Why The Hate?

I still do not understand the LeBron James hatred. It goes beyond the usual distaste for an opposing player from a rival team. No, many people really hate the man, all without the benefit of knowing him personally. Granted, he does come across poorly on camera. And, with the public, if you do not succeed in the media spotlight, it can sink your reputation. He does not have the charm and charisma that many athletes possess. Nor does he cater to reporters for their approval.  LeBron seems to march to the beat of his own drum. And, his detractors do not like the sound of his music....... Some of the hatred can be traced to his "Big Decision" a few years ago. You remember it. It was the big decision when he was a free agent on where he was gonna play after he left the Cleveland Cavaliers. He was courted by many teams, including the Chicago Bulls, and the staged "drama" played out in the public court. He chose Miami, which pissed off a lot of cities who wanted him. Chicago was the most vocal (well, really, Cleveland was because they were losing him) and the fans ridiculed the pomposity of LeBron for making his decision such a laughable farce. This, I had to agree with, for he was poorly advised by his agent and public relations people. He came off looking arrogant and self-important....... What was lost in the fury of him going to Miami was the fact that he did nothing wrong in changing teams. While the haters cried foul that he was deserting Cleveland for big money, the truth was that he simply took a better business offer somewhere else, something that all of us do also. All of us, given the chance, would take a business opportunity with a rival company if the terms suited our future. Whatever your job is, if the company across the street offered more money, more recognition of your talent and abilities, and more success, would you not take the job offer, regardless of the loyalty to your employer factor? Of course you would. Who wouldn't? LeBron was looking to his future, his chance for the Big Brass Ring. Again, how he did it was wrong---- with a foolish announcement that he and his advisors mistakenly thought was of world importance---- but, the actual deed was well within his right in the right-to-work world we live in. Its called Free Enterprise....... By the way, most of the proceeds Team LeBron made with the TV special went to charity....... So, let's look at his on-court playing. Do people hate him for this? Yes, many do. He has been called a cheap-shot artist, a cheat, a crybaby, and highly overrated. Non of this is true. Those criticisisms come from opinion, not fact. Crybaby? He complains aboutbbad calls not going his way, something every athlete does, going back to grade school. A cheat? Where and when has this happened? No examples come to my mind or any other person I have asked. Cheap-shot artist? Well, I've seen many a player go cheap on him. But he has never been in trouble with the league for his behavior. In fact, most players he has played against respect his talent. He is quite professional on the court. Does he have enemies in the NBA? Yes, he does, for everybody does who is so high profile. The common saying about LeBron James is: "He is no Michael Jordan!"....... You remember Michael Jordan, don't ya? He was the Greatest Basketball Player Ever. And, he certainly was. Jordan was poetry in motion, a man of extraordinary talent and skill. He walked on a basketball court and slayed his enemies. Watching Michael Jordan play basketball was like watching history in the making. Plus, Jordan was a charismatic man whom the media adored. He made good copy, with a handy quote and a welcome quip. And, a ready smile. The camera loved him---- which, remember, is very important to a public figure---- and his face gleamed out to millions of ready fans and non-fans of basketball. Such was the love Jordan inspired, that his darker personal life never came to the surface during his playing days. The rampant infidelities, the absentee father, the gambling addiction, etc, were all swept under the carpet because Jordan was so beloved. As long as he produced magic, Michael Jordan was Mr. Clean-Cut, the hero of millions....... Unlike LeBron James. LeBron is the anti-Jordan, a man viewed as sullen and uncooperative to the public. He is selfish, his detractors protest. If he only acted like Michael Jordan, then, he would be OK, so they say. My answer is, "Why should he be like Jordan?" We already have the real article, why do we need a rerun? LeBron James lives his life on his own terms, and until evidence is brought forth against him, he does not seem to hurt or abuse the people around him or his public with his behavior. Locally, we have behavior of a certain hockey player, Patrick Kane, that is reprehensible on so many levels. Yet, he is constantly let off for his conduct because he benefits the Blackhawks by playing well. This seems to be forgotten in this town because Kane serves the interests of his fans. When that stops, look for him to be thrown to the wolves (which he royally deserves). Until then, the media loves him and will overlook his foibles. LeBron does not get that pass........ One more thing about the Michael Jordan vs. LeBron James connection. Is LeBron better that Michael? Is he a better all-around player than the Original King? I think Jordan was a better player in most categories but LeBron haters are not comfortable with the comparison. They feel it is an insult to compare him to Jordan, as if acknowledging LeBron's strengths somehow tarnishes the glow of Air Jordan and his legacy. When comparisons of athletes from different eras, with different playing styles, are made, the older generation gets defensive and vitriolic. "How dare you say he was as great as Michael Jordan?!! Jordan was the greatest ever!!!" And, then, they will spew out statistics that support their righteous indignation. They may be right in their defense but the core of the debate is one of defensiveness and a feeling that their hero may be eclipsed or forgotten by the public. And, they blame the young upstart, the perceived threat to the legacy of The Great One. I find this most notable in the LeBron Haters Club. They instantly segue into the "He's no Jordan!" Or, "Jordan was better!" argument. Never mind that it is a winless debate on both sides of the aisle. Jordan is Jordan and James is James. There is no need to pit one against the other in a phantom contest....... So, the hate of LeBron James goes dribbling on, probably, for as long as the man will be playing. Whatever more he achieves on the basketball court has yet to be written. In due time, he will retire and with that will come a public rehabilitation of his character and a new-found respect for his abilities......  By that time, the next basketball sensation will be on the scene, someone the press and public will call "The New LeBron James." This person will take the same grief and slings from the arrows that LeBron experiences now. And, he will be hated by some. The argument from those people will be, "He is no LeBron".......

