When my son Chris was a boy there came a year when we’d pushed the Santa Claus envelope as far as we possibly could. His belief in the jolly white-bearded old man had run its course. Still, I sensed a longing and wistfulness, as if deep down he still wanted to believe. Maybe it was my own longing that prompted me to write my son a letter about the mystery and the magic of Santa Claus. The following is excerpted from my letter to Chris.
Christmas 1991
Dear Chris,
For hundreds of years children around the world have asked their parents if there really is a Santa Claus. I knew the time would come when you, too, would question Santa’s existence. Sometimes in life the truest answers aren’t always the simplest. So I decided to explain it to you in this letter.
Santa Claus’ name comes from the word Sinterklaas which means St. Nicholas. And yes Chris, there really was a St. Nicholas. Hundreds of years ago he was the bishop of Myra in what is now Turkey. He was known as a kind and generous man who brought presents to the children who lived in his village every year at Christmas.
Over the centuries some people forgot about St. Nicholas and his love for children. But others remembered and they passed his story down from generation to generation. Then about 100 years ago a man named Clement Moore decided he would write a story about Christmas for his own children.
He sat down on a cold snowy night and he wrote a story that you know well…The Night Before Christmas. Clement Moore’s own children so loved the story that they gave it to all their friends to read. Before long the story spread, and soon children were once again listening for the sound of sleigh bells in the night.
I have my own Christmas story. It’s about a mother and father who took their four-year-old son out on a snowy night in Brooklyn to buy a Christmas tree. They pulled the little boy through the snowy streets in a red wagon. The three of them lived in a small apartment but the love they shared for each other was enough to fill the whole city!
When they found the right Christmas tree they brought it home and had hot chocolate. Maybe someday they would have a house in a place with lakes where the boy could swim whenever he wanted. Who knows, maybe the boy would someday have a little brother named Sean. But for now they had their Christmas tree and their hot chocolate and their love for each other and that was more than enough to make them happy and warm.
By now you’ve guessed that the little boy was you, Chris. You see, what Santa Claus really means is L-O-V-E. He is very much alive in our hearts and in our remembrance of Christmases past, reminding us about the love St. Nicholas had for the children in his village, or that caused Clement Moore to write his wonderful story, or that we will always share as a family.
On Christmas morning when you come downstairs and see the tree with all the presents underneath, I want you to know that mom and I put them there because we love you, because we carry the spirit of Santa in our hearts, and because it makes us happy when you are happy.
Before long Sean will be old enough for you to read him The Night Before Christmas. When you’re done reading the story you can watch your brother as he listens for the sound of reindeer hooves on the roof. And maybe every now and again, even though you’re growing up fast and you know it’s crazy, you’ll catch yourself listening for the sound of sleigh bells in the sky.
Monday, December 14, 2009
Friday, December 4, 2009
White House Press Secretary Needs to Get a Grip
Word out of Washington is that White House press secretary Robert Gibbs became testy with a reporter from American Urban Radio during an exchange over the role of the White House social secretary at a recent state dinner.
Message to Mr. Gibbs: You’re the one that needs to “take a deep breath” and chill out, not April Ryan from Urban Radio.
The fact is, a serious breach of security occurred at the state dinner in question. This is particularly troubling in view of the fact that President Obama has received far more threats in a shorter period of time than his predecessor George W. Bush. So ask yourself a question Mr. Gibbs: what’s wrong with this picture? The picture, that is, of White House social secretary Desiree Rogers dressed to the nines and looking very much the belle of the ball at the state dinner, as Ms. Ryan had the gall to point out.
We now know that state dinners are events at which Ms. Rogers’ predecessors were typically stationed in the reception area with the Secret Service as an additional screen against uninvited guests. Instead of enjoying the heady atmosphere at the dinner, she should have been checking out the incoming guests along with the Secret Service. But enough about Rogers. From a communicator’s perspective it is Gibbs that provides counterpoint to the President’s calm, cool approach to dealing with hot topics.
As best I can figure, there’s one of three possibilities. The White House press secretary hasn’t had much crisis experience, he’s more arrogant than I originally thought, or he’s just not very good at his job. Truth is, Robert Gibbs has spent his professional life in the role of political flak. No disrespect intended here. I was once one myself.
