I Don’t Have To Like You
The blizzard came on Wednesday, and I lost a very close friend and partner in it. It’s no surprise because we became friends during a hurricane almost a decade ago. We didn’t like each other at first and weren’t even close to getting along. I guess being booted out by your landlord along with your sibling will do that to you. With him, I felt it was a sense of trust that had been broken in the early going. So, I was no help in trying to comfort the situation despite my efforts. I tried all the little things to make his stay a bit more worthwhile, but to no avail. It took the flooding and power outages of Hurricane Floyd in September of 1999 to change everything. We bonded. We understood that day that we needed each other whether we got along or not. His name was Opus. He had only been here a month or so before the hurricane along with his sister who we have written about here. She moved right in with very little difficulties and clearly made herself at home. Meanwhile, Opus sat at the top of the steps waiting for his former master. This killed me. I tried to give treats and toys. This meant nothing. I tried petting him and being affectionate only to have him run to the other side of the room and clean my scent off of his body. But as the storm came along with those ghoulish, howling winds, so did Opus. He found his way near me as the power went out. It was from that moment on we clicked. It took 8 hours of darkness and candles to see that I wasn’t such a bad guy. He knocked the wall down and realized I wasn’t out for any malicious gain. So, we learned to live with each other. We made a compromise. We made a silent deal…that expanded and was renegotiated in time.
A Temporary Home
When I was approached at my job about friend who needed a new home for her cats, I was apprehensive at first. As she explained her situation, it seemed as if the person she was about to marry despised cats and would have probably stuck the needle in them himself if it all possible. So the more I heard this story my instant reaction was, “I’ll take the cats and I will find them a home eventually.” I felt if this person would be this quick to discard them, at least let me find somewhere where they would be loved as equals. So my thinking was: look, I’m single, no kids, and no girlfriend. I will hold these cats till I find a place for them so in the mean time, I'll have a roof for them. The female was orange and white and named Silly. She was the personality and the most vocal. When I took them in, Silly was already 13. Opus was going on 7. Opus was very long. At black and white in color and a matching black nose, Opus stood as tall as a 4 year old when he was on hind legs. He also had weight to him for being so tall. So in essence, if Opus was human, he would stand about probably 6’ 4” with the personality to match. He wasn’t his sister at all. Opus was very curious and quiet. And even when we had our hurricane Floyd bonding moment, he kept his distance yet only to a minimum. I started to learn his mannerisms and his way of doing things…sometimes a bit more abrupt than I wanted. The first instance was very easy to remember. I went to take a shower and as the water began to pump out of the shower head, Opus climbed into the shower with me. We both kind of looked at each other in shock. His thinking was along the lines of, “What? I always do this”. I on the other hand didn’t know whether to jump out of the shower and turn the water off, or allow a dog sized cat to join me in lathering up. Aren’t cats supposed to hate water? I remember the previous owner telling me with a smirk that Opus loved water. Ok. But I didn’t realize he wanted to be doused in it. He didn’t seem to care about the water’s volume, either. So we had to come to a compromise. I shower first and when I am done, you have total free reign to do whatever you want in there but NOT while I am showering. I reciprocated by waiting till he was done drinking from the spout and getting his body wet before starting my day. Water would still present problems down the road for Opus. His obsession would cause some housing problems. But this would just be one of many little quirks I would come to learn.
Opus The Barbarian
After the first 2 years of having these 2 cats, the thought that eventually I would have to find a home for them disappeared. They both became a part of my life. The female cat was often unwell and had many obstacles keeping her from having a fruitful life. She was anemic, had irritable bowel syndrome, had shaky sugar levels, was slightly overweight, had liver issues, had a heart murmur, and suffered from allergies. Not to mention she struggled with arthritis. You could hear it as she walked. Opus? Not a thing was wrong with him. He liked to take a dump and not bury it. And trust me; you knew when he went to the bathroom. It was like elephant tranquilizers. I mean when this cat urinated it sounded like someone running a hose into a plastic box. He ate like an ox. If it came in a can, he wanted it. It could have been canned poop and he would have begged for seconds. In his early years, I used to allow him and his sister to go outside on the front step to soak up the sun. Silly loved it. Opus on the other hand, would begin to ‘wander’. Wander to the point where I couldn’t find him. He would be trying to climb a tree to get to a squirrel. His arm length was impressive for he was able to grab them a few times but luckily no front claws..and they always got away. He loved the bushes. He was convinced there were treats in them. He’d scour them and watch. Even neighboring cats caught his interest. He would charge full steam at them outside only to stop just before pouncing to smell them. The other cats would hiss at him, but he never had that response. He just would look at them with blinking eyes and turn around and walk back to me. He had no front claws to begin with so each time he’d pull this stunt I obviously became worried. He’s playing. They aren’t. Grass was his thing. LOVED grass. He’d eat it, throw it up, and then ask for more. I would let him out for small intervals to eat some, even rebelling against the neighboring cat birds that lived in the tree near my house and undoubtedly owned the turf. He’d eat as they swooped down on him. He had no interest in them, but they didn’t understand that. All they knew was he was on their turf. Opus came to love being outside with his favorite place being the porch out back that overlooks the street. To him it was ‘the great unknown’. He would stare for hours and watch cars, cats, squirrels, people, pollen, bees, wasps, birds, leaves and anything that even slightly moved. Opus was sharp and quick. I used to find stink bugs and other smaller bugs crushed to death and knew every time who the culprit was. It wasn’t Silly’s thing, it was Opus’s thing. Again, he was very curious. He watched you. Never said much, but he would watch you. He studied your reactions to things. He knew just what not to do, and what TO do without it being annoying. Sadly, I wasn’t catching on to these things till much later. One day I was cleaning around the apartment and was getting material ready for the radio show. My cell phone rings. It’s my 70 year old neighbor next door on the second floor asking me to come get my cat. I asked her if she was dialing the right number. She responded with, “You have a black and white cat, correct?”. “Yes, Opus…why?” I started looking around my apartment at this point. “Yes,” she said, “Your cat jumped from your porch onto mine, then came in my apartment and started walking around.” I was furious. I ran downstairs and she chuckled about it the whole time. Opus the Barbarian was now torturing my neighbors. That means screen doors had to be closed, and I had to ‘supervise’ him when I would go outside. He found ways into things….cabinets, bread bins, shelves, and other nooks. I understand that this is normal for cats. But when your cat has the length of a 4 year old kid and almost the weight to match, it makes it a little tough to sleep on small spaces that normal cats can. Poor Opus never understood that. He’d fall off the window sill, bed pillows, laps, chairs, counters, and numerous other things. And during this whole process, it would be interrupted by trips to the bathroom tub. The tub became a full fledged institution for Opus. He insisted that somehow, someway, that water be left on. Of course I didn’t know that at the time that on top of him wanting to be in the shower with me, that I had to leave the spout running once I was done so he’d be happy. His wailing and wailing would continue till I figured it out. Then it all made sense.
Opus The Aquarian
One day Opus was ticked off. The township must have been doing a backwash on the water system that was affecting the pressure of the water. So the drip I had set for him before work apparently stopped. Now keep in mind, Opus had 3 bowls of fresh water around the house. This wasn’t good enough. So in his frustration, he decided to jump up on the bathroom sink and turn the water on which he knew how to do very easily. Remember, he watched and learned. So as I sat in my office, my cell phone rang. It was the sweet, old couple that lived downstairs from me. “Hi Tom, its George from downstairs. I just wanted to let you know that I think you left your tub running or something.” I was sure I didn’t. But he explained to me on the phone that water was forming in big bubbles on the ceiling of their bathroom. I figured a pipe must have gone. I left work and flew home 10 minutes away. I walked in to find Opus hiding under the speaker stand next to the bathroom with a tail the size of a raccoon’s, and water running along the floor into the hallway. What had happened was, Opus turned the faucet on and it ran so hard that it closed the drain. But unbeknownst to me or Opus, the reservoir that keeps it from overflowing was blocked. So, water ran until it flooded the floors with no way for him to understand how to turn it off, obviously. As Opus came to realize, turning it on is the easy part. It was a memory that wasn’t pleasant at the time, but in hindsight was one of the most memorable. Opus would drink so much water that I had a friend who was a vet, look at him. She explained he had no real issues and wasn’t diabetic. He just LOVED water. Some cats do. It’s their obsession. And fresh water from a tap is something they know is the real deal. Opus drank so much water and visited the tub so much that his black head started to turn red from the fluoride and chlorine in the water. It was quite amazing to see the color change. It was ‘bleached’. After a while he used to use it to his advantage. He knew it drew attention to him. Especially from women. So he gladly would get wet, come and show you, then find me and shake it all off on me like a dog. It got to be a running joke, literally. I’d try to avoid him if he got out of the tub wet because he wanted to shake it on me. I won this race rarely. What comes with a lot of water drinking is a lot of pissing. Which means in turn, lots of litter. The litter was for him, mainly. Not for the fact he didn’t bury anything, but the more litter in the dirt box, the more absorption. If not, the smell would hit you instantly or it would become mud. But here’s the thing, he drank so much that his piss didn’t really smell like typical cat pee. He drank so much that it was more like water. But still, he had no health issues because of it. But it didn’t end at tubs, sinks, and faucets. I’d jump out of sleep to the sound of glasses I had full of water for myself running down the coffee table, and a puffy tailed cat looking at me as if to say, “You aren’t mad, are you?”