Boredom's Companion

Fred was set to go fishing and we all had to know about it. You know a guy like Fred. Someone who is absolutely in love with the sound of his voice. Fred is never short of opinions and theories. Everyone knows someone like Fred, be it a neighbor, a relative, or the blowhard at work. The ''Fred'' character insists on telling you----without any prompting on your part---- EVERY FACET OF HIS LIFE. Be it the home life, what his wife does at work and the people she deals with [Never mind that you have never met Mrs. Fred, nor desire to] or, the long-ago story of when Fred was 22 and encountered a situation identical to yours. Well, not identical---- the ''Fred'' type of person needs to TOP your story with his. All the endless and repetitive yarns of Fred are spun, none to your actual interest. Well, my ''Fred'' was going to the Canadian border to do some fishing. Apparently, the fish taste better with a Northern flavor. Fred is going with his buddies, a group of people who must be the carbon copy of Fred because no sane human being would spend a week with Fred without heavy alcohol and narcotics to buffer you. They will fish and talk. And, talk. AND, TALK. All the while casting their lines to catch some unsuspecting carp that will just be swimming by. Eventually, a fish will be caught and hauled aboard the boat. And, Fred and his mates will offer up endless chatter about various other times they have caught something similar. Meanwhile, the poor fish, if he hasn't already died from the catch, most likely, will try to fling himself off the boat back into the water to escape the boredom of the talk. With luck, the mini-''Jaws'' will succeed. But, sadly, probably not. The last thing the fish will experience in life will be hearing Fred talk about a fish he caught in 1969. The fish does have one advantage over us humans. The fish will not have to look at the pictures of the trip that I will see when Fred comes back......... Herb likes movies and old TV shows. So do I, which is why he likes talking to me. Herb is an amiable fellow, I'd say around sixty. He kinda of resembles the ''Stay Puft Marshmallow Man'' from ''Ghostbusters'', although, Herb doesn't have the sparkling eyes. His are mostly half-closed, like he is just about to fall asleep but is barely able to keep awake. Herb likes to talk , too. But, unlike Fred, Herb actually has interesting things to say. Sometimes. Many times it is all dribble, with me looking at him and thinking, ''What the fuck are you talking about?'' Herb is another type of guy that you know. Someone who is essentially a good guy, but excruciatingly BORING, with a capital BORING. But, he is decent and knows his movies and television. Boy, does he ever!! Whenever we rap, he will ask if I saw such-and-such show last night, or, if I have seen any good movies lately. Usually, my answer is a negative because I am in the cycle of not watching much new programming and have been settling in for my nightly viewing with a nice return to past entertainment pleasures. Herb will then tell me about what he recently watched. More than tell me: He will recite verbatim EVERY PART OF THE MOVIE OR SHOW HE HAS SEEN. From what the actors were wearing to how they delivered the lines, my mini Roger Ebert dissects his viewing down to the smallest detail. This would be fine if Herb could tell a story. But, to my hearts regret, Herb couldn't ad-lib a fart in a bean eating contest. His retelling of the fine entertainment is enough to drive you up a wall. Recently, Herb told me about his viewing of a show recently in such boring detail that I actually started weeping openly. Herb asked if everything was alright and I covered up my true thoughts by saying his story reminded me of a painful past incident from my life. Which was awkward because he was describing a ''Gilligan's Island'' episode. But, like the tough soldier I am, I nodded my head and listened, all the while hoping that his mile-long sentence would have a period coming so I could jump in and change the topic. It didn't happen. Herb went on talking. And, I grew conscious of the fact that I would never get these minutes of my life back again......... By the way, Fred and Herb are good friends. When they talk, I wonder who is really listening........ Barbara is a ''Millennial'' child. Meaning, she talk in codes and phrases that I do not understand. Stuff like ''OMG!'' when something is unbelievable to her. There are times, after I am done talking to her, that I have to Google her terms to see what she was talking about and to make sure she is not calling me an asshole.  Barbara is harmless, though, just very immature for someone her age. Barbara is also someone who has no filter when it comes to telling you a story about her life. She is one of those people that tells you EVERYTHING on her mind. Literally, EVERYTHING. She will start a conversation on one topic, and then, swerve into another, and then, take the next mental lane into another, and before you know it, my brain is trying to unscramble information. I feel like a fly caught in a spiders web. Every time I try to mentally unscramble, Barbara just pours more info on, as I helpless try to escape her clutches. Eventually, I cry ''Uncle!'' and just smile and pretend that I am listening to every word. My brain can do that with some people: while they are spewing useless talk, I am going through in my head the things I need to do, like, stop for gas, get some groceries, call that hooker. Barbara, God love her, never picks up that I have gone into a vegetable state of mind and I am just breathing with the phantom air ventilator until she concludes her tales. Meanwhile, like in the movies, calendar pages, signaling time, are flying around, along with my growing a beard........ I tell these stories myself because we all have these types of people in our lives. Well-meaning, good- natured people that you dread getting stuck talking to. They mean well, but they bore the shit out of you........ To not listen, though, would be impolite, and we all weren't raised that way. Plus, these people, inevitably, have no one else to tell their life stories to. I keep telling myself this when I get trapped into listening to them. Whenever I happen to stumble in their sight and cannot run away [I don't run] I say to myself that this time might be different, that they may actually peak my interest and tell me something that will stimulate me. Alas, I am wrong and my dreams die quickly as I listen to how the newborn had diarrhea, or a funny scene in the movie happened this way, or the fish lodge was out of quarters. But, I listen because I want to be nice. My only job is to try to stifle the yawn I am brewing........ And, I'm sure they are thinking,''Jim is very quiet and serious. Maybe, I will tell him about my Great-Uncle, who was quiet and serious''...........

