleazy barkers who would say anything to get us to stop and try the games.
When I started double-dating at carnivals, my Becoming A Man card was always at risk. Karen liked the rides ... all the rides. I hated spinning in fast circles. I didn't like going high off the ground. I never got sick to my stomach when I was a tub o' goo waddling around from food seller to food seller. I'd become nauseous the minute I saw the Tilt-a-Whirl.
I had to make sure that I performed with some measure of grace as we'd stroll past the barkers. By the time I was 15, at the carnival with a girl I wanted to impress, I always envisioned this to be the ideal interaction with a carnival barker:
Barker: "Hey! Mr. Letterman's sweater! Afraid you can't knock down the milk jugs in front'a yer girl? She wants a pretty stuffed animal, right? You afraid to win her one?
Me: "Shut the f$#@ up! Nice fingernails, by the way."
The attraction to the girl who, through sheer coincidence wound up being my only date to any carnival ever, was that she didn't care if I won the stuffed animal. She, inexplicably, liked hanging around with me and accepted I was a gigantic candy ass. So, before every carnival, I also envisioned responding something like this:
Me: "Look ... you sit in yer trailer with 5 other guys every night getting drunk, but I'm going home with her because she likes ME! Take that 10-cent stuffed giraffe and stick it up yer ..."
Whoops! Sorry. I fogot. Every memory about everything from my youth is golden...warm and fuzzy...loved those glorious Eureka carnivals. Loved them!
II'd waste time pointing out to Karen, her brother Berk and his date Merijean, that there was simply no way those carnival rides could be safe. I gave the same speech about stoned carneys using unsafe equipment to put together a big wheel that was going to take them around and around in a giant circle 60 feet off the ground.
"Good luck with that! Count me out!"
My friends laughed and went on the ride.
It wasn't as easy to maneuver the carnival when I ran with my pack of boyhood buddies. If one guy wanted to ride, oh, the Tilt-A-Whirl ... we rode it. I'd make it clear I hated the Tilt-A-Whirl, but I'd go on it.
There was a measure of pride to be maintained in the pack. Conversely, there was a measure of grace for a young girl to attach to a sensitive boy willing to admit he was afraid of the rides.
The carney's were not to be trusted. I knew that. Nobody believed me.
At Redwood Acres, when we were in ninth grade, we had a particular blast on the Tilt-A-Whirl because a bunch of cute girls had gone on and paid attention to us. I'm sure a march across frozen tundra would've been a blast in 1970 if pretty girls paid attention to us in the process.
I even forgot that wave of nausea that hit me just looking at people in a half-shell shaped seat that spun in circles on a big, wooden platform that was also spinning in circles.
When kids went to carnivals in Eureka, where the same carnival workers would stop multiple times every summer, we got to know some of the workers. The guy running the Tilt-A-Whirl that night in ninth grade was a carney we loved to laugh about.
That became a point of concern after we'd riden the T-A-W five, six times and were entering for one final spin before closing time. We were ... ninth graders ... big swingin' doinks at Winship Junior High, baby! We'd actually talked to cute girls from Zane. We were bullet-proof when we loaded up, just the six of us, one last time.
Somebody, I don't know who, said something about the carney running the ride. The carney looked crestfallen, then he looked ... really angry. I gave him my ticket and he gave me a stink-eye to end all stink eyes. I realized this wasn't a teen blonde carney trying to talk 9-year-old Teddy into winning a goldfish.
I felt the carney literally slam the T-A-W gate against my rear end, hard, and stomp about to lock my pals into the ride. When he slammed that thing we held on to into my lap, he did so with malice aforethought. My ride-mate Dave Lovfald was a good dude. Quiet. Unassuming. He likely didn't see the fear in my eyes.
The guy cranked up the Tilt-A-Whirl. No music. Something was wrong. There had been music all night. We were going faster, too. I started to tell Lovfald that we're supposed to start slow, then speed up and ... he had his head back with his eyes closed.
Somebody in our crew shouted, "Is this as fast as this thing goes? C'mon, buddy!"
The carney was in my line of sight and his eyes narrowed. He pushed down on one button and pushed forward on what appeared to be a gear shift to his right.
We started spinning faster and harder and in more erratic circles than I imagined a two-bit carnival ride could ... I threw up a little in my mouth. Nice.
I hung on tight. Lovfald woke up. A group of older kids stopped by the Ferris wheel and were just watching us spin out of control. A voice came from another friend and I shouted, "Shut the f^%%$ up! Shuddup!"
My friend apparently didn't realize we were at the mercy of the carney who we'd pissed off on the way into the ride and then angered further by challenging his willingness to crank the ride to warp speed.
There was quite a crowd of people around by the time we got off the ride, dizzy, dazed, confused. It tended to attract a crowd when the Tilt-A-Whirl man let one group of riders go out of control for 10 minutes. Still ... still ... one of my friends said something to the carney on the way out ... we weren't necessarily all that self-aware at age 14.
Me? I just wanted to puke. But, we still had to find a phone to call for a ride and ... the nearest pay phone was a long walk west on Harris Street to the Safeway at the corner of Harris and Harrison. I remember nothing, nothing, but driving home in Jerry McKeown's Oldsmobile station wagon with my head hanging out the window.