Addition By Subtraction
In the spring of 2006, his female counterpart had left us sadly. When I came home to find that she had just passed, Opus stood beside her. It was almost like he knew she was gone. He even at one point laid down next to her lifeless body. His playmate that he loved to dominate because of his size was no more. This would be the beginning of a new relationship. A relationship that I had no idea would blossom from this sad, sad loss. It was the day that began ‘our’ friendship. He knew something wasn’t right once she was gone, and he could see by my actions that he needed to somehow comfort me, and I, him. He stood next to me a lot during this time, a habit that continued for quite a few years. He didn’t just stand next to me, he leaned in. He needed the physical contact. He was alone and so was I. Silly was our balance. For as sick as she was for most of her life, she provided the perfect chemistry for the three of us to live together. Despite the contrasts, she made everything equal. Now with it just being him and I, things changed. Before I knew it, Opus started communicating with me on a vocal level. I mean, he had in the past, but now, with it just being him and I, it became an everyday part of our relationship. But it was OUR relationship…it was OUR thing. When others would come over, he maintained his silence. It was astonishing how he would change it on a dime. In Silly’s sad absence, he would now sleep next to me. He would be the one to greet me in the morning. He would be the one to show me that the alarm was something of nuisance but knew that when it made noise, it was time for me to get up. Silly used to mumble to herself, lick your face and grunt to make sure you got up. Not Opus. He tapped your face. He walked on you. Not the type of walk when they are walking so tenderly and gingerly to not cause a ruckus 'so he could rest on you' kind of walk…but the kind of walk that he put every pound per square inch of pressure on you. Basically letting you know, “DUDE, GET UP”. It was quite comical. He had many different tactics on waking me up. One of his favorites was getting soaked, then coming out to the living room, jumping up on the couch, and then leaning his head over me just enough to where his wet nose would just skim my ear. This wasn’t a one time deal either. He knew it drove me nuts, so in his eyes, this is the best way to get daddy up. At one point, no one believed me that he would do this. So that’s when my Blackberry came in handy. I snapped photos left and right. As a matter of fact, in time I took hundreds more photos of him than I ever did of her. Video, even! Like anything else, the closer we got as it was just him and I, the more he felt he had to be a part of everything. He only did this because unconsciously I treated him like an equal. If I went outside out front, he had to go outside. If I went on the back porch, he deserved the right to be out there too. If I ate, he ate. If opened a can of tuna to eat, he had to have some. If I laid down in the room, he had to have some part of the bed to rest and the view to watch me. If I was fixing stuff, he had to be there to supervise. If I worked on the radio show, he had to be on my lap or on my feet. Even during my ‘intimate’ moments, Opus found a way to either watch from a distance and freak me out, or made sure that he took the biggest dump in the world so I would have to stop what I was doing and take it out. Remember, Opus was like the size of a bobcat. Opus owned and dominated more things in my life than I imagined. And I let him.
Best Laid Plans
The routines were quite simple. You could set your watch by them. Monday through Friday’s schedule went like this:
-----8:00am to 10am- Bask in the sun till the alarm goes off. Then walk on daddy until he gets mad and wakes up. If that doesn’t work, get wet and drip on him…better yet, drink out of his water glass. That works.
----10am-12pm- Take as much time in the tub as possible before dad gets in there. If boredom sets in, ask dad to open the screen door so he could go enjoy the big bright light of the ‘great unknown’.
----12:00pm – Make daddy feel guilty for leaving by staring at him
----12:05pm -10pm- The time he had on his own to surf the web, wear funny hats, play poker, crank call people, and buy stuff off the home shopping network.
----10pm-11pm- As daddy gets home, wait at the top of the steps or the window sill so you can watch him pull up and give him the business. Usually fed by 9:30, this usually contained Sea Captain’s Choice, Ocean Whitefish, Turkey And Giblets, or Beef and Liver. It has to be Pâté, or else he just won’t eat it. Won’t interest him if it’s in gravy. He hates it. After eating a nice chunk, he will venture to the bathroom tub to drink from the spout and get his head wet.
----11pm-12am- Repeat the previous entry at least 3x. Walk back into the kitchen, eat more from the bowl, walk back to the bathroom, drink, get wet, walk over to daddy at his computer and wipe your dirty teeth from your dinner on his pants. (I used to think this was Opus being affectionate. It’s not. He’s cleaning his mouth.) Then walk back to the bathroom, get wet, come out, go into the dirt box, take a piss or a crap, walk back out, and stare out the back door.
12-2am- Nap time at dad’s feet, or on top of the bed facing dad as he works on his PC.
2am-3am- Start tapping daddy to come to bed and shut the lights out. Climb even. Despite not knowing your own size and strength. Repeat 5x
3am-3:30- Follow daddy to the living room and take your spot on the recliner.
The Weekend schedule went like this:
(SAT + SUN) 8am-12:00pm- Try your hardest to somehow some way, wake Dad up. This means spilling water, taking a dump, knocking stuff off the bureau, walking really hard on you etc.
12pm-2pm- While dad works on the PC, you can nap. (my revenge is a dish best served cold)
2pm-3:45pm- Its tapping time. Tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap tap "WHAT OPUS?"...... “Hi”
4:00pm- Dinner time. This is where you could literally set your watch. He will let you know by body movements that he is hungry at exactly 4pm on the weekends. He gets what I call ‘pointy face’. This means he is smiling. The skin under his nose forms a triangle. That’s how we knew he was smiling. This reaction was realized while getting treats, catnip, or getting fed. It became infectious.
5-8PM- His time. Leave him alone as he wanders around the house and either naps or watches the NFL network. .
Then upon returning from my radio show, he would be at his peak in energy. Running from room to room, yapping, purring, getting wet repeatedly, talking up a storm and begging for more food on top of the food he already got.
Life was simple and routine.
I Know What I Like
Opus loved Tuna. Straight up. Raw, canned, cooked, seared, didn’t matter. "Tuna? I want some." Opus was obsessed with his fishing line with a piece of burlap at the end. He spoke in tounges when it was visible. He loved exploring closets that were usually closed up. Climbing like a mountain lion on National Geographic. He loved the back porch and the dead plant leaves that surrounded it. Crunchin' em like Doritos. He liked crushing bugs. He loved the window sill. He loved girls. He liked showing off to them, too. Opus loved the snow. He loved downpours just to hear the rain hit the wood of the back porch. The force was hypnotizing to him. He loved laying on you. He liked watching himself on video. Opus liked being held but only if you wrapped him around your shoulders. Opus liked getting your attention and loved when you talked to him…more so if you are talking normal to him and not like a baby. He loved Jeep interiors and a freshly mowed lawn. He loved gripping my fingers with his wide paws and a tight grip. He loved bathroom visitors. You were in his office. He loved sleeping on furry things as much as he loved the sun. He enjoyed the ‘hunt’ but would clean you while he cleaned himself. Opus loved watching the footballs fly across screens on Sunday but not as much as he loved Animal Planet. Opus didn’t like milk. He hated cigarettes or anything that had smoke to it. He'd literally wait to come over to you until he heard the butt go out in the ashtray on the porch. He detested sirens. He didn’t like Ozric Tentacles. He didn’t like loud people and was very standoffish and wary of children. He hated whistling and didn’t like cheese. Come to think of it, he didn’t like people food at all. He wasn't fearful of much but he hated spray bottles. And I never used one on him. So I could tell the previous owner must have just by the reaction of me holding one in my hand. He absolutely hated thunderstorms and hid under the toilet every time he heard a rumble.....and most of all, hated if you were leaving for the day or a trip even. He'd show you by knocking things off the kitchen counter when you aren't home for within 2 hours.