Second message to Mr. Gibbs: If you think you've had some contentious interactions with the White House press corps to date, you ain't seen nothin' yet.
For the record, I don’t say these things lightly. In fact, I expressed a similar opinion after the way Gibbs handled the Cambridge incident involving a white police officer and a black Harvard professor. Interestingly, that was right around the time the association that represents my profession – Public Relations Society of America –selected Gibbs as communicator of the year or something to that effect. I’m still not sure I understand PRSA’s line of thinking on that one.
Over the years I’ve been involved in more than a few crisis situations from a nuclear emergency and a patient fatality to a major environmental accident. If I've learned anything, it's that you don't wait until a crisis hits to establish a good rapport with the news media. The fact that Gibbs seems to have something of a short fuse doesn't help matters.
Third and final message to Mr. Gibbs: Alientating reporters isn't the way to go. If you treat them like professionals, they usually respond accordingly. Bottom line...they're there to get the story, whether you want them to or not.
America faces more difficult days in the months ahead between our decimated economy, the war in Iraq and Afghanistan, and everything in between. We need a captain at the wheel with a steady hand. I still believe that in President Obama, we have that captain. But the President needs a communicator who can keep his cool and convey the President's positions objectively and unemotionally to Americans and the world through the news media.
In a different setting I might recommend that Mr. Gibbs receive coaching and counseling. Unfortunately, the role of White House press secretary isn’t one in which you have time to learn on the job. Just ask Ari Fleischer, Dee Dee Myers, Marlin Fitzwater, Ron Nessen or Bill Moyers. Who knows, when all is said and done maybe Robert Gibbs is the best person for the job. But right now, based on his performance to date, it sure doesn't look that way.
Message to Mr. Gibbs: You’re the one that needs to “take a deep breath” and chill out, not April Ryan from Urban Radio.
The fact is, a serious breach of security occurred at the state dinner in question. This is particularly troubling in view of the fact that President Obama has received far more threats in a shorter period of time than his predecessor George W. Bush. So ask yourself a question Mr. Gibbs: what’s wrong with this picture? The picture, that is, of White House social secretary Desiree Rogers dressed to the nines and looking very much the belle of the ball at the state dinner, as Ms. Ryan had the gall to point out.
We now know that state dinners are events at which Ms. Rogers’ predecessors were typically stationed in the reception area with the Secret Service as an additional screen against uninvited guests. Instead of enjoying the heady atmosphere at the dinner, she should have been checking out the incoming guests along with the Secret Service. But enough about Rogers. From a communicator’s perspective it is Gibbs that provides counterpoint to the President’s calm, cool approach to dealing with hot topics.
As best I can figure, there’s one of three possibilities. The White House press secretary hasn’t had much crisis experience, he’s more arrogant than I originally thought, or he’s just not very good at his job. Truth is, Robert Gibbs has spent his professional life in the role of political flak. No disrespect intended here. I was once one myself.
Second message to Mr. Gibbs: If you think you've had some contentious interactions with the White House press corps to date, you ain't seen nothin' yet.
For the record, I don’t say these things lightly. In fact, I expressed a similar opinion after the way Gibbs handled the Cambridge incident involving a white police officer and a black Harvard professor. Interestingly, that was right around the time the association that represents my profession – Public Relations Society of America –selected Gibbs as communicator of the year or something to that effect. I’m still not sure I understand PRSA’s line of thinking on that one.
Over the years I’ve been involved in more than a few crisis situations from a nuclear emergency and a patient fatality to a major environmental accident. If I've learned anything, it's that you don't wait until a crisis hits to establish a good rapport with the news media. The fact that Gibbs seems to have something of a short fuse doesn't help matters.
Third and final message to Mr. Gibbs: Alientating reporters isn't the way to go. If you treat them like professionals, they usually respond accordingly. Bottom line...they're there to get the story, whether you want them to or not.
America faces more difficult days in the months ahead between our decimated economy, the war in Iraq and Afghanistan, and everything in between. We need a captain at the wheel with a steady hand. I still believe that in President Obama, we have that captain. But the President needs a communicator who can keep his cool and convey the President's positions objectively and unemotionally to Americans and the world through the news media.