The Champ

As I write these words, Muhammad Ali is being laid to rest in Louisville, Kentucky. It is a big media affair, with thousands of people milling around. Some are media barons, just doing their job and hoping that some incident will occur that they can capture. Some are celebrities---- actual friends of Ali, and the celebrities looking for a little publicity to, I guess, further their public image and career. But, most are fans of Ali's. They are of all colors and nationalities. One thing about Muhammad Ali must be said: He spanned the different cultures of the world and all types of people embraced him. All in all, it looks like a big media show honoring the self-styled ''Greatest Of All Time''. I'm sure it would please him.......... I have always had mixed feelings about Muhammad Ali. Unlike the public and media, I have a long memory. I remember the good and the bad in people........ The GOOD in Ali was dazzling. He was a triumphant fighter, in the ring he was, as the cliche says, ''Floating like a butterfly and stinging like a bee''. A massive talent, he danced and jabbed. He taunted and played possum. He was wounded and then came out swinging to the Heavens. And, he was a superb entertainer, both in the ring and out of it. He loved the cameras and they loved him. Always quick-witted, he had a handy quote for any occasion. Some were thoughtful and funny. Some were damned and goddamned as being arrogant and judgmental. His back and forth camera sparring with Howard Cosell was legendary. On Saturday afternoons, ABC had ''Wide World Of Sports'' on its schedule. It seemed, once a month, the Ali-Cosell Show would parade across the airwaves for the home viewers. It was a comedy act, mostly, with Cosell as the Straight Man and Ali as the Comedienne. Back and forth they both went, with each trying to top the other in verbal exchanges. They were playing for the camera and the audience. And, both responded most generously........ There was also Muhammad Ali the champion boxer. He slayed him opponents with a ferocious intensity. He went up against the finest of his times. Names like Joe Frazier, George Foreman, and Ken Norton became partners in the ring with him. A few times he lost, like with Frazier. But, he mostly succeeded. Ali first came to prominence in 1964 when he astonished the world by beating the heavily-favored Sonny Liston for the championship belt. The public was stunned that this loudmouth, who already was dividing people with his opinions and behavior, had knocked out Liston. It wasn't until many years had passed that the true story came out. Sonny Liston was Mob owned. And, in a classic example of the Mob controlling the fights, right out of a movie, Sonny Liston was ordered to ''take a dive.'' The Mob placed all of its money on the underdog, Ali, and cleaned up the action. Whether Ali was in on this or knew about this, is an open question. But, he had to have known that Liston was not giving out his best in the ring that night......... Still, after this fight, Muhammad Ali grew in stature. He became a public hero for the times, especially, among the black population. He was a classic story right out of a fairy tale. He came up from nothing, with the odds stacked against him because of his color, and he rose to the highest levels of acclaim. Black children looked up to Ali as a Role Model. And, he deserved to be on that pedestal because he DID overcome a lot in his time. He DID face hardships and prejudice. He DID have nothing going for him except his talent and his remarkable personality. He was a smart, proud black man, in an society that did not want that. He was a THREAT to many.......... Then, he made a major mistake. This is where the BAD Muhammad Ali came courting. He foolishly joined the Black Muslims under the vile leadership of the ''Honorable Elijah Mohammed''. You would have to look long and hard to find out where he was so ''Honored'', for he was a race hustler and separatist who hated all white people. Like any good race hustler, Elijah Mohammed mixed reality issues with his prejudices to create a doctrine that fed into his pockets with money [Green is the true favorite color of race hustlers]. He called all white people ''Devils'', and called for black men to take up arms against the white establishment. Malcolm X [another racist that flowered under the ''Honorable''] and many others of the Black Muslim movement preached this hate. And, sadly, so did Muhammad Ali. In fact, he embraced this garbage so much that he renounced his real name, Cassius Clay, and became Muhammad Ali. He claimed that Cassius Clay was a slave name given to him by white people, overlooking that his parents gave him that name........ Muhammad Ali went full-throttle into the movement. Not only changing his name but storming the media with the words of the ''Honorable.'' Overnight, he became a polarizing figure. He turned into the very racist that he claimed white people were. He preached the gospel of the ''Honorable'' and became estranged from his family and friends. The movement controlled him and brought out a hateful side to him. Even his loyal trainer in boxing, Angelo Dundee, was taken aback by his harsh dismissal of boxing and all that it gave him. Ali even had the audacity to say he didn't believe in violence----- ignoring the fact that he made millions in a sport that is violent, and also, forgetting that he favored the violent overthrow of the white establishment. He spewed venom and rage, mingling it, like his mentor, the ''Honorable'', taught him to do, with real issues and real problems in every day black life. He exploited his very own people that he said he was trying to help. Finally, he refused to be drafted into the Vietnam War, therebye, paving the way for him to be stripped of his heavyweight championship title. Throughout the 1960's and early 70's, Muhammad Ali remained someone you either loved or hated. And, sadly, it went by racial lines........ But, in this world, we love to bring back a champion. Because of his extraordinary charisma and boxing skills, Muhammad Ali came back with force to take the heavyweight championship title again. He did not go to jail for his draft dodging, for he employed many fine lawyers to keep him out of the pokey [most of these lawyers were Jewish, which must have made interesting conversations between Ali and the ''Honorable'']. And, Ali showed his prowess again in the ring, usually defeating his opponents in most entertaining fights. He still managed to polarize, but, his tone lowered, his demeanor softened, and, the rage and racist chants he spouted in the 60's  seemed to go away. Whether he still believed the ideas of the Black Muslim movement, we do not know. He still could have. But, he kept his personal politics private, where it should be for everyone of every color. And, his hero status grew, especially, among black young men. He encouraged black men to stop fighting each other and to get an education. He said that we should all live together in harmony. He said that white people weren't all ''Devils'' like his foolish hero stated. This new Ali was most welcome. While he still brought up the valid important discrepancies among the races that exist, he did not point angry fingers anymore. As his boxing career came to a