The Blizzard
In the final 2 years in the life of Opus, he did many bizarre things. My Vet friend explained that cats do go ‘senile’ a bit in the final stages of life just like humans. Opus wasn’t running into walls or anything, but things started to change. His long back legs didn’t bend like they used to so he had a hard time ‘sitting’. He was missing the box on a regular basis and only made it in there if I was home. If not, he found different places to leave me surprises. His mentality was, “well I know the bathroom is in here, so I was close, right?” One of the funnier moments was when I tried to set up a barricade to keep him on track to go right to the box and keep him from returning to the places he messed even years earlier that were treated. But one night thinking I was asleep on the couch, the genius decided to burrow between the box barricade which honestly took a lot of work to do even for a cat, only to have me catch him and look at me as if to say, “Whoops!” He got low to the ground and walked over to the dirt box and went to bathroom. I just thought to myself: ‘all that work when the box is right there?’ Explain the logic in this Opus. But again, he’s a cat. But in a small way, he understood enough to be like “Yeah that was stupid.” Just like any cat at this age, Opus began sleeping more. I mean you’d be ignorant not to notice that his sleeping habits picked up. He’d fall into these deep sleeps that almost began to worry me when I couldn’t wake him up. Cat owners are familiar with the whole ‘second eyelid’ thing…it can be a bit creepy. But again, this comes with age. He got more mouthy, crotchety, and unfortunately due to my neighbors kitten factory, fleas. I felt bad that at 17 years old, he had to be treated. But, he took it like a champ and even braved the tub for flea shampoo.(It's not fun when he HAS to be in the tub.) All things seemed to be getting better. He still ate like a horse, crapped like a racehorse, and peed like one too. Food was still his favorite gig and even showed curiosity when I was given a big red fighting fish we called Chase. He’d stare at him frequently, but Chase was high enough to not be touched. But I know how that little brain of Opus works. I kept telling my friend to stop showing Opus the tank. Not knowing Opus as well as I do, I explained that he watches and learns. Well, as the hours went by that night, I could see Opus staring from different areas and plotting within the fish tank area to see just how he could get up there. I warned him intermittantly. My friend said, “He won’t go up there…trust me.” A few hours after that as I was watching TV on the couch, I swore that Opus was still plotting. So I quick turn the lights on to find Opus standing in the hallway staring at the fish tank in the shadows. I told you he watches and learns. As December closed in, Opus was still his same old self, sleeping a lot, but still very active, still eating, still drinking, still plotting etc. But as the worst snow storms on recent record began falling over our area, Opus started sleeping more than I wanted him too. I didn’t stop him, but I just kept trying to keep him active. We got pounded with snow again in February which meant I had more time to spend with the boy. As the first storm in February hit, things were business as usual with Opus. I gave him a treat of tuna one night because of how good he’d been which made him outrageously happy. I told him if he was good as the next storm approached, I’d give him more. So that Tuesday night, a friend stopped at the house to pick up something and explained how funny Opus was being with flirting, going in the tub, doing what he does, etc. I arrived home an hour later to find Opus on his side whimpering. His grumblings at first made me think he had a hairball or was maybe having a hard time going to the bathroom. Then I began to notice white foam on different spots near him. I called my friend again and she said it definitely sounded like a hairball and just to keep him comfortable and it should pass. He just laid on the floor by my feet. I lured him out of the room to give him some food. He followed me but this time he was making stops along the way to rest. I knew something was wrong. I opened a can of Ocean Whitefish and I could see the look in his eyes that he was interested. He walked over to the dish, licked the top of the food only to go under the kitchen table to rest. Something was wrong. This was very un-Opus like. Then the nor’easter hit that night. Unfortunately when I awoke in the middle of the night, he hadn’t moved from under the kitchen table. I laid down on the floor near him and talked to him. He kept reaching his long arms out to me as if to say ‘I don’t feel well, please hold my hand.’ This went on till I fell back to sleep. Later that morning my company confirmed they were still open and I had to go in. The snow was bad. I felt guilty leaving Opus, but I figured they may close early anyway and I can spend time with him later. When I returned home a few hours later, I couldn’t find him. He put himself under the bed to be alone. Pet owners know what that means and I wasn’t having any of it. I pulled him and put him on the bed next to me. He hadn’t growled or whimpered, he just insisted on gripping my hands with his paws. I didn’t even bring into my mind what may be happening. But 24 hours of denying water and food from me on numerous occasions told me there was something a bit more deeper going on. As I looked in his eyes, the far away stare became more prevalent. I kept talking to him and calling his name which worked from time to time. I got worried because now, parts of his body weren’t moving at all. My boy was dying in front of me. I called animal hospitals all around and most were closed due to the blizzard. The closest one was 30 miles away and had limited staffing. As I contemplated getting ready to take him, things took a turn for the worse. His pupils were black, his paws were cold and his breathing picked up yet he laid motionless. At this point I was yelling his name repeatedly to very little reaction. I picked him and held him. He was limp and lifeless. His breathing became more silent and was reduced to a 'rattling'. I begged him over and over again not to leave me. Please don’t do this. Not now. But one knows that once that ‘rattling’ sound is heard, the end is near. I held him and he groaned and fought. He kicked and moaned not wanting to leave. And again came those awful breaths. Just then, a never to be forgotten, almost guttural sound could be heard, and his eyes showed that no one was home. How could that light that once burned so brightly, suddenly turn so pale? Opus was gone. That was it. My longtime friend and confidant was no more. For even a fleeting moment I thought that maybe this was just a bad dream. It wasn’t. Now? Like this? This is how this ends? I wrapped Opus in a towel and woolen bedding and put him on his favorite place, the back porch. I hated that I had to. But family, friends and even the Vet said this had to be done. I slept with the back door open in my insane grief that maybe he would wake up with the snow, crawl out of the box and come back in. And on the sane side, I felt, if he’s cold, then I will be too. We did everything else together, what should change now? The sad part was the snow just fell and fell with no relief. We became friends in a hurricane, and then lost him in a blizzard.

Memoirs
As the days pass now, the house is completely different. Friends have tried to comfort me, and many of my non pet friends can’t understand the sadness. Their remedy is usually “Just go get another cat.” They simply don’t understand. It’s something that just can’t be done. I can’t do that. Not now. There is no replacement for Opus. My home is not the same, nor will it be. There is no need to rush home anymore. There is no need to stop and feed my boy before I trek out for the night. There is no need to keep things off the counter filled with water anymore. There’s no one to tap me while I work, or dishes to be filled, or cans to be bought. There’s no need to leave the TV on anymore, or leave the door to the ‘great unknown’ open as I get ready for work anymore. There’s no one to be plastered on my screen door while I do laundry anymore. There’s no need to race to get to the bathroom now, nor is there the companionship for when you're in there. I won’t be showered and sputtered with water unexpectedly anymore. I won’t be awakened anymore by a friend that just wanted me up just to be up, nor is there a reason for me to have all these toys around. And most of all? There is no need to leave that tub spout dripping. We all say the same things when one close to you passes. I would have let Opus poop and pee all around my house if I could have him for one more day. One day just to show my roommate my appreciation. I’ll miss our conversations about my troubles with women and life as he would just gaze thin-eyed at me on the porch just listening. Life goes on I know. I just think of how unfair that whole process is. I have to move on now? How dare they say that. But, it’s true. It does. I don’t go quietly into that thinking. I never have nor will I ever. Death is not something I understand, nor do I scrape to understand its logic, if there is any that is. I do hope Opus got where he was supposed to go. I pray he did. I wish I knew if he did. I wish he could let me know, even. It sounds selfish, but he was mine and I should know. Sounds odd, huh? I’ve had lots of pets in my life. None of them were like Opus. I’ll miss those facial expressions too. That’s what burns in the recesses of my mind. The ‘pointy’ face when he smiled. Yes, I’ll miss that the most. But wherever he is, I know he’s going to be handful. I’m sure in heaven some habits are hard to break.
Even on this side they are as I forgot to shut the water completely off this morning when I was done my shower.
I miss you buddy.

Go Southeast Young Man
This thing called March Madness came upon me as hard as an airline stewardess handing out stale peanuts on a 2 hour flight. I know that doesn’t really make any sense, but I am indifferent when it comes to the biggest college sports weekend in the nation. I mean, it’s not that I don’t care, but again, to be honest, I don’t care. You could tell me Pennco Tech is playing, and I would be like, “Yeah? Cool.” So I took some days off from work to begin the annual pilgrimage to Wildwood, NJ to see the Pole. Pole is the master of Swinefest, the greatest event of BBQ known to modern man. It takes place every year in September in Mount Royal, NJ (not Clarksboro) and has featured celebrities from around the world. We are writers that have the dream of making it somehow. How, we don't know. On top of being a hell of a barber, nobody quite makes Deviled Eggs stuffed with lump crabmeat like he does. Nobody. I owe him my life. And when I hit the lottery, he gets his bar in Wildwood, and I only ask that my bands I feature on the show have a place to play. Anyway. I digress. My original plan was to head 'down the shore'(how SJzn's say it) Wednesday night, but forgetting I had things to take care of locally on Thursday morning, I figured, well, Wildwood ain’t goin’ anywhere….and what’s the rush? You get there when you get there. That’s one fine example of how everything has changed within me in the last few years. I just don’t care. It’s the destination…you will be there when you arrive. There is no ‘deadline’ so to speak, and regardless, your friends love you whether you show up 20 minutes late, or a week late. So I didn’t fret about it. As a matter of fact, which became the joke of the weekend; I took my time getting there. I made the plan of getting some things ironed out before I left. And as the afternoon crept along, there was this quiet sense of urgency in my head. Not in the sense of rushing to get down there as I said above, but more in the way of ‘Ok, you have dilly dallied long enough…if you waste anymore time, you won’t want to go down.” So as I packed and fed Opus by tricking him into eating so I wouldn’t have the pain of him watching me walk out the door, I was on my way to Wildwood. But I learned something yet again. I learned why I have worked my bizarre work schedule over the last decade. As I approached 295 at 4:45 pm, it was a parking lot. Cars were backed up from the black horse pike exit, to route 38 in Mount Laurel. I thought to myself, you have to be kidding me. Ok, don’t stress. There are always good moments like these where you can sit and listen to all the new music you just got in. Done, tracked, picked, and filed. All as I crawled. After burning through 3 or 4 discs, I decided after 40 minutes I didn’t want to wait on 295 to move a whole 6.4 miles. And if it’s this bad here, I could only imagine how nonsensical it would be if I took this obsolete and ill protected highway to the 42/North South Freeway. I know what to do! Do what the colonials did! I took the White Horse Pike exit and began to head east down this one time Indian foot path. My Jeep was full of gas, and full of Pat Metheny Group’s The Way Up. There’s always a certain haunting I experience with this album. It talks to you every time you hear it. And you can be sure to hear something different every time. Six minutes into part 2, just happened to be as I approached the back roads of Winslow Township and Waterford. Funny how life imitates art….the soundtrack and reminders of the past were complete……and introspectively humbling.
My, my. my….look at how far you’ve come.
