Showing posts with label Kendrick Perkins. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kendrick Perkins. Show all posts

Tuesday, March 15, 2011

Back to Business AKA Deadlines




The Free Forest City Redemption Project is over, my Puddlers, and now you’re back to following my sensitive, nostalgic and ignorant musings while also enjoying the brief respite of thoughtful commentary from guest columnists.  We will have another Mark Jack column on Friday as well as a new guest columnist’s debut tomorrow. I’ll introduce that columnist tomorrow and hopefully he will be contributing another weekly column that will add its own dynamic to the narrative of this site. Later this week I’ll post another one of my long, epic columns where I discuss the greatness of the new Strokes album Angles and the Woody Allen movie, Manhattan.

However, today I have to catch all of you sports fans up on the current events in the NBA (I’ve also been watching A LOT of college basketball, but I’ll spare you those thoughts this year since I don’t want to anger any basketball gods due to the fact that my Tar Heels are a fragile but very talented young bunch who have a chance to do something in the NCAA tournament). Over the course of the past three weeks, the NBA has gone through such a huge mid-season upheaval on multiple levels. I want to break down those changes and stories by talking about a few of the teams that went through the most major changes and that will lead us into the league-wide stories at large.


- We start of course with the Miami Heat. Obviously there has never been a more scrutinized team in NBA history or perhaps sports history than the 2010-2011 Miami Heat. Much of the scrutiny is due to the fact that Chris Bosh, LeBron James and Dwyane Wade made such a spectacle of their union. However, what truly separates this team and their attention from any other team in history is the fact that their union as a team coincides with media (especially sports media) reaching its most fervent and crazed pitch. Take for instance this past period of insanity where sports news was focused squarely on the fact that the Heat took an important, playoff-caliber game against the Chicago Bulls so seriously that some of the players might have cried after they lost. There argument can certainly be made that a team that expects to win the title should not be crying after an NBA regular season game in March. I understand that argument, but the media had been so consumed with the following narrative: The Heat act as if they are entitled to a championship and expect the league to just hand it over to them so they don’t care about the games, they don’t put in their full effort. Here you had superstars who didn’t fully understand the pressure and the antagonism they would face in this new world where any event that goes wrong (see 2011 Oscars) is dissected in minutia by pundits on Twitter or Facebook in moment by moment increments. The 1995-1996 Chicago Bulls were the last professional team in any sport to garner this much attention. However, 1995-1996 is a completely different landscape technologically than 2010-2011. Our culture is drastically different as well. In that time, we still wanted our heroes to fail just as much as we wanted them to succeed, but we didn’t have the means to totally reflect or exploit this desire in ourselves as much as we do now.  How often do people use Twitter or Facebook or their favorite blog to complain, insult or poke fun at someone or something? I know that I do it. I use these mediums to poke fun at my friends, sports figures and celebrities almost as much as I use them to poke fun at myself and the actual digital or online presence I am engaging in and creating. We do not exist in the world of Michael Jordan. The world of Michael Jordan was a world where we could plausibly believe that there was a person that could be universally adored or admired for sheer will and success.  Now, we live in the time of the Miami Heat. That is to say, we live in a time perhaps of a true reality—a time where there is no one person, one thing or entity that is sacred. We adore nothing and only wish for things to fail so that we can anoint a new successor.  Perhaps through some level of success, the Miami Heat will be able to generate a bit of adoration, some modicum of appreciation for effort and the public admission to experiment with the game of basketball that will unite people.  After the Heat hit rock bottom with a five game losing streak, they have won consecutive games against the Lakers, Grizzlies and Spurs who are all playoff bound teams. There is an aspect of hope for them as they make a run to the playoffs. Yet, the problem with the Miami Heat is that they were never meant to play a game of basketball, they were only meant to make us wonder. So, in that sense, we actually live in a time that values less than reality, not hyper-reality or actual reality.