In a different setting I might recommend that Mr. Gibbs receive coaching and counseling. Unfortunately, the role of White House press secretary isn’t one in which you have time to learn on the job. Just ask Ari Fleischer, Dee Dee Myers, Marlin Fitzwater, Ron Nessen or Bill Moyers. Who knows, when all is said and done maybe Robert Gibbs is the best person for the job. But right now, based on his performance to date, it sure doesn't look that way.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
Aging and the Glass of Life
A friend of mine recently complained that his father was getting crankier by the day. I asked him if he’d always been that way. He thought about it and said that come to think of it, his father had always been on the crotchety side.
Our conversation reminded me about something that had happened years earlier. It was the night before Thanksgiving and New York’s Penn Station was jam-packed with holiday travelers and commuters hurrying in every direction. The overhead sign board flashed departure times and gates with an air of urgency as we made our way through the throngs of people toward the Amtrack ticket counter.
Our hearts sank at the sight of the ticket line which looked as if it stretched from one end of the station to the other. We were trying to make the last Downeaster to Boston where we were spending the holiday with friends.
An elderly woman in line overheard us worrying that we might miss our train. She turned and said, “You kids go ahead of me. I have plenty of time to make my train and I don’t want you to miss yours.” We thanked the woman for her kindness and moved ahead of her. Then she reached out and tapped the back of the older man in front of us.
“Excuse me sir,” she said. “These kids may miss their train. If you’re not in a hurry, would you mind letting them go ahead of you?” When the man didn’t respond or give any sign that he’d heard her, she reached out and tapped him again. “Sir…” This time the man’s back and shoulders stiffened and we knew he’d heard. I whispered in the woman’s ear, “that’s okay. Thanks anyway.”
“Son,” she said, “I don’t want you to think that all elderly people are cranky. You’re going to find that most people who are cranks when they’re old were usually that way when they were young.” Over the years I’ve learned how right she’d been. “There's nothing worse than being an aging young person,” is how Richard Pryor put it.
Several years later when I was working in Community School District 18 in Brooklyn, my office was across the way from a man who tested youngsters for the Gifted Program. Jack was in his 70s at the time and I have never known anyone before or since who was younger at heart, even though he’d known his share of adversity.
One afternoon we were having a conversation when out of the blue he asked me if I could have anything in the world I wanted, what would it be? My father had passed away seven years earlier and I still missed him. Without even thinking, I said “if I could have anything, it would be to have my dad back for just a minute so I could hug him one more time.”
Jack didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me right there in the middle of the office. In that moment, as Jack and I embraced, I felt my father’s presence more acutely and in a way that I hadn’t experienced since his passing.
Jack and my anonymous friend in Penn Station each understood something fundamental about the human spirit and how the aging process doesn’t have to change who we really are. “If wrinkles must be written upon our brows,” wrote John Kenneth Galbraith, “let them not be written upon the heart. The spirit should never grow old.”
I’m thankful for many things today, including those delightful and unexpected encounters in life that remind us of the things that matter the most, that while we are destined to age it is not written that we must grow old, and that it is far better to view the glass of life as half full.
Our conversation reminded me about something that had happened years earlier. It was the night before Thanksgiving and New York’s Penn Station was jam-packed with holiday travelers and commuters hurrying in every direction. The overhead sign board flashed departure times and gates with an air of urgency as we made our way through the throngs of people toward the Amtrack ticket counter.
Our hearts sank at the sight of the ticket line which looked as if it stretched from one end of the station to the other. We were trying to make the last Downeaster to Boston where we were spending the holiday with friends.
An elderly woman in line overheard us worrying that we might miss our train. She turned and said, “You kids go ahead of me. I have plenty of time to make my train and I don’t want you to miss yours.” We thanked the woman for her kindness and moved ahead of her. Then she reached out and tapped the back of the older man in front of us.
“Excuse me sir,” she said. “These kids may miss their train. If you’re not in a hurry, would you mind letting them go ahead of you?” When the man didn’t respond or give any sign that he’d heard her, she reached out and tapped him again. “Sir…” This time the man’s back and shoulders stiffened and we knew he’d heard. I whispered in the woman’s ear, “that’s okay. Thanks anyway.”