Beyond The Sun
Once I arrived to the Garden State Parkway I couldn’t help but think the intention of the highway was to have it look like the design of the Santa Monica Freeway with Palm Trees and perfectly lined deciduous trees. But in our case, evergreens, stop lights, blown tires, trash bags, signs to encourage you to stay awake, and my favorite, the town mile markers. The highway was barren. Not a soul on the thruway. What made me laugh was that this will be opposite in contrast in a mere month. How dare they come down here and ruin my state. After convincing my father I didn’t leave for Montreal again, I barreled into Rio Grande and headed eastward to the Wildwood By The Sea. Or, as us local south Jersean, non Canadians would say, Wildwood. (The jersey shore is the canuck’s Florida. Ugh. Get out of the left lane.) The air was crisp. It had been warmer the days prior, but there would be no satisfaction to have it work out perfectly for this weekend. I mean, it IS March. And it was brutally colder the last year I had Impanemia over the Rio Grande. I met up with Pole at this years homestead located actually ON Rio Grande. Doing his best impression of the air traffic controllers on strike, he guided my tent with wheels into the hidden underground garage. I checked out our friend Kevin’s shore house. It was huge. It went about a mile back with 10 bedrooms and an arctic air mixed with a burnt ozone smell that seemed normal to everyone positioned there. Regardless, it was a great place. The perfect set up. You could tell it was new and well kept. You could see other buildings going through renovations nearby. It was good to see Kevin as well. We worked together as well a few years back and delivered a lot of hours. A trooper. Kevin is one of those guys that can look at something and break down how it works and 'get it' immediately. He liked working with me because I used to pistol whip his phone reps. Best numbers in the region, yo. So after greetings and salutations, off we went to the infamous Dog Tooth. Pole and I met up with his buddy Rich. Rich wore a bright red “WORLD SERIES CHAMPIONS” long sleeve that made him easy not to miss. After winning the World Series, it was a nice reminder of how awesome October was, and that yeah, We're fucking champs dude. I didn't catch on to Pole's HICKORY shirt. I just thought it was a great smoking wood. We all shook hands and began drinking. March Madness was upon us, and Villanova was struggling a bit. Down by 10, I could hear Rich and Pole play the “Let’s see how loud we can get the more we drink game.” Every Villanova play resulted in grunts and groans from Rich. I sipped my Dos Equis like it was the last thing I wanted to drink. I could hear my body telling me, “Do we really have to do this today?” I forced another sip. Just the mere fact I was forcing ‘sips’ was a bit troubling. Pole insisted I wasn’t having a good time. I realized he was in the place I so wanted to be, which was inebriated. I had 2 beers at this point and realized, you know what, I am just going to sit here and relax. You aren’t at work, you aren’t working on a script, your phone is on silent, and you are with your friends. Have a good time, dammit. Pole tried repeatedly to keep me on the up and up. I just couldn’t help my resistance to it. It was almost like I felt guilty for wanting to have a good time. And the guilt was winning. The sad part was, I couldn’t really find what the root of the problem was. I should have just switched to Vodka, but I just had no desire to up the ante. Then the voice of reason kicked in and said, hey, relax…..seriously. All I could think about was what was not getting done at the speed I wanted. Stuff at work, the book, some radio show production, upcoming festivals, 500 emails, blah blah blah. I know, I know. In time. Alas, after finishing my second beer and cigarette, the throbbing headache began. It didn’t help that Pole was picking all the death metal he could muster, (not really) or every modern rock band I had no clue about or felt anything for on the jukebox. Then Rich and I got in a discussion about music. I find myself trying to be objective when it comes to music discussions with the normal Joe. Or in this case, Rich. I find myself appalled when someone tries to tell me that “Flea” is the best bassist that ever lived. Or that Pearl Jam was one of the greatest bands of all time. Or that the Rolling Stones are the greatest musicians of all time. Or Bruce Springsteen is a genius. I take it they never heard of Jaco Pastorius, Rick Laird, Stanley Clarke or Percy Jones. Eh, it’s ok. You are a Jedi. Doesn’t make them part of the Sith if they don’t know who they are. But again, I find myself very out of place in those conversations. I really wanted to respond with, “Well none of those guys have any real depth or talent and can only play 3 chords anyway. But if you are into it, you are into it. Opium of the masses I always say. It’s like being a Yankees fan. Anyone can root for them…” And keep this in mind, it's not a bad thing. Music is music. Some people would rather just stay on the surface. Then there are others who like dive in a bit. In ANY genre. But still staying relatively close to the surface. Then there are freaks like me and countless others that have to do a full blown out study of certain type of music. It becomes them. They go after the offshoots, the rare recordings, the bands that started at the same time, and try to study trends of the bands and projects in a particular era of time. So with all that, I have a hard time really talking to people about music, the thing I love the most. When these conversations come up, I just stay quiet because they wouldn't know half the bands, composers, and artists I could mention. It's not their fault if they don't. But when they say stuff to me like "Oh you like prog rock? Dark Side Of The Moon was the best Floyd album ever", It’s like going up to a priest and saying, “Whoa man...that ending of the Bible......um...what's it called?....um...oh yeah Revelation. Man, that's wild!” Um yeah. Wild. So as the headache came to a crescendo, I decided I needed to walk back to the house a block away and just take a breather. Once I arrived, Kevin and his brother Mark were watching the outcome of one of the many games. Whatever game it was, Pennco vs. Miley's Driving School or whatever, came down to the buzzer. After rapping about the past presidential election, the Eagles on draft day, and how its ok that I can’t seem to hang for marathon drinking, the front door barreled in. Rich crashed through with an impish grin to his face. Visibly drunk, and obviously not smelling the burning electricity in the condo, he reckoned he wanted to pounce on someone. Well, he’s drunk. What do you expect? So he eyes up Kevin. Like a ninja, Kevin was gone in a puff of smoke. Within a billionth of a second I could hear him say behind his bedroom door, “Its ok, I am glad that everyone got home ok! I’m off to bed now…” Just before I could say anything, Pole fell through the front door. He was blitzed. He just looked up at me and said, “I fell.” I laughed at the timing and decided I wanted to have a smoke. As I went outside, Rich came out behind me. We chewed the fat, and just then, Pole came falling out again. “I’m a jackass. I know. I’m a jackass…I’m the jackass here everyone.” He yelled to the invisible audience. Just then, Richie started punching his stomach in a pseudo boxing kind of way. Well, you just don’t do that to a person who had 56 beers and 15 shots. You just don’t. Pole disappeared to the side of the house. Rich followed. As minutes became double digits, I approached the side of the house as well. “Hey, is he ok?” I asked Richie. Richie turned around like that prairie dog in that youtube video as if something murderous and sinister was transpiring. “JUST GO AWAY. EVERYTHING IS FINE HERE. NOTHING TO SEE!” Wow, ok, at this point, I understood that in essence without the drama that Pole was throwing his guts up. That’s fine. We’ve all done it, and I just enjoy it more than the rest I guess. I mean, don’t you feel better as you’re hurling? Jeez, I do. I went back upstairs and the next plan was all about trying to find a place to sleep. I had picked the back bedroom first. But Rich insisted on having me help him carry Pole to the bedroom. This was something Pole wasn’t really up for. Rich insisted I continue to help, but at this point, Rich and Pole had collapsed on to the floor followed by giggling. Rich was laughing his ass off. “I’m out..” I said as I grabbed my pillow and headed to the living room a mile away. But it was only a few minutes later it was followed by, “Sssshhh” (banging noises approaching the living room) “ssshhh, come on Pole, let’s hit the sack. Come on. Shhhhh (Inaudible) Ssshhhh. Lets get to bed. Come on…..(more bangs) Stop! Stop! Dude. I will hit you in the nuts. Seriously. I will tap you right in the nuts (Laughter, more bangs) Dude, get off me. Oh dam. I am out of it. Dude, GET OFF. Wait, I swear Richie, I will tap you right in the nuts. Gimme a hug…” The noise got closer to the living room. “SShhh, gags is sleeping (big bang follows)” Well not anymore, guys. Just then, Pole slammed down in the couch next to me and said, “Gags. Just let it go. Let all your pain go” Then he passed out. I sat and stared at the light across the street fighting to get in through the blinds. I watched it as it got reddish purple and I began to fade thinking of how I should have been here years ago….the debacle of 1995 as I called it. Pole’s snoring helped set the rhythm for sleep in between the grunts of him trying to get comfortable on the ottoman. Despite the temperature in the house being 65, it was comforting…I faded.
The Best Pancakes On Earth
As I woke up, I realized how hungry I was. I didn’t have the luxury of eating my little snacks through the night like I would at home if it was just me and Opus. Once I got up, my plan was to get in the shower as quick as possible, and get coffee. That was first. That would at the least distract my nausea of an empty stomach. I get in the shower, there’s no strength to the water at all. But then again, I am used to a fire hydrant at my house. I’m spoiled I guess. Well, I don’t ask for much. Coffee, a powerful shower, and no rushing to get ready. That’s all I want in life. So once I was ready to go, Kevin’s Brother Mark walked in the door and asked if I was up for breakfast food. I wanted to see if Pole was up, but before I could check, out he came. “Where am I?” he asked. “Dude, breakfast? Huh? Huh? Huh?...” I responded with a question. All I heard at this point were grunts and groans. Then there we were off to a pancake house near Pacific Ave. Mark assured me they had the best pancakes on earth, and I hate pancakes. But I was so hungry, I wanted some. The wind was piercing through Mark, Pole, and I. We walk up to the front of the place. “Closed - Opening May 1st” We were pissed. Now what? Where do we eat now? Despite being a populated town in the off season, there isn’t a ton of places open. As we walked back to the house, I couldn’t help but notice a big pile of shit on the front lawn of Kevin’s house. “What a wild night.” I said. “Pole took a dump right on the lawn.” Pole replied with, “Again?” The funny thing was, Pole thought he really did it. I mean, I could TELL it was a dog and all that did it, but I didn’t know what was funnier, the fact that Pole ‘thought’ he did it, or that with all of his past wild stories, he could have. We walked back in and told Kevin. Kevin put his head in his hands and said, “Where did he do it?” That was just the icing on the cake. It was then decided we would order Pizza from Pizza Hut. Mark proceeds to tell the girl on the phone as Kevin was en route to the place, that the house was full of drunk teenagers. The girl almost seemed aroused by it. The bill came to 33$ and we all gorged out. Pole would pass out, and I would find myself in and out of sleep on the couch. It was the most relaxing part of my stay. They all were glued to the TV watching college hoops and I was in another world. The monotony was broken by the news that the Eagles picked up Fullback Leonard Weaver. It was then that Kevin decided to call a radio show on 950AM to say that Wake Forest was a lock for the game that night, all the Syracuse players he could think of, and that Leonard Weaver was left handed. Whatever that meant. The ozone smell from the hallway got stronger, and my concern grew over the implications because the condo was getter colder and colder. Kevin and I fooled with it until it a call was made to Banks. YES BANKS! He showed up at the house in his Air Conditioning/Heater Fixer Guy costume and proceeded to tell us the blower went. We laughed for hours. In my mind at least.