conclusion, Muhammad Ali cleansed his public image and became universally admired and beloved. He gave to charities and spoke up for the forgotten. He put his money where his mouth was. He became the most famous person on the planet, it has been said. He could go anywhere in the world and be known. He was the World's Ambassador For Good Will......... Then, the Parkinson's hit him. Speculation is that it was tied into his boxing career. He took too many punches, stayed in the sport for too long. Like all Parkinson's victims, the disease starts slow, with mild tremors. Then, it builds to a horrible intensity that leaves the victim with a  constant shaking. Muhammad Ali went from a supreme specimen of human strength to a sad victim of disease that ravaged his body. In his final years, he would be seen less and less. This once vital and captivating force of nature could not control his body anymore. He knew it and that is probably why he didn't want his public to see him this way. While Ali never put it in public words, I'm thinking he wanted the public and his fans to remember him as he was, the mighty champion of strength and verbal wit, striding along in and out of the ring, vanishing all contenders that came his way. Part of this thinking is ego, yes. But, part of it---- again, I'm speculating here---- is Ali's recognition that we all need heroes in life. We all should be our own hero, of course. But, we need someone else to look to for inspiration and guidance, at times.  For many, it is your parents and your children and your mates. However, Ali knew that in the black community----which, was and still is, his greatest influence---- he could not look weak and human. He must, in their eyes, be the tower of strength and achievement that he always was. Perhaps, that is why he became such a recluse in his final years. Partly because he physically could not handle being out in public. But, also, because he was MUHAMMAD ALI, THE GREATEST. He could not let them down to see he was human, like the rest of us......... As I have said above, I always have mixed feelings about Muhammad Ali. I admire the fighter and showman. He was a hell of a lot of fun to watch and listen to. But, I also see the other side to him. It is always hard for me to forgive hate in its rawest form. He did a lot of damage in his time between the races, at a time when it was most volatile. And, him not serving in the military I find shameful. His feeble excuse about not serving the interests of the United States Government because of its racist behavior towards blacks can only go so far. Jackie Robinson served in World War Two and experienced a hell of a lot more prejudice than Ali ever did. But, he served his country honorably and was a vocal critic of Ali during the Vietnam War for not going into the military......... Perhaps, time does heal wounds. But, not all of them. As Ali is laid to rest today, his legacy is yet to be written. It won't be until several generations have passed and, hopefully, racial relations have gotten better........ I will pick his Greatest moment. It is not in the boxing ring or a quote of his. It is his appearance at the 1996 Olympics in Atlanta. The torch was to be lit to start the ceremonies. Speculation ran rampant at the time whom would be the one to do the honor. To the wonderful surprise of everyone, it was Muhammad Ali. There he was, older, feeling the effects of his Parkinson's Disease, holding the flame torch. The crowd in the stadium went wild, as did hundreds of millions who watched around the world. The Champ smiled a big smile. You could tell he was honored and touched by the reception he was receiving. It did bring chills to you and a few tears in the eyes. He lit the torch. And, for one last, historic, glorious moment, Muhammad Ali was the Greatest again..........

The Kids Are Alright

The hallways always have an extra buzz to them on the Seniors last day. You can feel it like it is frozen in mid-air, an electricity of energy. The Seniors are done with high school, and a great sense of relief has washed over them. They have crossed the finish line of primary education, the goal of many years has been achieved. And, they rightly pat themselves on the back and stand up a little straighter to accept the praise that they have earned. High school is done and the gateway towards adulthood is now....... The last day is a half day, with a picnic to be the celebratory meal of a job well done. But, the first five periods must be observed. They do this, in fast motion, because they want it done. However, I have noticed a certain look that overtakes them. A glazed look. The stunned realization that, ''MY GOD!!! I AM DONE WITH SCHOOL!!!'' It amuses me to see this. Why? Well, I think that you can rightfully call this look the first time that, physically, life is settling in on them. An adult life, full of promises and responsibilities and passions and fears and all of the human bundles of positive and negative human emotions. I can kinda of remember that same feeling. After I graduated high school in June, 1984 A.D., I got in my parents car that they lent me and drove away from the school towards the first party I was going to attend that night. In the rear view mirror, my high school, the late and undistinguished Forest View, was visible. The feeling I had at that moment I can clearly recall. I had the excitement of being done with school. And, then, I also had the fear of being done with school. I knew at that moment that I was in charge of my life then, my destiny, with no cushion and no structure. How I lived my life was completely up to me. It was both comforting and terrifying. It still is........ And, I saw it today in the passing faces of the Seniors. Bewilderment and cockiness. That is ok, for both are necessary for the first few steps from being a child. What they do not know----and, I would never dare tell them----- is that they will encounter dark roads that life throws in your pathway that will erode those looks of wonder and self-confidence. Dangerous avenues of temptation and harmful passageways that could bring their dreams and good intentions come crashing down. I would never break their moment of joy, for it will be the last time they will have the bubble of innocence surrounding them. There is no need to break the spell. They will all find reality in their own ways........ At the same time I am happy for them, I feel a personal sadness. I have known most of these kids for four years. I have seen most mature and grow. I have betted heads with them as Freshmen [when, you know, old Mr. Scoleri knows nothing and is mean] to where they are now with a fresh Seniors perspective [you know, cool Mr. Scoleri, who was right about what he was preaching and really is a softie]. I have seen them find first loves and have first heartbreaks. I have coached them to do better with their grades and applauded them when they passed that tough test that they thought they would never pass. I would tell them exactly what to say when they go on their first job interview, and I would tell them what a good work ethic is, and for them to give me free food at Portillos. And, for many, I was just a sympathetic ear for them, for many, sadly, do not have an adult at home that they can share things with and inspire the best out of them. Those are the kids that reach deep into your heart. Even when they ''act up'' and do something that they should not do, there is the little voice in my head that says, ''Go easy, Jimmy. Remember where they are coming from.'' That has been how I have always been: first the anger at the situation, then, understanding and compassion, followed by the urge to help them as best as I can. It doesn't work for all students, mind you. Still, the ratio is high towards success. Myself---and, many of my friends and colleagues at work--- try to be there for the kids, to steer them in the right direction. Most times, I think we do. But, sometimes, a kid you think you have going well does something that breaks your heart. You take it personal. You have to. Because you care.......... Those kids remain with you as the four years progress. The bond grows stronger. Every adult I work with has a favorite student. The one that you watch out for. I have many. I have kids who may not have me in class anymore who stop in during their lunch, or, between passing periods, just to say hello and to tell me about what is going on in their lives. Many invite me to come watch them play in the team sport they belong to. And, in the sweetest example of making a mark with them, come Christmas time or Staff Appreciation Week, I may get a small gift or card expressing how they feel about me. Those are the moments when you do tear up....... I write this not to show what a swell guy I am, but, to show you how they are. Lost among the confusion of being a teenager is the enormous pressure society puts on them. Teenagers today have it much rougher than at any other time in history. Look at the world----and, the world's expectations on them----- that they have to endure. Everything from terrorism to enormous debts to two childish people running for President Of The United States in 2016. As they graduate, this will hit them with a sonic blast that I could not imagine. And, yet, through this pressure, through the self-centeredness that is the bane of any teenager, comes a thoughtful act of generosity and goodwill out of nowhere. It may just be a Christmas card to them. But, to me, it gives me a warm hope for the future....... After 5th period, it is all over but the hugging. This is allowed because they are no longer students, but co-equals as adults. A goodbye hug, full of gratitude and best wishes for their future. And, more tears---both from them and from us. I tell them to come see me in the future. A few will. Most, will not. While I might have been a recognizable figure to them these last few years, I know I will fade away in their memories as the years roll on. It is natural. There is a little sadness in knowing this. They hug and I say good luck to them. And, I give the line that makes my throat tighten up: ''Have a great life''......... I want them to have that ''great life''. I want them to have all of their dreams come true. I want them to fall in love with that special person. I want them to do good work and be proud of the achievements they make as life goes on around them. I want them to have the fun times. I want them to learn from the sad times. I want them to solve the problems that the generations before them have given them. And, I want them to be nicer to each other than we have been to our fellow human beings in our time, to find that loving human spirit to forge a better future for their kids. I want them to solve the problems of hate and division and be as One. It is a tall assignment I am giving them, I know. But, who is to say that they won't be ''The Greatest Generation?''......... I'm rooting for the Class Of 2016. They should be proud of what they have done. I am proud of them. You will be, too. Just give them time to grow into their roles, to let life measure them........ Looking at the calendar, I see there is about 3 months until the Class of 2020 arrives at the school. I look forward to meeting them.......

Great Movie : ''Being There''

Chance is just a gardener. He is nothing more........ We meet him early one morning as he rises. The first thing that he does is turn on his television. This is one of two important daily acts he must do. As he does his morning stretches----while various TV shows and commercials play across the screen---- we focus in on his appearance. He is middle-aged, portly, gray hair [what there is of it] and very non-threatening to handsome men everywhere. He changes from his pajamas to a suit, an old suit. A very old suit. The kind that went out of style decades ago, from another lifetime. This is the year of 1979, but, Chance dresses like it is 1929. His pants do not reach his shoes, in a classic example of a unaware dresser waiting for a flood to come. But, in his own way, Chance looks kinda nifty in his clothes........ After he has dressed, Chance goes out to his beloved garden. He cares for his garden like a mother cares for her child. Dainty hands work its magic, a master doctor performing his daily procedure among his patients. It is Winter, though, so not much is growing in the garden. It hardly matters to Chance, for he is a creature of habit. Every morning he tends to his garden, come rain or come shine......... On this morning that we, the audience meet him, there is a death in Chance's house. The Old Man, who has taken care of Chance his whole life, is gone. Chance is told this by Louise, the faithful made. She tells him this gingerly, cautious in his reaction. Chance has no reaction. He is busy watching television. The Old Man dying does not register with Chance. And, at this moment in the brilliant movie, ''Being There'', we realize that Chance the Gardener is a simpleton......... These are the first few minutes of the movie. The next several involve Chance the Gardener being told, since The Old Man is dead, that he must vacate the house he has lived in his entire life. The Old Man, we find out, sheltered Chance his whole life, never once letting him out into the world. Chance has never even ridden in a car. All Chance knows about is watching TV and tending his beloved garden. He has no family, no friends, no one else in the world. He cannot do the simplest of tasks. He is helpless. Even Louise, the loyal maid to The Old Man, cannot help him. Come the morning after The Old Man dies, Chance is thrown out of his house, an orphan about to find his way in a world he cannot comprehend........ He stands on the front stoop of the building he has lived in. The camera pans around and we notice the area is very poor, a ghetto of torn down buildings and garbage thrown everywhere. Chance starts walking. He is carrying his suitcase, which hold his meager belongings----basically, more old clothes. He has a hat on and in his left hand, he has a cane. Somewhere, in his TV viewing, Chance must have seen that this is the way people in the world dress. As he walks, timidly, down the street, Chance encounters various people in the neighborhood, mostly black. He stumbles on to a street gang and they immediately threaten him physical harm. When one member pulls out a knife, Chance reaches into his pocket and pulls out his weapon: a TV remote control. What better weapon to use!!! As any TV viewer knows, if you don't like a program, he click away from it and find something else to watch. But, as Chance discovers, he cannot click away this tense situation. He nearly escapes harm..........He wanders these streets of Washington, D.C. He is lost, a sheep lost in the dangerous world of wolves. He is hungry. He asks for food from strangers on the street. He is denied help of any kind from those strangers. Finally, by accident, a car is backed up and slightly crushes his leg. The car is driven by a chauffeur of a very powerful woman. The woman, named Eve, is very concerned about Chance. Instead of taking him to a hospital, she asks Chance if she can take him to her home for her personal family doctor to look at him. He husband is elderly and very sick, so a home hospice has been set up for his comfort. Chance goes along with the suggestion. But, first he must ride in a car........... Inside the car, Chance is bewildered by his surroundings. He remarks to Eve that this looks ''just like television''. She offers him a drink. He accepts, not realizing that she is procuring alcohol to him. As he takes a sip and swallows, Eve asks him what his name is. Chance starts coughing on the booze and says,''Chance'' [another cough] ''Gardener''. Eve mistakes the name and thinks he said ''Chauncey Gardner''.......... And, I will stop here. Because the real fun and brilliance of the movie lifts off at this moment.......... ''Being There'' was a 1970 novella written by Jerzy Kosinski, who always penned the screenplay in 1979. Kosinski was born in Poland, survived the Holocaust, and came to America in his early manhood. I like authors and filmmakers who were not born here because they always have a fresh perspective of this country that us native-born citizens do not possess. It is the look of the Outsider, the innocent looking at America through fresh eyes. Kosinski brings that feeling to the Chance character. The book and the movie comment on modern -day America and our society. It is a wicked satire and commentary on the media, the gullible, and the willingness to belief whatever we want to believe, just as long as it fits into a preconceived mindset. Make no mistake, this is a sharp comedy, filled with unbelievable moments that slowly become believable. To give away any secrets to the plot would be cheating those who have never seen. Or, those who cannot remember its charms. I will not give away spoilers. But, I will suggest its joys...... First and foremost, it contains the finest film performance by the late, great Peter Sellers. He plays Chance. And, he does it with such deft comic timing and physical finesse, that he hardly seems to be acting here. His performance is flawless, a master actor reaching his zenith. Sellers had played many roles throughout his long and brilliant career but they were just a warm-up to his Chance. He wrings humanity from his one-note character. He is funny but we do not laugh at Chance. We laugh at what he does in relation to the fools around him. Chance is the sanest and wisest person in the movie but no one knows that but the audience. His adventures with everyday people make the audience smile because here is a good-hearted, sweet man who means no harm. And, he spreads his sweetness to those he encounters. Many years later, Forrest Gump would take the story on his own terms and become a weaker version of  the Chance character. The simpleton roaming among the crazies. Peter Sellers brings an art form to his acting here. I know people who do not like him, and, even they concede he is wonderful in this role. Partly hilarious, partly poignant, Sellers brings the right amount of hilarity and pathos---a very tricky achievement. He would be nominated for Best Actor for his performance but would lose to Dustin Hoffman in ''Kramer Vs. Kramer'', a huge mistake on the Academy's part. Peter Sellers would make one more movie before his death in 1980, a scant year after his triumph as Chance......... The supporting cast also shine. Such stalwarts as Shirley Maclaine, Jack Warden, Melvyn Douglas, and the wonderful character actor Richard Dysart, fill the screen with the richness of their acting. They each ride shot-gun to Peter Sellers, bouncing off him with hilarious results. And, the fine direction by Hal Ashby perfectly captures the story. His direction is simple, per the story he tells. No flashes, no pyrotechnics. Just quiet moments of humor and human understanding And, its majestic last scene, the subject of much debate and analysis.......''Being There'' has many joys to discover. I urge you to view it. If you want jokes that involve crotch-kicking or bodily-fluids or human indignities, then, stay away from this film. It doesn't go there. Where it does go is into a slight opening into the human window. We view a person like Chance the Gardener and his behavior balanced against the behavior of the rest of humanity........ And, believe me, the rest of us look much less innocent.......

Is It Safe?

There is a terrifying moment in the 1976 thriller, ''Marathon Man''. The hero---or, victim---played by Dustin Hoffman, is strapped to a dentist chair. The villain----or, sadist----- standing in front of him is played by Laurence Olivier. Olivier, all icy venom, is a runaway Nazi looking for some vital information. He believes Hoffman has what he needs. Hoffman doesn't. He is completely unaware of what is happening to him, a victim of innocent circumstances. But, Olivier is determined to find out what Hoffman knows. He asks the weird question over and over again, ''Is it safe?'' Hoffman has no clue what ''safe'' means and pleads to the man in front of him that he knows nothing. Finally, Olivier, his character a Nazi torturer in his youth, picks up a drill and drills into Hoffman's teeth. The scene, horrible but still compelling to watch, is not for the fainthearted. I often think of this moment when I visit the dentist....... I went to the dentist today. I figured, what better way to spend a nice spring day than to have a stranger stick sharp instruments in my mouth while I drool uncontrollably. In some countries, this is a sexual practice. But, here, it is the usual marching orders of getting your teeth checked. Now, I am very lucky with my teeth. I have been blessed with strong, healthy teeth my whole life. You could read by my teeth in the pitch dark. Obviously, this is not because of taking care of my body. I have spent 50 years doing every conceivable thing to good-naturally harm my physical being. But, my teeth survive, a curious oddity. I brush my teeth everyday, like a good citizen should do. But, nothing more. They are just.....there..... a welcome companion in my endless quest for food. I must have 70 or 80 teeth in this vast mouth. More than the residents of Alabama combined. There are times when I smile that it looks like the shark from ''Jaws'' is attacking [By the way, that ''Jaws'' shark had anger issues]. So, when I put the evidence together, you would think a dentist would be a walk in the park. But noooooo!!!! I still fear going there........ The people at ''Dental Works'' make me feel at home. They are always happy to see me, as long as my insurance card is still working. The women at the desk are nice. I make sure that I always look at their teeth when I walk in. I will make a funny and they will laugh. If their teeth look fine, then I know I am in good hands. If their teeth look like the two guys in the rape scene in ''Deliverance'', this gives me pause. Fortunately, they have good teeth, which tells me that the dentist, at least, takes care of his people. I wait to go in. I always seem to wait at the dentist, they never take me on time. When I go for my regular physical at my health doctor's office, they always take me early. I chalk this fact up to my doctor being very anxious to feel my balls. But, the dentist's office makes me wait and it is agony. The nervousness gets to me. Maybe, it is intentional, a mind game being played by the dentist. Finally, I was called into the office. I took my spot on the chair. The hygienist's name was Lisa. A winsome lass, Lisa proceeded to talk my ear off for the next 45 minutes. She was pleasant. Friendly. She talked about her car needing a new transmission and how she didn't know what to do because she is no good with her hands, which scared the hell out of me as she was picking away at my teeth. Lisa said that she and her husband were trying to get pregnant but having no luck. I tried to be encouraging and optimistic between bits of drooling, saying that I'm sure that it will all go well. Of course, I don't know that it will go well, not knowing the couple. I didn't think it was wise to ask her if he is shooting blanks as she was scrapping my gums. It was around this time that I think about the ''Marathon Man'' scene. I just hope Lisa doesn't ask me if it was safe.......... There is no dignity to a dental checkup. You just sit there like a fool, while gallons of saliva come out like an oil well that has been tapped. I was getting spit from the deep recesses of my feet, I believe. All the while, the patient and encouraging Lisa, was chatting away and asking me questions. My garbled responses were hopefully seen as agreement. She said that my teeth looked good but my gums were too sensitive and were bleeding slightly. Gee, I wonder why? Perhaps, it was that sharp blade that kept sticking into them. I do like the suction hose they use to clean out the spittle. I could use that instrument on cold, lonely nights at home. And, the tasty, sweet freshener that she spread around my mouth. It tasted like Sweet Tarts. I asked her, how much for the freshener and the laughing gas as a six pack? She laughed---and then came at me again with the instrument to scrape my teeth. After she was done, she asked me about how often I floss. This is always a high point for me going to the dentist, the yearly lying about me flossing. With a straight face, I told her that I do it sometimes, but, not regularly. After a moment---knowing full well that she knew I was fibbing---- I said, ''Lisa, you are a nice lady. I'm not gonna bullshit you. I HATE flossing and I NEVER do it!'' She said she appreciated my honesty----and then, dove back into my mouth for one more round of teeth scrapping........ When Lisa finished her duties, it was time for the dentist to come in. He is an Indian gentlemen, one of those doctor's that use every letter in the alphabet for his last name. He came in, all nice teeth, and, literally, took about 90 seconds to talk and exam me. After the quick search in my mouth that my choppers were there, Dr. Alphabet pronounced me good to go. No cavities!!! The gums looked fine!!! WELL, THANK YOU!!! I will take this drive-by exam!!! See you in six months!!!! The only negative was his refusal to give me any novocaine for the road......... So, I said my goodbyes and made my next appointment for six months, which I will probably not keep. I still am nervous about going, even with the positive results. I shouldn't be, I know. When I go there, I know it is ''safe''.......

Through The Ages

Lillian sat in her room with her memories. At her age---- 90 years young----she had a lifetime of experiences that settled comfortably in her mind. Lillian thought it was a life well spent. She and her husband----the late, great Chester---- raised a good brood of children. She was proud of them. All were good kids. And, all had better kids, for Lillian became a grandmother and a great-grandmother. Lillian had seen much in her 90 years. A Great Depression. A World War. Several smaller wars. Television. The Internet. The Space Age. All of the achievements and miracles of the 20th Century, Lillian saw through her eyes. Except, one. She had never seen the Chicago Cubs win a World Series. Oh, she had seen them play in a few. But never to any successful conclusion. She and Chester regularly attended the ballgames at Wrigley Field. They sat in the bleachers, ate the cheap ballpark hot dogs, drank the warm beer. And, they bonded with their fellow ''Bleacher Bums.'' Chester was a die-hard fan who taught her the love of the game. When he passed away 12 years ago from his cancer, he made Lillian promise him that he would be buried in his beloved Cubbie blue attire. And, he was!!! It was a sight!!! Dignified Chester, a handsome man who looked like a movie star, lying in his casket, with his Cubs jersey [Number 14 for Ernie Banks] adorning his frame, as if he couldn't wait to show Saint Peter his Cubs ardor. Chester went to the next world bringing his passion with him. But, in this world, Lillian still kept the old dream alive. For both of them. As age caught up with her and she was moved to the retirement home that she was currently inhabiting, Lillian watched her Cubs. Not only for her. But for Chester. She wears one of his old Cubs shirts when she does. His smell is still there.........Two doors down from Lillian, at the home, sat Malcolm. He had just turned the ripe old age of 98 recently. Malcolm lived alone, too, with his memories. Malcolm never married----the right woman did not exist for him---- but he was well-loved by his family and friends. Malcolm has an imp personality, a sparkle in his eyes, and a ready smile that lights up the retirement home. He is the person everyone comes to for a quick laugh and a feel-good moment. He had several jobs in his life. Not because he couldn't hold one down, but, rather, being a black man, he had to make do with what he could in the pre-Civil Rights period of this nation. He was a barber, ran a small restaurant, opened his own travel agency, and finally, became a Civil Rights attorney, championing the rights of the poor and neglected. Malcolm identified with the forgotten because of the enormous barriers he had to overcome. The biggest was his inability to play in Major League Baseball. Malcolm was a hell of a pitcher. His fastball came at you like lightning, blinding all hitters and making them seem helpless at the plate. But, being black, no scouts in the majors would touch him. Major League Baseball---pre-Jackie Robinson--- was an old-boy network, meaning old-boy, rich, white businessmen, who wanted nothing to do with black players. Never mind how the Negro Leagues flourished throughout the years. Black men could not crack the color barrier. Malcolm found playing time with the Kansas City Monarchs, the premier Negro League team of its time. He played often the first few years in his twenties. But, a nasty pitching injury forever silenced his budding baseball career and he dropped out of the league at the age of 25. It was then that Malcolm started his other