“Son,” she said, “I don’t want you to think that all elderly people are cranky. You’re going to find that most people who are cranks when they’re old were usually that way when they were young.” Over the years I’ve learned how right she’d been. “There's nothing worse than being an aging young person,” is how Richard Pryor put it.
Several years later when I was working in Community School District 18 in Brooklyn, my office was across the way from a man who tested youngsters for the Gifted Program. Jack was in his 70s at the time and I have never known anyone before or since who was younger at heart, even though he’d known his share of adversity.
One afternoon we were having a conversation when out of the blue he asked me if I could have anything in the world I wanted, what would it be? My father had passed away seven years earlier and I still missed him. Without even thinking, I said “if I could have anything, it would be to have my dad back for just a minute so I could hug him one more time.”
Jack didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around me and hugged me right there in the middle of the office. In that moment, as Jack and I embraced, I felt my father’s presence more acutely and in a way that I hadn’t experienced since his passing.
Jack and my anonymous friend in Penn Station each understood something fundamental about the human spirit and how the aging process doesn’t have to change who we really are. “If wrinkles must be written upon our brows,” wrote John Kenneth Galbraith, “let them not be written upon the heart. The spirit should never grow old.”
I’m thankful for many things today, including those delightful and unexpected encounters in life that remind us of the things that matter the most, that while we are destined to age it is not written that we must grow old, and that it is far better to view the glass of life as half full.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
A Thousand Ways to Kneel and Kiss the Earth
When my friend Dan Smythe, artist and master falconer died on September 18 in upstate New York, he left a legacy of inspiration for artists and all those who take the road less traveled. Dan’s lifelong commitment to his work is best reflected in the words of the Persian poet Rumi: “Let the beauty you love be what you do. There are a thousand ways to kneel and kiss the earth.”
Dan knelt and kissed the earth every time he created a work of art or traversed the Catskill Mountains with his hawks. His primary medium was sculpture. He was also a prolific sketch artist and he occasionally painted when the spirit moved him. Dan saw the beauty that is everywhere present in the natural world with uncommon clarity. Gathering natural elements in the hills and valleys around his Grahamsville studio, Dan infused iron, wood and stone with singular spirit.
Like the Ancient Mariner, he fearlessly explored distant seas within the context of his art. Some of his work had environmental themes and examined the fragile balance between man and nature. Dan also probed the dimensions of our humanness, from his sculpture Ascent of Man to his tender and sensual treatment of a woman with child. Other of his work, such as the wings of Icarus, showed his fanciful side.
After graduating from the University of Pennsylvania, Dan served in the Army. He used to say that one of the most difficult things he ever had to do was tell his physician-father that he was changing his college major from pre-med to art. After the Army Dan turned to his life’s work in earnest, receiving his MFA in sculpture from Pratt Institute and taking up residence in Soho. He taught at Hunter College and periodically worked in commercial art.
During his New York City years Dan had a modest measure of success. His work was included in a show at the Guggenheim and in solo and group exhibits. For a time he was represented by a Manhattan gallery. But America has never treated her artists too kindly. Dan was living proof. In the trendy art world, styles of work can fall in and out of vogue overnight. Disenchanted with the arbitrariness of the New York art scene and the rising cost of living, he left the city for Grahamsville in the 1970s.
Dan lived with his wife Carol amid the Catskill Mountains for more than 30 years, becoming the quintessential regional artist. If it bothered him to go from being a rising talent on the New York art scene to a regional artist in upstate New York, I never heard him say it. Dan was too busy making his art to think about such things.
We first met in New York City in 1977 while working together on a seasonal project. It was several years after he had moved to Grahamsville. He had a way of sauntering with his backpack slung over one shoulder and looking every bit the mountain man who had somehow been dropped down in the middle of Manhattan’s endless canyons of glass and steel. Dan was the kind of person who filled a room with his presence.
When I asked him what type of art he made, he said he was a sculptor. Then he asked me what had prompted my question. I told him it was the sketchpad peeking out of his backpack. He nodded and smiled. Over the next 32 years that Dan and I were friends, the ever-present sketchpad was his trademark.