The Bayview Massacre or The Trouble With Jenna And Amanda
As Friday night came upon us, it was time to decide where to go. Kevin came up with the idea of us going to The Bayview. Pole was pumped, and with the arrival of John, another friend of ours, the night was complete. John and I worked together in sales at one point and was always a good help when I had no clue what I was doing. He also follows a lot of what goes on in the music world with a decent amount of knowledge of progressive rock and metal. As for the bar, The Bayview sits on the bay, obviously. Once we got there in Pole’s car, which I affectionately called KITT, it had the look of a large wooden buffet house. I have never been here, but it seemed very open, yet very homey. We took our seats at the bar as the Flyers game was 19 minutes in against the Buffalo Sabres. I decided to be the designated driver that night so they could all have a good time. Little did we know, IT WAS TRIVIA NIGHT! So we go and get our slips. The questions start rolling out from the gentleman with the CB radio microphone that cut out every 13 seconds because the wire was shot. We just kept replying “WHAT?” every time he would finish a question. We were killing in the match up. Just then to our right at the corner of the bar, an older gentleman, a younger guy, and an attractive brunette sit down at the bar. Sounds like the start of a joke. As they celebrated someone's birthday in the group, I am thinking the older gentleman, they started getting into the trivia as well. I could tell the girl was staring at us because we were being obnoxiously loud every time we got a question right he asked. Well, I was being the obnoxiously loud patron, and I was the sober designated driver mind you. I kept looking over to see that the girl was looking at us and smiling. It was obvious at this point she was flirting, and I was cool with it. Her name was Jenna and insisted I gave my answers to them so they could be in contention. Kevin, John, and Pole would have killed me if I did. So, I just kept saying, “I can’t, wouldn’t be fair to my group of geniuses. And that would be cheating!” Meanwhile I am calling my dad about the answers to, “Where did pieces of 8 originate from? And “What’s the most common Pope name?” We were on a roll. Were texting, calling, cheating just as bad. But were in front. Smoking everyone in our path. Jenna started talking to us a little more, and I thought it was nice to at least make a friend. After winning rounds 1 and 2, Pole and I departed the main bar for a game of air hockey. I am usually the master at this game. But for whatever reason, Pole jumped out to a 6-0 lead. I was stunned. I did crawl back to tie it at 7 which was most impressive, but not impressive enough as I lost 9-8. Oh well. The life of a Philadelphia sports fan. So we head back and answer questions about Blowfish, Garbanzo bean aliases, and the like. The smell of hickory from the fire place engulfed the seating area as did very unhappy trivia players. Apparently, when I walked back up, there was a woman basically scolding Jenna and her friends. I was kind of shocked actually. The woman accused Jenna and her friends of cheating during the trivia game with their blackberries and cell phones. Meanwhile, we were just as awful. So the people, who were pissed that they were supposedly cheating, left the bar in disgust. This was utterly absurd. I started laughing out loud that they caused the Bayview about 59$ in sales from those partaking in spirits during the game. The lady even said to them, “You made people leave here! And they were school teachers!” Oh go fuck yourself. Seriously. Grow up. It’s a fucking trivia game you dolt. Who the fuck cares on a Friday night? Is your life THAT fucking pathetic? Anyway….so, Jenna has a friend show up. Her name was Amanda. Amanda found out about the supposed cheating that had happened within her group of friends prior to her arriving and voiced her disdain for it. We just kept playing. Then we get to the bonus round. All questions about Ireland. I would have rather had my fingernails ripped off. So we turned in our questions, and as I walked back to say hi to Jenna and ask how they did, her bitchy friend turns and goes “Ew, go away, he’s slimy.” Now, let’s stop for a second. Slimy? Bitch you don’t even know me. For someone that wasn’t even that attractive, I was appalled. I mean god knows I have been called worse, but at least let me DO something to you for you to say that. So I was a bit stunned, because honestly, it was the first time I was ever called that. So I go back to my seat to see that even Pole was shocked at what she said. So Kevin started saying loudly, “Aren’t you guys cheating?” Just then Jenna asked for the answers to one of the questions, and I obviously replied with, “Well, you don’t want any answers from a slimy guy. They won’t be right.” Then Amanda obviously thought it was unfair for me to joke about her slanderous comment because she started realizing that the rest of my friends started heckling their trivia cheating ways. Jenna came over and did a pseudo comforting thing with me defending her friends attitude that she had a bad day etc etc etc. I don’t care. I wanted to say, "Get a shower you bridge troll." But of course I didn’t say that, and learned in my old age its better and wiser to just keep your mouth shut and ignore the hate. I guess.... So Jenna was getting drunker, and it was just then we won the round of trivia, and ultimately, the contest. Kevin gets a 50$ certificate for free dinner there, and we decide to depart. We come to find out that our happy girl Amanda, was manager of, get this, a bar we frequent regularly! As we start to walk out, Amanda decided to tell Kevin she liked him. So at least there was a sign that she could be a nice person...maybe. I wanted nachos, make that Chicken Nachos and really didn't feel like hanging out to find out if she was or wasn't. We laughed all the way home in our undefrosted KITT Car. Kevin insisted that Jenna would call. I knew already they wouldn’t. As we got closer to the bar, we saw a mess of cop cars ahead on Rio Grande. Not thinking anything of it, we get to Kevin’s house to see Banks working in the utility room fixing the heater. YAY! WE HAVE HEAT! Now it was a bit too warm in the place. We walked over to the bar and I was STARVING for chicken nachos. We inhaled them. Just then the long haired ex surfer bartender comes over to our corner and gives us free drink cups. I asked, “What was that for?” The bartender replied, “Well Amanda asked if 4 guys were at the bar that just left the Bayview. She felt bad for how mean she was to you guys and wanted you guys to have some free drinks.” Now I felt bad, I mean, still, she was a bitch and all, but I thought, wow. That was a nice gesture. I gave the cup to John and told him to enjoy it. The night ended with me walking back to Kevin’s and then taking a walk out back. I was grateful for the invite to the Wildwood by the sea, and told Kevin how proud I was that he did it the right way. He owns the place out right, and is an area that I predict, will be more popular than any shore town in the next 10 years. I truly believe that. As much as I am not a fan of Wildwood, this town is going through a revival…a renaissance so to speak. And he’s in a prime time location. As I smoked my last cigarette, I watched the cop cars still down the road. Pole later told me that the reason they were there was not for a sobriety check point. Sadly, a fight between a couple led to a girl stabbing her boyfriend dead. I was quietly shocked. Amazing how life works. And people wonder why I stay single.
The Greek Girls From Vegas
The next morning Pole and I decided to get some breakfast before I left for the mainland. I owe this guy my life and I felt I let him down because I wasn’t the party animal I could have been that weekend. We went to the diner on the other side of town called the Vegas Diner. We decided to order something diverse as always. A Crabmeat Omelet with French fries and rye toast. I think crab meat should be involved everyday, but the doctor doesn’t think so, sadly. As we ate, I prepped myself for all that had to be done that day. I had to meet Kevin Feely, Ray Loboda, and Jim Robinson from NEARfest to discuss that night’s program. We do the show every year, and this would be the first of just them being there without the stalwart in Chad Hutchinson. So, in a way I was eager to see how the day would go. I really wanted to get home to see Opus because as he gets older, he misses me more and more when I am away. Years ago he would be fine with it, now it seems like it wears on him when I am not home. So, there was this sense of urgency that I wanted to get home. It’s funny how priorities change as you get older…for a cat no less. After we said our goodbyes, and complimented the Greek daughters of the owner, Pole was back on his way for more festivities dealing with alcohol, and I was on my way back towards the other side of the state. As I jumped on 147 and headed west, this sadness came over me. I should be here. The tugging in my heart was awful. This is where home should be. Ok, maybe not Wildwood per say, but the shore in general. As I moved northward up the Parkway, I listened to Impanemia from Brand X (again) and thought about a longer March (again). I passed each exit of all the sleepy towns along the way and thought to myself to remember it all now. For one day, it will all change, yet still stay the same. I could see the old country roads that seem to stop on the outside of the parkway and continue on the other side. All because of progress. But that old road was important to someone at one time. And I, as always, recognize that. It means nothing to the next guy. But it means the world to me. It’s bitterly symbolic yet ironic in the same frame. I made it all relative to a person say in their 70’s who remembers coming down to the shore when the only road there was, was Route 9. All these sleepy towns I passed. Its home….it’s who I am. It’s all so endearing to me. If I could hug it all I would. It’s almost like when I come down here, I change. Something just goes right within me. Kind of like when Indiana Jones was in his Venetian room kissing the Austrian archaeologist and he stops to look outside and goes, “Ahh…Venice.” I totally understand what he meant. My soul is most at peace here. Sigh. One day I will return. I will have the house that everyone can visit, vacation, and let their hair down. I will walk on the beach at all hours of the day and night and be thankful for my accomplishment of arriving to my 'destination' in the spiritual sense. The last few years have been an interesting challenge to say the least. But again, it's like anything or anyone else trying to exist today. This is how the ball rolls. It's all about timing. I'm not saying we all don't feel like at times we're just existing. This at times, is a noble fight within itself. But one day the timing will be right. One day I will be here. I swear to you….one day I will. And there will be no need to go home anymore.