career, finding his spot in the world. However, old dreams never really die, they just settle uneasily in your soul, awaiting the spark of life again. Malcolm follows baseball now and his Chicago Cubs. Partly, as a fan. And, partly, for what might have been had fate been kinder to him......... Marion cries often. The other residents in the retirement often hear her sobs night after night. Marion lost her son twenty years ago, when she was 50. But, to her, it seems like it just happened yesterday. Some drunken fool killed her baby boy in his fifteenth year of life. Her son, Billy, named after her favorite Chicago Cub player Billy Williams, was the apple of her eye, the sun that shined over her soul everyday. The two of them were rabid Cubs fans, always turning into the games on WGN with Jack Brickhouse announcing. The words ''Beautiful Wrigley Field'' resounded around their picturesque home in every game watched. Most of the years of Billy's life, the Cubs were pretty awful. Only two times in his life did the Cubs win and go to the playoffs. They lost but the seed of hope always reigned eternal for both Mother and Son. That fateful night in 1996--- when the police turned up on Marian's door and told her that her world was over--- is what Marian cries about mostly. From 1996 until now, she has never been the same. Her late husband and other children tried to rally her. It was a losing cause. Marian had lost everything with her Billy. It is said that when a child dies before a parent, even God cries. Marian had no thoughts on that. She just knew with Billy, the light of life went out, never to return. As the years went on, Marian lost the will to live. And, she her mind left her. Despite the best medical treatment available to her, her family lost her. She would not---and, could not----return from her darkness of grief. Finally, the family committed her to a retirement home. They still come to see her. Every once in a while, they see a glimmer of the old Marian. Still, these are fleeting moments. She sits and stares into space. And, she weeps her agony every night. The other residents keep a respectful distance from her. They know her pain. And, they wish they could help. It is of no use. But, the patients and staff do notice one thing about Marian. A little life does come into her eyes. When the Cubs are on....... There is a bond between grandfather and grandson that is special. Generations have met, love has been passed forward from the past. Whether it is a fishing trip, a simple walk in the park, or Junior sitting on his grandfather's knee, the bond of family achieves a sainted level. When Mort takes his grandson to Wrigley Field, he feels those stirrings of family most acutely. Mort is 87. He knows his days are dwindling to a precious few. And, his grandson, Steve, is no little boy anymore. Steve is 21 now, a dangerous age for a young man. It is the age where you are too old to be under your parents thumb, but, too young to be fully launched on your own in the world. And, like most twenty-one year men, you do not want to hang out with old people. Your friends your age are your passport to the New World Of Adulthood. Who wants an old man to tell you his war stories of life? Well, Steve does. He adores his time with his grandfather. They talk about their life and women and good times and women and times from their past and women. And, they talk Chicago Cubs.Wrigley Field is their spiritual home, a golden diamond in the world of confusion. They sit in the bleachers. They yell at the players. They cheer when a home run comes by them. And, they damn the Gods Of Baseball when the Cubs fail again. Every once in a while Mort will get that look in his eyes that Steve recognizes. That look signifies that a Cubs story from the past is coming fast over his memory plate. It might be the tale of seeing Willie Mays and Ernie Banks having a home run duel in the sunshine. It might be the almost grand slam that Hank Aaron hit but the wind blew back at the last moment for an out to end the game. Or, it might be the grandest memory of all: the 1945 World Series . Mort was there. He was a young man of 19. It was the end of the War and most of the good players in the game were overseas. The Cubs basically won the National League with a bunch of 4F's. But it did count. And, Mort followed every pitch in the Series. Steve loves when Mort recounts hearing the lovely sound of Phil Cavaretta, his favorite player, hitting the ball. The Cubs lost the Series that year and have never been back. But it is about to change, they both feel. When Steve drives Mort back to the retirement community where he lives, the talk of ''Wait Until Next Year''----that tired old refrain---- is now old news. ''Next Year'' is here. And, they both will be watching it unfold together. Grandfather and Grandson, united as family and Cubs fans........ There is a room in the home where Lillian, Malcolm, Marian, and Mort live. It is the activity room, the place where the residents go to have a little fun.The sun shines in there, the view is of a vast lawn. Sometimes, on nice days, you can hear the birds singing if the windows are open. There is a piano centralized in the room. At various time during the day, you can see a few of the residents standing around it, singing the songs of bygone days, the days of their youth and good times forever lost. Malcolm has the best voice. Lillian can still ''cut a rug''. Only Marian, in her sad world, can not be reached. She remains a blank slate of emotions and feelings........ There is also a TV in the room. Sure, the sound is very loud because of the hearing problems of most of the residents. At various times, it is on game shows, music programs, nature shows, and the news. With every show comes opinions and long stories. Some roll their eyes at the long talkers, and there can be loud arguments brewing. Then, comes harmony. That happens when a certain baseball team appears on the screen. Suddenly, a visible change comes over these old people. They seem to become alert and full of energy long thought gone. The years drop from them and glints of happiness form in the eyes. Smiles become a fixture and good-natured talking to the TV happens. And, in the most remarkable response, there are moments when Marian shows signs of the woman she once was. Her eyes focus on the screen, as if a light switch into her soul has been turned on. The other Cubs fans themselves become happy because they see Marian become happy. They talk to her. Whether she hears them, no one knows. But they like to think she does comprehend what is being said. A bond has been formed, the Cubs bond. They have seen plenty of baseball before, most lousy. The tide seems to have changed, though. The 2016 Chicago Cubs hold out such promise and fun that the residents share the enthusiasm. They are all rooting for various reasons. Most want the Cubs to win for those that are no longer there to see them live. The residents are the caretakers of generations of Cubs memories and moments of glory, both past and future. They want the Chicago Cubs to go all the way this year. Mostly, they grimly believe, because they are unsure if they will be around much longer...... Something tells me that they may finally get their wish this year........ Go Cubs........