Soon after we met I invited him home to dinner. My wife at the time, also an artist, made chicken stew in our apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Over dinner we talked about art and politics and the things we cared passionately about. Dan never forgot that night. He was moved by a simple gesture. Our friendship, which would not only endure the years but also the miles that separated us, had been sealed with a home-cooked meal.
In the ensuing years whenever I made the trip to Grahamsville we’d sit by his wood-burning stove talking late into the night about everything from minimalism and mythology to global warming. No visit was complete without stopping by Dan’s studio where he would show me his latest work.
Falconry was another of his passions. He bred and raised Harris hawks and I can still see him trekking over hill and dale with his kestrels. He once described an early morning hunt in a letter to me:
“My hawk and I moved out into the gray mist with the grass heads silvery with frozen beaded moisture. Few moments are as delicately beautiful as the slow clearing of mist on a fine February morning – the sun breaking through the denser vapors on the golden maple boughs makes as glorious a scene as any that summer can show.”
During his long and difficult illness, Dan had to stop creating sculptures and give up falconry. But he never put down his sketchpad. “My work in the past five or so years may be lacking the energy I put into my sculpture work of earlier days,” he wrote to me. "But my recent work in drawing may reveal an esthetic journey that might be considered somewhat mystical for the lack of a better description.”
Fighting valiantly to hold onto the fading light of one last sunset, Dan continued to draw right up until the end. Two weeks before his death we were driving down South Hill Road. I took my time behind the wheel, drinking in the inspiring vista that is framed by Thunder Hill and Red Hill. “It’s a beautiful view,” Dan said. Over the years he’d walked along South Hill Road between his home and his studio or hunting with his hawks thousands of times. “Carol’s father used to love the view from here.” He sounded wistful, as if he knew he’d witnessed his last change in seasons.
I know that I will never again see a hawk soaring overhead without thinking of Dan. He showed me how to kneel and kiss the earth, and I will fondly remember a meal shared, cloud shadows on a mountain at midday, denouement in a work of art, friendship in its truest and purest form that began with a sketchpad.
Dan knelt and kissed the earth every time he created a work of art or traversed the Catskill Mountains with his hawks. His primary medium was sculpture. He was also a prolific sketch artist and he occasionally painted when the spirit moved him. Dan saw the beauty that is everywhere present in the natural world with uncommon clarity. Gathering natural elements in the hills and valleys around his Grahamsville studio, Dan infused iron, wood and stone with singular spirit.
Like the Ancient Mariner, he fearlessly explored distant seas within the context of his art. Some of his work had environmental themes and examined the fragile balance between man and nature. Dan also probed the dimensions of our humanness, from his sculpture Ascent of Man to his tender and sensual treatment of a woman with child. Other of his work, such as the wings of Icarus, showed his fanciful side.
After graduating from the University of Pennsylvania, Dan served in the Army. He used to say that one of the most difficult things he ever had to do was tell his physician-father that he was changing his college major from pre-med to art. After the Army Dan turned to his life’s work in earnest, receiving his MFA in sculpture from Pratt Institute and taking up residence in Soho. He taught at Hunter College and periodically worked in commercial art.
During his New York City years Dan had a modest measure of success. His work was included in a show at the Guggenheim and in solo and group exhibits. For a time he was represented by a Manhattan gallery. But America has never treated her artists too kindly. Dan was living proof. In the trendy art world, styles of work can fall in and out of vogue overnight. Disenchanted with the arbitrariness of the New York art scene and the rising cost of living, he left the city for Grahamsville in the 1970s.
Dan lived with his wife Carol amid the Catskill Mountains for more than 30 years, becoming the quintessential regional artist. If it bothered him to go from being a rising talent on the New York art scene to a regional artist in upstate New York, I never heard him say it. Dan was too busy making his art to think about such things.
We first met in New York City in 1977 while working together on a seasonal project. It was several years after he had moved to Grahamsville. He had a way of sauntering with his backpack slung over one shoulder and looking every bit the mountain man who had somehow been dropped down in the middle of Manhattan’s endless canyons of glass and steel. Dan was the kind of person who filled a room with his presence.
When I asked him what type of art he made, he said he was a sculptor. Then he asked me what had prompted my question. I told him it was the sketchpad peeking out of his backpack. He nodded and smiled. Over the next 32 years that Dan and I were friends, the ever-present sketchpad was his trademark.