Mrs. McKeown shouted, "Oh, Ted ... I don't want you throwing up in my car!"
I wasn't thrilled at the idea either.
"So, you boys have fun? We always had so much fun at the carnival when you kids were little!"
Mrs. McKeown was insufferably upbeat, which made her lovable.
"Teddy, you win anything?"
On that night, I didn't bother to explain that the games were rigged. I just took slow deep breaths out the window.
"We don't play games much," was all I could manage.
"These carnivals ... I loved going to them with my girlfriends when we were little."
Oh. OK. I loved them when I was a kid, too. As a teen, I rethought the love of the carnivals that marked the beginning, middle and end of summer in Eureka for decades.
Tuesday, August 09, 2011
Support pours in for Justin-Siena's new baseball coach
There has been an outpouring of support for new Justin-Siena High baseball coach Allen Rossi on this site in the last few days. Former players, willing to attach their names to the praise, are extolling the virtues of the head man returning to the Braves' top job after five years away.
The letters of support for Rossi can be found in the "Comments" section of the story about Justin-Siena baseball that appeared here in June.
Rossi wouldn't be a high school coach if he didn't have critics. A couple wrote here, anonymously, to complain about things they allege that he did on the field and off. It's admirable that former players would rally to his support.
It's unclear how all those former players heard about two isolated anonymous citics or brief online conversations I engaged in to make sure those critics realized that their voices will be heard in this space.
A piece appeared here in June detailing my experience with the Justin-Siena baseball program in the spring of this year, when my freshman son split time between the JV and varsity. Beyond that piece and online conversations with folks who responded to it, no attention has been paid to the school or the baseball program.
To be extra clear:
1) My son transferred to a public school in June at roughly the time Allen Rossi was going through the hiring process. My son's decision had nothing to do with Allen Rossi returning to the job he did well for so many years at Justin.
2) Allen Rossi contacted me via e-mail to ask me to give my son his best wishes for success at his new school. We wished Rossi nothing but good things for Justin-Siena's baseball program.
3) Anyone who thinks the June story was about my son, missed the point or chose not to get the point. So, I won't be engaging in a debate over the value of playing wiffle ball at varsity baseball practices with the former player named Travis who wrote.
I'm compelled to urge those writing in support of Rossi to write to Napa Valley Register, too. Their views of Rossi would reach a bigger audience of Napa Valley baseball folks and such positive and high praise would run in total in the newspaper. (Anyone writing with criticism of a high school coach would have trouble getting their stuff printed online or in the newspaper pages.)
Some who wrote in support of Rossi blasted those who were anonymously critical. The Napa Valley, I realized quickly, isn't a place where criticism or even questions about prep sports are welcome. So, if folks want to use this spot to share their feelings ... they're welcome. I'd prefer names, but if folks remain anonymous I will still respond.
I appreciate folks paying attention to this site and hope they'll check it to see if anything beyond the one story about Justin-Siena baseball is appealing to them.
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com)
The letters of support for Rossi can be found in the "Comments" section of the story about Justin-Siena baseball that appeared here in June.
Rossi wouldn't be a high school coach if he didn't have critics. A couple wrote here, anonymously, to complain about things they allege that he did on the field and off. It's admirable that former players would rally to his support.
It's unclear how all those former players heard about two isolated anonymous citics or brief online conversations I engaged in to make sure those critics realized that their voices will be heard in this space.
A piece appeared here in June detailing my experience with the Justin-Siena baseball program in the spring of this year, when my freshman son split time between the JV and varsity. Beyond that piece and online conversations with folks who responded to it, no attention has been paid to the school or the baseball program.
To be extra clear:
1) My son transferred to a public school in June at roughly the time Allen Rossi was going through the hiring process. My son's decision had nothing to do with Allen Rossi returning to the job he did well for so many years at Justin.
2) Allen Rossi contacted me via e-mail to ask me to give my son his best wishes for success at his new school. We wished Rossi nothing but good things for Justin-Siena's baseball program.
3) Anyone who thinks the June story was about my son, missed the point or chose not to get the point. So, I won't be engaging in a debate over the value of playing wiffle ball at varsity baseball practices with the former player named Travis who wrote.
I'm compelled to urge those writing in support of Rossi to write to Napa Valley Register, too. Their views of Rossi would reach a bigger audience of Napa Valley baseball folks and such positive and high praise would run in total in the newspaper. (Anyone writing with criticism of a high school coach would have trouble getting their stuff printed online or in the newspaper pages.)
Some who wrote in support of Rossi blasted those who were anonymously critical. The Napa Valley, I realized quickly, isn't a place where criticism or even questions about prep sports are welcome. So, if folks want to use this spot to share their feelings ... they're welcome. I'd prefer names, but if folks remain anonymous I will still respond.
I appreciate folks paying attention to this site and hope they'll check it to see if anything beyond the one story about Justin-Siena baseball is appealing to them.
(Contact Ted Sillanpaa at tsillanpaa1956@gmail.com)
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