For Ray Lex 1959-2009

One Year Later
Yes, my sabbatical has brought another blog posting. It’s been a year, and I felt since these get more responses than my radio program did at times, I felt maybe I should post another one. I know I had left off at the tide of things turning last November. In hindsight it was for the best, and the farther you get from some things, the more you realize how more revitalized and smarter you were for doing so. In the last year, I have had some wanted and unwanted tests…and still continue to pass them without cheating. And it’s not that I have stopped writing, not even in the least bit. To reveal without revealing, I am writing a trilogy of stories that basically have nothing to do with one another. More on this later. But this is only one thing of many occurring. I have continued to write in other veins, but not to the magnitude of response the blogs used to get. I felt, if I can’t write something of any worth while here, why should I share? It’s like making a really good album and trying to follow it up with the same formula. It just doesn’t work. After the theft of my dying neutron star, the show has moved along and become as always, stronger and reinvented at certain intervals. Cuts and breaks have been tended, mended, and cared for, while others haven’t been fed the nutrition that’s needed. But I digress. Things have shaped up oddly in the last year. I have become more introspective and quiet as of late, yet slowly started enjoying my life as a hermit while not losing sight of what has to be accomplished week to week. If there is one thing I have learned in the course of the last year is when push comes to shove and things happen to those close to you, the trivialities of life mean nothing and don’t weigh as much. It’s almost an automatic default response. Cancer has unfortunately decided to rear its ugly head this year. The news all came along during the ironic anniversary of the fallout where I was finally set free one night while sitting on my back porch. But that’s how life works. You move past one thing, only to get challenged by another. The news was saddening, shocking, and humbling. All of the sudden, there was an internal battle….one to maintain balance and stability in the face of family support, and only allowing my emotions to disclose when alone amidst the darkness. I found myself recoiling for the next setback. It takes a lot to shake these feelings when you take things in love and life like you do your sports teams. It shook my foundation of who I am, and I found myself angry at god and, at the world. I still to this day beg that I could have it in place of my mother, or anyone else in my family. I mean, my brother and sister have kids….my father and mother want to see them grow up…like they watched us do and hoped to do with grandkids. Me? I have had a good life, I have traveled to a degree, I have loved, I have seen the best and worst of people, and I’ve enjoyed this ‘circus’ called life. Why can’t I have the cancer instead? I have no children, wife, lover, or ties. I have had a blast here. Why can’t I take the cancer….god only knows I would deserve it more than my mother would. But, it’s nothing you can change. This is how the cards are dealt. The best I could do and have done is to be a smiling and reassuring face in unsure times. I showed my support and sacrificed what I took so much pride in over the years…my hair. My mother prided herself on hers, and when she lost it, I knew it bothered her despite her resilience to ignore it. So off it came. My family was stunned and couldn’t understand why. But later they did after repeated trips to treatment and seeing others who’d done it. It wasn’t for me, it was for her. And if I did get anything out of it, it made me enjoy my knit caps a bit more. (I love hats)
Muck The Fetts Part V or “you stand there with your fixed expression, casting doubt on all I’ve had to say”
September was an odd month. Amidst all the personal chaos, there was the Phillies. They again became the opium to all the problems that ensued in all facets of life. I never had any hope that they would repeat 2007, let alone make the playoffs again this year. But as the season drew to a close that month, the butterflies began to churn. Greg’s Swinefest preparations had us all united under a grey sky of hope as they would beat the Nationals yet again to secure a division title, and I would revel in the pain of the fans of the other New York team that’s not the Yankees. The Phillies would play Milwaukee in the first round of the playoffs. Game one would be a gem by Cole Hamels while I sat at work with a tiny radio praying that my row of computers wouldn’t interfere with the AM waves that blessed its little speaker. The Phillies would beat them 3-1, to mark their first win in the playoffs since 1993 when I was just a young DJ driving in a car with no breaks, and a girlfriend at college 2 hours away. Ok, it’s only game 1. But a lot was let go that day in the terms of anticipation. The next day, in what I called the best game of the playoffs, was the game where Brett Myers pitched 7 great innings and shook the confidence of the unstoppable CC Sabathia. Phillies would win that one 5-2 while I sat celebrating by myself in the office. They didn’t play on my birthday, but commenced the next day. Amidst doing production for the radio show, I saw the Phillies get their asses handed to them at the hands of the Brewers in Milwaukee. The dinosaur Jamie Moyer was no match for the hot bats of the Brewers, and his 42 MPH fast ball wasn’t going to ‘fool’ anyone today. I went to the radio show that night thinking, ok, that does it. It’s over. I would be crucified by my friends and family for being negative. But when you are a Philly fan in general, you are used to this. Am I wrong? Did something happen today to change this? The next day, Agent Bradley decided I needed to get away from my life and take the young Parson Jack Russell Li’Le out in the Pine Barrens. Yes, I know, totally unconventional. The Phillies are playing, and the Eagles are playing Washington. Dude, are you nuts? Who misses this stuff? First off it’s Sunday. This is an action packed day of pivotal sports in the city of brotherly love. One not watching and witnessing should be burned at the stake. So there we were heading into the Pines. The Eagles had taken a 14-0 lead over the Redskins, and the Phillies were up 1-0 in the first inning off J-Roll’s home run. We made our first stop at Hampton Furnace. I was getting anxiety thinking I really should be home watching this game. But just then on the radio, Burrell and Werth sent bombs out of the park to ensure the Phillies would win their first playoff series since 1993. We sat at Batsto and listened to the final out while Li’Le and her now browned coat from running through piles of the stinky, mud infested puddles on the Atsion tract permeated the interior of my Jeep. But alas, the Phillies won. We won round one. The next series would be the Phillies versus the Los Angeles Dodgers. A flashback to when I was 12 and the belief that they could win with a bunch of old guys. I remembered back when the Phillies played the Dodgers in the regular season in 1983, they had gone 1-11 against them, and then would beat them 3-1 in the playoffs. I had bad feelings 25 years later. My thought was with a rejuvenated Derek Lowe, and the addition of Manny Ramirez, the Phillies wouldn’t have a shot. I mean come on, it’s Philly. This is how it’s supposed to go. In Game 1, the Phillies were down 2-0 for what seemed like an eternity. But once Lowe got rattled with Victorino at 2nd, the game and ultimately the series would change complexion. The Phillies would win 3-2. In game two, the Phillies bullpen would reign supreme after Myers outing to tame the Dodgers offense and win 8-5. Wow. The Phillies were up 2-0 in the series. Game three would be on a Sunday night in L.A. Jamie Moyer would come out and again get shellacked in the first inning. It wasn’t good. I was nauseous. There was no way we would win this game. My thoughts were, well, we won 4 at home against them in the regular season, while they won 4 on their house as well. The series was taking the same kind of vibe. But something happened. Victorino became head hunted by cowardly Hiroki Kuroda, the pitcher for the Dodgers. And although the Phillies lost 7-2, I was angry, and so were they. You could see it. You could feel it. Fuck the Dodgers. Fuck those Hollywood elte. Fuck Jon Lovitz, fuck Mia Hamm, fuck Tommy Lasorda, fuck Josh Brolin, oh and fuck Joe Buck, again. I was starting to feel it. I was 11 again. I was yelling BEAT LA BEAT LA. Down 5-3 in game 4, the Phillies roared back with 2 of the most clutch home runs I ever saw in my life. First Victorino hit a 2 run homer, only to have it followed by a pinch hit by Ruiz, and the biggest home run of the season that still hasn’t landed as of yet from the old Canadian, Matt Stairs. I admit it. I started to well up. I thought, oh my god. We are going to win this series. Ok, ok, settle down. Nothing is final yet. Relax. Stop. Sitting in my apartment alone didn’t help because I wanted to call people, but I didn’t want to get overly excited over something that wasn’t done yet. So on comes Wednesday. Cole Hamels would pitch, and any Dodger comeback would be thwarted early by the tone the Phillies set with Jimmy Rollins early home run. The Dodgers would implode in the game causing three errors allowing the Phillies to win 5-1. When the game ended, I just repeated the same thing over and over again. Oh my god. We won. Oh my god. I can’t believe it. We won. Oh my god. We are going to the World Series. I could hear my neighbors cheering…people screaming in the streets, pots and pans banging…and this was only the League championship series! As I tried to make my way to Frankford and Cottman, I stopped. Besides traffic being impossible that chilly Wednesday night, I said to myself, let’s go home, and wait to celebrate the series if we can win it. Don’t buy any shirts; don’t buy any hats, nothing yet. Let’s wait. I turned around and went home and smiled. I felt the most for my mother because the chemo had been so overwhelming; all she could do was sleep. To her, this was very bitter sweet. So what would seem like a month, the Phillies would have to wait for the outcome of the Rays/Red Sox ALCS. Time was of the essence….