Soon after we met I invited him home to dinner. My wife at the time, also an artist, made chicken stew in our apartment in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. Over dinner we talked about art and politics and the things we cared passionately about. Dan never forgot that night. He was moved by a simple gesture. Our friendship, which would not only endure the years but also the miles that separated us, had been sealed with a home-cooked meal.
In the ensuing years whenever I made the trip to Grahamsville we’d sit by his wood-burning stove talking late into the night about everything from minimalism and mythology to global warming. No visit was complete without stopping by Dan’s studio where he would show me his latest work.
Falconry was another of his passions. He bred and raised Harris hawks and I can still see him trekking over hill and dale with his kestrels. He once described an early morning hunt in a letter to me:
“My hawk and I moved out into the gray mist with the grass heads silvery with frozen beaded moisture. Few moments are as delicately beautiful as the slow clearing of mist on a fine February morning – the sun breaking through the denser vapors on the golden maple boughs makes as glorious a scene as any that summer can show.”
During his long and difficult illness, Dan had to stop creating sculptures and give up falconry. But he never put down his sketchpad. “My work in the past five or so years may be lacking the energy I put into my sculpture work of earlier days,” he wrote to me. "But my recent work in drawing may reveal an esthetic journey that might be considered somewhat mystical for the lack of a better description.”
Fighting valiantly to hold onto the fading light of one last sunset, Dan continued to draw right up until the end. Two weeks before his death we were driving down South Hill Road. I took my time behind the wheel, drinking in the inspiring vista that is framed by Thunder Hill and Red Hill. “It’s a beautiful view,” Dan said. Over the years he’d walked along South Hill Road between his home and his studio or hunting with his hawks thousands of times. “Carol’s father used to love the view from here.” He sounded wistful, as if he knew he’d witnessed his last change in seasons.
I know that I will never again see a hawk soaring overhead without thinking of Dan. He showed me how to kneel and kiss the earth, and I will fondly remember a meal shared, cloud shadows on a mountain at midday, denouement in a work of art, friendship in its truest and purest form that began with a sketchpad.
Monday, October 26, 2009
High Hopes of a Recovering New Yorker
I’m going to come clean. I’ve been a recovering New Yorker for more years than I care to admit.
Let’s face it, the Big Apple is a tough act to follow. That’s the way it is when you grow up watching a home run race between two players on the same team (Yankees Mantle and Maris). Or root for a brash young quarterback (“Broadway” Joe) who announced the Jets were going to beat the heavily favored Colts in the Super Bowl, and then went out and did it.
I won’t even go into all the Super Bowls the Giants have won or the 1969 Miracle Mets, let alone the Knicks’ stirring victory over the Lakers for the NBA Championship in 1970 when Willis Reed limped out on the court for the final game with a torn leg muscle. Fuhgeddaboudit!
No doubt about it. It’s tough getting New York out of your system. Of course, I used to take plenty of good-natured kidding about it from my significant other Barbara’s father, Tony Colella, over Sunday dinners. One of the great Phillies fans of all time, Tony stood by his team through thick and thin. He and his wife Nancy were at the World Series way back in 1950 when the Phillies last played the Yankees in the Fall Classic. In recent years he taped every game that he wasn’t able to watch on TV. You couldn’t so much as hint at the final score until he watched the videotape.
While I never admitted it to Tony, over the years I’ve come to love Philadelphia as much and in some ways more than New York. (Yes, I’m living proof that you can love two cities at the same time.) Philly sports teams have played an important role in my rehabilitation. If you asked me my favorite team before last year, I’d have said the Eagles followed by the Sixers and Phillies. But last year when the Phillies got hot and played their way to the World Series Championship and into our hearts, all that changed for me. I began to understand what it really means to be a fan, something Tony had known all his life.
Last year our “boys of summer” did what no other Philly sports team had done in 25 years – they brought home the bacon instead of just talking about it. Now they have the Yankees in their crosshairs. Don’t get me wrong, another championship is hardly a done deal. The Bronx Bombers won’t be going quietly into that good night. A-Rod, Pettitte, Jeter, Sabathia and Rivera will see to that.
Lest I give the impression it’s all about winning, it isn’t. Nowhere is that more apparent than at home games when the ball park resounds with the voices of thousands of fans singing “High Hopes,” along with a recording of the gravely voice of the team’s beloved former broadcaster Harry Kalas. You see it’s all about believing. Where I once thought of the Philadelphia area as parochial, this recovering New Yorker now thinks of it as home.
The Phillies players for their part are an exuberant group whose winning spirit seems to have a kind of innocence to it that's refreshing in pro sports. You have to love the attitude and enthusiasm they have for the game. Take the comment Raul Ibanez made to the media for example: “It’s easy to say now, but these guys never quit. I remember the excitement even in a spring-training game, when we were coming back and there was this excitement and energy in the dugout like, ‘Let’s get after it.’ In spring training!”
Cole Hamels put it this way: “We won the World Series last year, that’s great. But you know what...next year, we’re going to try to win another one, too.” Now that’s the kind of talk that makes a fan’s pulse race. It’s also why I’ll take our Phillies over any other team, win or lose, because they’re a bunch of guys who love to play the game and who don't seem to have become jaded by success.
The Phillies have another big advantage over the Yankees - Charlie Manuel. If you think this unassuming man is just the manager, you haven’t been paying attention. Charlie is a master alchemist who has tweaked his lineup all season and made one adjustment after another in the pitching department to ensure the right combination of players is on the field in any given game. You also get the feeling that if he asked his players to run through a brick wall, they’d do it for him without flinching. Such is the stuff of which great managers are made.
As for the Phillies biggest fan, in his own way Tony Colella was very much one of the “boys of summer.” I’d like to think that he hasn’t missed any of the post-season action since he passed away in August 2008. I can just see him smiling down with that same big grin he used to flash when sitting down to a lobster dinner. He’s standing right next to Harry Kalas and the two of them are singing, “High hopes, he had high hopes, he had high apple pie in the sky hopes…”
Let’s face it, the Big Apple is a tough act to follow. That’s the way it is when you grow up watching a home run race between two players on the same team (Yankees Mantle and Maris). Or root for a brash young quarterback (“Broadway” Joe) who announced the Jets were going to beat the heavily favored Colts in the Super Bowl, and then went out and did it.
I won’t even go into all the Super Bowls the Giants have won or the 1969 Miracle Mets, let alone the Knicks’ stirring victory over the Lakers for the NBA Championship in 1970 when Willis Reed limped out on the court for the final game with a torn leg muscle. Fuhgeddaboudit!
No doubt about it. It’s tough getting New York out of your system. Of course, I used to take plenty of good-natured kidding about it from my significant other Barbara’s father, Tony Colella, over Sunday dinners. One of the great Phillies fans of all time, Tony stood by his team through thick and thin. He and his wife Nancy were at the World Series way back in 1950 when the Phillies last played the Yankees in the Fall Classic. In recent years he taped every game that he wasn’t able to watch on TV. You couldn’t so much as hint at the final score until he watched the videotape.
While I never admitted it to Tony, over the years I’ve come to love Philadelphia as much and in some ways more than New York. (Yes, I’m living proof that you can love two cities at the same time.) Philly sports teams have played an important role in my rehabilitation. If you asked me my favorite team before last year, I’d have said the Eagles followed by the Sixers and Phillies. But last year when the Phillies got hot and played their way to the World Series Championship and into our hearts, all that changed for me. I began to understand what it really means to be a fan, something Tony had known all his life.
Last year our “boys of summer” did what no other Philly sports team had done in 25 years – they brought home the bacon instead of just talking about it. Now they have the Yankees in their crosshairs. Don’t get me wrong, another championship is hardly a done deal. The Bronx Bombers won’t be going quietly into that good night. A-Rod, Pettitte, Jeter, Sabathia and Rivera will see to that.
Lest I give the impression it’s all about winning, it isn’t. Nowhere is that more apparent than at home games when the ball park resounds with the voices of thousands of fans singing “High Hopes,” along with a recording of the gravely voice of the team’s beloved former broadcaster Harry Kalas. You see it’s all about believing. Where I once thought of the Philadelphia area as parochial, this recovering New Yorker now thinks of it as home.