Room 333
By Monday the 22nd, my mother was not well. Chemo and the aftereffects were wearing her down. By Tuesday, things took a turn for the worse. My mother would be rushed to the hospital Wednesday morning. She was weak. Unable to fight infections, her temperature rose. I left my jobs and made my way to the hospital. It was tough. The toughest thing I had experienced in a long while. She was placed in the ER for most of the morning, day, and night. Finally, at the beginning of the World Series game 1, she was placed in an isolation room. While everyone family wise had gone home, I decided I would stay. In and out of sleep, my mother would ask me the score. I sat in the chair and watched. I could see she wanted to watch, but the opiates would make her fade in and out. The Phillies would walk away winners 3-2 in game one. My mom weakly did what we always did at end of a Phillies victory, the fist punch. Her hand shaking really got me. I broke down, but not in front of her. I was talking to her about the game as if we were at home and nothing was wrong. I think it had to be the strongest I ever was despite what was going on with her. When I went home, that was a different story. When the Phillies lost game two, 4-2, I was back in traditional Philly mode. “Series is over, forget it….that was it, hope you had fun folks.” My mother was the one in her weakened state that said to me, “Stop being that way. Stop it. Don’t be negative.” I was silent the rest of the series. Then on that Saturday, I spent most of the day in the hospital with her. Little did I know at that point, we were amidst a perfect Philadelphia sports weekend. The Flyers had won on Friday night over New Jersey, 6-3. Then on Saturday, we beat them again 3-2 with the help of a smoke bomb thrown on the ice (Only in philly). So after hanging out with mom at Virtua, I went back home to finish production for the radio program. Who could do a radio show with all this going on? By the time the Phillies game started with the rain delay, I had just started the radio show. Great. Now I have to do my show, try not to be distracted with a TV on in the lobby, hope my brother in law can give me the best updates he can as the asshole umpires try to decide the fate of my home team in the biggest series of the year. The score was 4-3 Phils by the 7th. In the top of the eighth inning, B.J. Upton led off with a single, stole second….then third, and scored on a throwing error to tie the game. I was ready to puke. But then Eric Bruntlett was nailed by a pitch leading off the bottom of the ninth, then moved to second on a wild pitch and then to third on a throwing error! Now keep in mind, I was getting all of this through Instant Messenger from Agent Bradley because I was on the air. Then coach Joe Maddon decided to use his intriguing coaching tactics by intentionally walking the next two batters to load the bases, and brought in Ben Zobrist from right field to play as a fifth infielder behind second base. Basically, a 5 man infield….I hadn’t seen this in about 25 years. But then, Ruiz got a blooper hit in what would become the only time a walk off infield single would win a game. And as a long play CD played on the air, I remember just pumping my fist and yelling in a sharp quick breath, “WE WIN” in the lobby of the radio station. The Phillies took a 2–1 lead in the series. It was just then that Pole, the master of Swinefest extended his offer to see the Eagles play against Atlanta that next day. Can we stay perfect, win wise as a city? Let’s review:
Friday: Flyers 6, NJ Devils 3
Saturday: Flyers 3, NJ Devils 2; Penn State 13, OSU 6; Phillies 5, Rays 4
The Sexfecta
Sunday morning was a bit rough after only having a few hours after the radio show for sleep. But that’s ok. I am not used to sleeping anyway. The plan was to get to Pole’s house as quick as possible so we could intake massive amounts of alcohol in the hopes the Eagles could beat the Falcons. My mom, still at Virtua but getting better, insisted I go and spend the day having fun. She couldn’t understand why I’d spend so much time in the hospital to begin with, but we all know why. Nevertheless, I took Greg’s offer and a day of Philadelphia sports was ahead of us. We arrived at the stadium and began drinking and slamming hoagies down. I had a good feeling about that day.
Something told me it would be a weekend to remember. So we arrived at our seats to find some hot girls sitting in our seats. Now anyone who knows me knows that when I am at a football game that women are the last thing on my mind. Salma Hayek could be sitting in our seat and I would still be saying, “Um, yeah kick off is about to happen and you are in our seats. You are in the wrong section.” So as we sit down, there is a guy in a gorilla suit sitting behind me. Why? I have heard of the Rally Monkey, but dude, um, you know you are wearing a Gorilla suit, right? So, after watching a rich women get arrested in the club box near our seats, the Eagles rolled to an unflattering 27-14 win over Philly boy Matt Ryan and the Falcons. I then stared scheming up some weird plan to try to scale the wall of Citizens Bank Park to get into a World Series game. Pole almost bought into it. But alas, after drinking in the parking lot, getting our pictures taken by the Phillies ground crew, and watching Hot Dogs get burnt beyond recognition, the plan was in place. It was decided to get to Northeast Philadelphia with Pole’s friends to watch the game. It was a bar called Flukes that lied on a sleepy street with no street signs and no life. Grey was the best way to describe it. After sitting with some friends, we watched the hated Giants come from behind to beat the Steelers, and then a national anthem sung wrong and out of tune for the World Series game by Philadelphia’s very own Patti Labelle. After she butchered that, Pole and I began to butcher these great wings we ordered. The Phils took a 1–0 lead in the bottom of the first. I couldn’t drink because of the nerves of this game. The Phillies doubled their lead in the third inning when Chase Utley reached base on a fielding error and scored on Pedro Feliz's single. The Rays scored their first run when Carl Crawford hit a solo home run in the top of the fourth inning. Ryan Howard's three-run home run in the bottom of the inning brought the score to 5–1. But then Eric Hinske hit a pinch-hit home run for the Rays to bring them within three runs. But then something happened that could only happen in October baseball. Phillies pitcher Joe Blanton rifled a ball over the right center fence to re-extend the lead to four. The bar went nuts. I began hyperventilating. I still couldn’t believe it. Are we seriously going to win this? Can this be happening? I looked across the bar to see people hugging and celebrating. Maybe I was going to wake up and it was going to be like…I don’t know September and the playoffs were about to start or something. I was interrupted deep in thought by the old man across the bar saying, “If the Phillies win this game, this is serious.” And I knew it was real when Jayson Werth hit a two-run home run in the eighth inning, the Phillies third of the game, to bring the score to 8–2. Then Ryan Howard hit one to complete the rout at 10-2. The sexfecta was complete. The perfect weekend. Pole and I hugged, as did all the others at Flukes….but there was still more baseball to play. But as a Phillies fan, you could taste it. I always wondered for the last 28 years what it would be like to win a championship. I mean, how will it feel the closer we get to closing the deal? Will it be easy? Where will I be? Where will my family be? What memory will stick out the most? I scurry to try to remember every detail because honestly, this may not happen again for a long time. If you know me, I must remember everything. Smells, sights, where we were, what was going on in everyone’s life at that time, etc. I suddenly realized, “dude, its happening. Start recording.” I have endless tape in my head, and that can never be taken away from me. We drove home amidst the fog and dampness with happiness in our blood. One more game. One….more….game. I slept well that night. The best sleep in years.
It’s Been No Bed Of Roses
Monday arrived and I had the day off from work for I had to go to court for a stupid ticket I got going a few miles over the speed limit in Maple Shade. That’s a funny story for another day. Anyway. The plan was to watch the World Series with my mom because the great news came through that she would be coming home that night. But as court came to an end I got the call that she was exhausted and would be asleep at home. So I sucked up the fact that now the complexion of my plans would be changed. I didn’t want to be selfish, but I just thought to myself, there is no way I can’t watch this with my mom. We have watched almost every game together. Something just isn’t right. The vibe has gone awry. Here’s how I knew there was something higher than all of this pulling the strings. I rushed to get home to find my laundry never dried in the dryer because the heating element went bad. Fine, use another dryer right? Nope. Out of quarters. Ok. Don’t panic…run and get some quarters. I call my brother in law. After explaining the situation of game viewing, he insisted that I get to his house to watch. So as I ran to get quarters, I noticed my gas gauge was sticking. I knew I had to get gas, but how low was I? Ok, no problem, I will stop at the gas station and get gas real…(putt) (putt) (BEEEEP). Shit. Shit. SHIT. Ok, well maybe I can listen to the game in the Jeep. “Victorino at first, one out”. Ok, ok. I gotta think. YOU CAN’T SIT IN THIS JEEP AND LISTEN TO THE GAME. What if they win? I’m starting to sweat. It’s only a quarter mile to the station. Ok. It’s starting to rain at this point. And the distance is not far at all. But it felt like I was 20 miles away. I get to the gas station, get the canister, and start jogging in the frozen rain to my Jeep. I start to fill the tank and realize that there is more gas on me, than there is actually going into the tank. Ok, dude. Settle down. (End of the inning). I finally get enough gas to cover the fuel pump to turn the engine over. I start staggering down the street to the station. She stops right at the pump. Ok, the Phillies are winning 2-0. Everything will be fine. I must get to Marlton. The rain is coming down harder. I could only imagine how the conditions must be at Citizens Bank Park. The rain is coming down even harder by the time I crossed route 70 and route 73. I finally arrive at Agent Bradley’s to see that game is about to be suspended. The puddles were like small lakes on the infield. Bud Selig, the sloth of a human being, comes on television to tell the baseball world that the game would be suspended JUST AFTER THE RAYS TIED IT UP because of an error due to the weather on Jimmy Rollins. I hate Bud Selig even more for the mere fact that YOU KNEW the weather was going to bad 2 hours before game time you poor excuse for a man. I mean I know you didn’t want the Phillies or the Rays in the World Series because of your precious prime time ratings and your invested advertisers…you made that quite clear as you forced your Milwaukee Brewers into the playoffs. Dirtbag. Meanwhile Pete Rose can’t be reinstated into baseball? You suck Selig. Real nice that you sold your soulless soul to Fox so Major League Baseball can make some money. He probably had to drink heavily game to game because the Red Sox and the Cubs weren’t in it. I hope you get hit by a bus full of Cubs fans. Oh and Bud? The BREWERS SUCK. So. There I was. Soaked, stunned, and in disbelief. So let me get this right. This is the first game in the HISTORY of the World Series not to be played through to completion or declared a tie? Ok, I wouldn’t want the series to end that way anyway. I’d want 9 innings as well. I’m totally up for fair competition, despite the idiocy of Bud Selig….the evil and dopey emperor in charge. So now what?? So now, we have to wait? Are you kidding me? It was the most helpless feeling I ever had as a sports fan. This weird euphoric feeling hung over me much like the storm front that decided to take refuge over the Delaware Valley that Monday and Tuesday. My phone started buzzing from disgusting Mets fans everywhere. “You guys are done. This is the curse! You guys will lose out! HAHAHA” So finally it was decided that the Phillies would play on Wednesday night. So as I counted the minutes on my watch till I could get out of work to watch the final 3.5 innings. I rushed to my parents to find my mom in bed, but awake. She was just as nervous as the rest of us. My father paced, my phone was being texted, and the world just stopped. Geoff Jenkins led off with a double and was bunted to third by Rollins. Jayson Werth then batted in Jenkins to take the lead for the Phillies, 3–2. But, it can never be easy because then, Rocco Baldelli of the Rays re-tied the game at three runs with a solo home run. Later in the inning, Bartlett was thrown out at home by the clutch Chase Utley for the third out. I knew right then. “Guys? This is for real..” I could hear the old man across the bar at Flukes echoing in my head from Sunday. “If they win this, this is serious.” And now, it was. In the bottom of the seventh, and what most likely would be his last at bat as a Phillie, Pat Burrell got a double. How symbolic. How fitting. How story like. Eric Bruntlett, pinch-running for Burrell, scored on a single by Pedro Feliz to put the Phillies up by a run again, 4–3. In the top of the ninth, Brad Lidge gave up a single and a stolen base, but was able to reach and dig deep down inside….and Harry’s most listened to call: “One strike away, nothing-and-two to Hinske... Fans on their feet, Brad Lidge stretches... the 0–2 pitch...Swing and a miss; he struck him out! The Philadelphia Phillies are 2008 World Champions of baseball! Brad Lidge does it again and stays perfect for the 2008 season, 48-for-48 in save opportunities... And let the city celebrate! Don't let the forty-eight hour wait diminish the euphoria of this moment and celebration! Twenty-five years in this city that a team has enjoyed a world championship and the fans are ready to celebrate. What a night! Phils winning, 4–3, Brad Lidge gets the job done once again!” The Phillies won their second World Series Championship in 125 years.