The Phillies players for their part are an exuberant group whose winning spirit seems to have a kind of innocence to it that's refreshing in pro sports. You have to love the attitude and enthusiasm they have for the game. Take the comment Raul Ibanez made to the media for example: “It’s easy to say now, but these guys never quit. I remember the excitement even in a spring-training game, when we were coming back and there was this excitement and energy in the dugout like, ‘Let’s get after it.’ In spring training!”
Cole Hamels put it this way: “We won the World Series last year, that’s great. But you know what...next year, we’re going to try to win another one, too.” Now that’s the kind of talk that makes a fan’s pulse race. It’s also why I’ll take our Phillies over any other team, win or lose, because they’re a bunch of guys who love to play the game and who don't seem to have become jaded by success.
The Phillies have another big advantage over the Yankees - Charlie Manuel. If you think this unassuming man is just the manager, you haven’t been paying attention. Charlie is a master alchemist who has tweaked his lineup all season and made one adjustment after another in the pitching department to ensure the right combination of players is on the field in any given game. You also get the feeling that if he asked his players to run through a brick wall, they’d do it for him without flinching. Such is the stuff of which great managers are made.
As for the Phillies biggest fan, in his own way Tony Colella was very much one of the “boys of summer.” I’d like to think that he hasn’t missed any of the post-season action since he passed away in August 2008. I can just see him smiling down with that same big grin he used to flash when sitting down to a lobster dinner. He’s standing right next to Harry Kalas and the two of them are singing, “High hopes, he had high hopes, he had high apple pie in the sky hopes…”
Saturday, October 17, 2009
City of New Orleans
Once upon a time I dreamed that I would be America's next native son. Spurred on by Arlo Guthrie I would ride "the train they call the City of New Orleans," exploring America and writing about my experiences.
Countless stories were waiting for me to write about people and their hopes and dreams in towns and cities from sea to shining sea. I would get it all down in an eclectic, half-crazed patchwork reflective of styles and perspectives from Jack Kerouac and Charles Kuralt to Ernest Hemingway and Hunter S. Thompson.
Early on I published op-ed articles in The New York Times and Newsday, a slew of articles in weeklies and a children's novella. That was back in the day when I lived in a fourth-floor walk-up in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. The view of the Manhattan skyline from my apartment was mesmerizing; the city glittered just across the river like a million precious jewels in the night.
When I decided I was no longer headed in the same direction as the City of New Orleans - starting a family meant getting a real job - I put aside all thoughts of becoming America's next native son. It was time to grow up, or so I thought.
I embarked on a career in public relations that has taken me down many new and different roads. Over the miles traveled I have learned that exploration of just about any sort is a good thing, and that as T.S. Eliot observed, “…the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we began and to know the place for the first time.”
So here I am years later standing on yet another train platform. Much to my amazement, the City of New Orleans is just pulling into the station. It turns out that despite all of the highways and byways and the occasional detours that I've taken, I never completely lost sight of my dream. I just put it on hold for awhile.
Countless stories were waiting for me to write about people and their hopes and dreams in towns and cities from sea to shining sea. I would get it all down in an eclectic, half-crazed patchwork reflective of styles and perspectives from Jack Kerouac and Charles Kuralt to Ernest Hemingway and Hunter S. Thompson.
Early on I published op-ed articles in The New York Times and Newsday, a slew of articles in weeklies and a children's novella. That was back in the day when I lived in a fourth-floor walk-up in Greenpoint, Brooklyn. The view of the Manhattan skyline from my apartment was mesmerizing; the city glittered just across the river like a million precious jewels in the night.
When I decided I was no longer headed in the same direction as the City of New Orleans - starting a family meant getting a real job - I put aside all thoughts of becoming America's next native son. It was time to grow up, or so I thought.
I embarked on a career in public relations that has taken me down many new and different roads. Over the miles traveled I have learned that exploration of just about any sort is a good thing, and that as T.S. Eliot observed, “…the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we began and to know the place for the first time.”
So here I am years later standing on yet another train platform. Much to my amazement, the City of New Orleans is just pulling into the station. It turns out that despite all of the highways and byways and the occasional detours that I've taken, I never completely lost sight of my dream. I just put it on hold for awhile.
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