Done. Finished. Champs.
All was forgiven. 1983, forgiven. Pat Corrales, forgiven. Von Hayes, forgiven. Jim Fregosi, forgiven. Mitch Williams, forgiven. Terry Francona, forgiven. Larry Bowa, forgiven. Lenny Dyskstra, forgiven. The Marlins series in 2003, forgiven. 2007 postseason, forgiven. Etc, etc, etc. My mother screamed from bed “WE WON! WE WON!” It was over. World Champs. The phone rang incessantly. People screamed in the streets of their quiet neighborhood. Horns honked, people hugged. It was over. All the frustration of my teens, 20’s, and now my 30’s, were soothed with flavor of patience and victory. The Philadelphia Phillies are World Champions. You can capitalize it now. Fuck Joe Buck, fuck the Mets, fuck Jose Reyes and his pointing finger, fuck Tim McCarver, fuck Sports Illustrated and their cowardly writers, fuck Bud Selig, fuck the New York Post, fuck the “tampa curse”, fuck the Mets fans sitting behind us in section 134, fuck ESPN, oh and fuck Joe Morgan. You wore a Phillies uniform once you dope. Did I say fuck Joe Buck? I hopped in the Jeep and met with Agent Bradley en route to Ashland speed line. Rocco met us there as the Phillies Pain Train pulled up. The train was all red in its interior. Fans old and young sat in the train at 11:17. There was no curfew; there would be no school tomorrow for these youngins’. Smiles permeated the train. Each stop, more people…and more people. We got out at the Broad Street line. People were hugging, screaming…it was pure, pleasant chaos. It was something that had to be seen up close. The Philadelphia Police opened up the doors to the Broad Street terminal and none of us had to pay. “The Phillies won the world series…enjoy and be safe”.
The closer we got to the stairs above the city; you heard this pulse….this pulse of excitement. You could hear the vibration, the cheers, and the bedlam. The sound of release was the best way to describe it. The sound of pure bliss. The roar from above was getting close. Up the stairs we went, and there it was. Red. Broad Street was red. From Talk Of The Town Steaks to City Hall. Red. ALL red. People were united. Black, white, Hispanic, Japanese, Vietnamese, Italian, Irish, Polish, you name it they were there. Hugging, kissing, high five-ing and hand slapping, crying, laughing, dancing, drinking, smoking, and reveling in the monumental finish. We walked northward and I was strangely silent. I couldn’t believe it. So this is it, huh? This is what happens when you win a championship? Look at this place. Look at all the broken glass on the street. Broad Street wasn’t even a street anymore. Cannons of M80’s went off in the distance. People had back packs full of beer. One couple got engaged. Another couple sat on their front step and took pictures. As I walked, I would be interrupted by the occasional hand shake and “WOOOO CHAMPS!” It was something I would never forget. The air was cold but heated by the exhilaration that the city was feeling. People swarmed the newsstand to get a news paper from the trucks wheeling in. I turned and looked at Rocco and Rob and they were just as mesmerized as I was. At one point, I was so struck by the moment, that Rob and Rocco ran over to me as if I was a lost kid at the mall. “Come on dude, stay with us.” I was speechless at the mayhem. People who hadn’t seen each other in years hugged and cried. Girls lifted their shirts; guys wore funny hats, and people painted their faces. Things got a little hairy when someone started burning a newspaper machine on one of the corners. That’s when the cops rode in and threw the culprit against the wall and cuffed him. At one point a bottle whizzed literally between me and Rob to the point where the wind of it grazed my eye. Not to mention, the bottle was broke already. Everyone had fun…I even was grabbed and kissed by girl in the middle of the street. It was the closest I got to Mardi Gras. The party was great until a cop got hit in the head with a bottle. That was when everything changed. They moved us off the street with their bikes. Next thing I knew, we were back on the subway and on to the speed line. The cold air was crisp goodness once we got home. It was bitter, but a good kind of cold. I dropped Rob off at home and I headed home listening to 610, something I never do. To hear the callers talk about their love for the Phillies made sense to me in one light. We all have suffered. It really hasn’t been a bed of roses. It’s been torture. And most people not caring about it would go, “So what? It’s only a stupid sport.” First off, it’s your mom and dad dressing you in jerseys when you are 8. Its talk at the coffee machine after hitting 3 home runs the night before, or seeing your pitcher go down in a hail of boos after he walked in a run. It’s chat when you are in the lunch line or at the supermarket talking to the bagger with the Phillies hat on. Its emails you get at work talking about trades, jokes, and whether Manuel is any good or not. Its text messages when you are losing 7-1 and score 7 runs in the ninth. It’s not reading the Daily News the next day after an 11 inning loss to the Mets. It’s being a Phillies fan. It’s realizing that this all parallels life. That was it. Story over. The post game analysis replayed until the sun rose…
City Hall Parking
That Thursday, I told people that if they were going to go to the parade on Friday, not to be stupid and to take the speed line. Genius plan. At least so I thought. So I set the alarm Thursday nightto get up at 7:30 AM Friday. No problem, right? Wrong. Apparently at 3:15 AM, someone hit a telephone pole on the outlying highway that led to a brief power outage for 3 minutes in my sector of town. Well, I awoke to seeing all my clocks blinking 12:00 AM. I broke out in a sweat and stared at the clock just knowing this couldn’t be right. So, I see the actual time is really 9:45, and my ride has already left for the Ashland speed line. I only knew this because I received like 10 text messages from my family and friends asking where I was at 8:30. So I quick get in the shower, dress accordingly and hop in my Jeep bound for the Haddonfield speed line. Once I get there, I see a line of people that wrapped two blocks back to Kings Highway. I stopped a person waiting in line and asked, “What are you waiting for?” “Tickets” the father of three responded with dressed in Phillies garb. “They are telling us it’s about a two hour wait. At this point I sped out of Haddonfield for Collingswood. I get to their station, and the word is about a two hour wait there, too. So I have now wasted at least an hour in this nonsense of trying to figure out how to get to Philly for the parade. Then the light bulb went off. Drive into the city. There is no other choice. I am not going to miss this. No matter what the situation is at hand. So there I was, tearing down Route 70 to get to the Admiral Wilson Boulevard. No one was on the road. No one. I get to the Ben Franklin and I am amazed at the fact that NO one is on this road. I pull under the bridge into Olde City to again, minimal traffic and make my way to Market Street. Everyone in the city is red. I turn right on to Market Street and start heading west. Again, minimal traffic within Center City. No real problems at all. I get to Juniper Street where City Hall is to find that there is some slight congestion, and the city again, is decked out in Phillies dress. As I circle around Juniper Street, then on to Filbert, I see the luckiest thing ever happen in all my years of driving into the city. A parking spot becomes available in front of the Arch Street Methodist Church on Broad. I slam my Jeep into the spot as a cop watches. I waited for him to tell me not to park there. I get out and ask, “Hey, can I park here?” He responds with, “No one is going to write you a ticket today. The Phillies won the World Series. Have fun.” So there I was. Literally with personal parking at City Hall, and walked half a block to watch the parade. Broad Street was mobbed. No one could move once you got towards Penn Square. I was blown away. My phone couldn’t work because everyone and their brother were trying to use theirs. As I walked, I ran into a guy who was lifting up his kid above his head. As he brought his arm down, his elbow nailed me in the head. No big deal. I just saw stars. When I realized it wasn’t done maliciously, I walked on. But god damn, did that hurt. I was at City Hall. My brother in law with his family was more towards Broad and South, while my other friends were down by the stadiums in South Philadelphia. As I stood on the gate by City Hall, I laughed at how easily I got here and how here I am watching this all unfold. The weather was lovely, yet brisk. And just then, the crowd started raising their tone as the trucks made their way around the circle. I couldn’t see much because of my height obviously, but then, the crowd parted for a brief second, and just then I could see Mayor Nutter holding up the trophy. I saw it as it glistened in the sunlight as they turned the corner. That was it. I saw my parade. Finally. It was all over. Well, not for another few hours, but I was there for the beginning of it. Amazing how it all worked in the end. I walked half a block back to my Jeep and headed back through Olde City on my way home. People were all wearing their red stuff…I honked as I passed the people crossing the Ben Franklin Bridge. Wow. Champs Baby Champs. As I finally got into New Jersey, my phone started ringing from friends and family telling me that there was no way to get home because the train system had been shut down. I forgot that everyone assumed that I took the speed line in, too. Boy did they want to kill me. I was already on my way to work while everyone was trying to figure how to get home. When all was said and done, it was a great finish to a bittersweet week. The perfect band aid amidst all the turmoil….. It was time to return to life, and return to the grind of things. But it was nice that for a brief moment, a wish was granted, and a dream came true….A championship for the city of Philadelphia. A city I love so dearly. It was more personal…it’s hard to explain. It was almost as if some personal ghosts were exorcized. A championship parallels life. If you work hard enough, anything can happen.
1993 to 2008, now forgiven.