- The team that made the most controversial trade in the NBA was the Boston Celtics. The Celtics traded their defensive enforcer and one of their fan-favorite players in Kendrick Perkins (along with disappointing Nate Robinson) to the Oklahoma City Thunder for underachieving Jeff Green and solid offensively but not great defensively Nenad Kristic. This trade came as a shock to even league insiders.  The main reason being that the Celtics claimed they lost the 2010 Finals to the Lakers because Perkins was injured in Game 6 and they couldn’t get a rebound down the stretch in Game 7 when they truly needed it. The Celtics based the 2010-2011 season on the fact that they were getting Perkins back, they were deeper on the front line, they all liked each other and they were going to march their way to the Finals to avenge their heartbreaking loss. The Perkins Trade basically annihilated the company line. It also marked the end of one of my favorite teams to watch over the past four years. The Celtics with Perkins had everything: the mercurial point guard in Rondo; the gutty defensive leader and veteran in Garnett; the lights out classy shooter in Ray Allen; the dangerous, savvy, tough, clutch swingman in Pierce; and the rebounding enforcer in Perkins. After they figured out their new dynamic last year, when Rondo became the orchestrator on offense, they became extremely fun to watch. Everyone knew his role. They all knew where the other would be on the floor on both offense and defense. The crowd loved them and they learned to love each other. It was a great win for the NBA to have a Celtics team that mattered and who the Boston fans genuinely loved. However, Danny Ainge had to be a businessman and realized that Perkins was 26, had one bad knee and a second one that might be damaged. He saw a guy that could put up 10 and 10 for a season but never did and probably never would. He saw a window closing that he could help prop open in hopes of repairing for some day in the future.  Bill Simmons best explained the reaction of the Celtics to the trade in his column from a few weeks ago. The Celtics were devastated. They loved each other. Perkins cried his eyes out and Rondo was catatonic because his best friend had been traded. Its stories and reactions like the Celtics’ reaction to the Perkins Trade that make us love sports—it shows us a few guys genuinely caring about each other because of the time they spend with each other, the trials and tribulations that they go through, those are actions that require you to give up a bit of your soul, that is why retired players cry when they think about old teams that they enjoyed playing on: they gave something of themselves away and it belongs to that time and team.  Are the Celtics better because of this trade? I have been talked into believing that they are. Jeff Green is a good player who needed a fresh start and I think he will adapt to the team and gain a level of toughness that Garnett, Pierce, Allen and Rondo can teach him. He’ll change and expand on the looks that the Celtics can throw at other teams in the Playoffs. Kristic will have to adapt defensively or face Garnett. He gives them size and more offense than Perkins. Doc Rivers can get a rotation of Shaq, Jermaine O’Neal and Kristic to provide fouls and size inside to work. However, you still do wonder if they will miss Perkins’ gargoyle scowl and sharp elbows when push comes to shove—literally.

- The Lakers made no trades but they have received perhaps the second-greatest level of scrutiny this season. There have been times during this season where people have written them off as being too old, of not caring enough and as simply lost. Yet, here we are in the April and the Lakers have won ten of their last eleven games and are starting to round into postseason shape once again. This is nothing new. The same thing happened to the Lakers last year and it usually happens to most good championship teams. They go through the season and figure out the best ways to use their energy, they find out what dynamic will work for them this year, what balance of old tricks and fundamentals mixed with new wrinkles.  What’s fascinating about this Lakers team is really how much the Kobe Bryant narrative has changed. I’ve been thinking more and more about this lately due to the Young Michael Jordan Essay in Free Darko’s Undisputed Guide to Pro Basketball History. That essay focuses on how the legend of Michael Jordan was re-written while it was in progress. When Michael entered the league, he was seen as an extremely talented, selfish and dangerous object of change. It was only later through his failures and his lessons about teamwork that he became the greatest player of all time and perhaps the greatest athlete of all-time. Kobe was once seen as the villain of the NBA. He was a cocky upstart, an alleged rapist, a selfish player who ran two legends out of Los Angeles.  However, Kobe then went through his phase of loss. He had to admit he needed Phil Jackson. He had to admit that he couldn’t win the title without at least a little bit of help (Pau Gasol). He had to go through a non-playoff season and a loss in the Finals to the Celtics before he was able to re-write his narrative by winning two more championships and perhaps on the verge of winning his sixth total.  Instead of being The Guy Who Wants to Imitate Michael Jordan So Badly Its Painful, he has entered the discussion as being the best player since Michael Jordan. A guy who might not be as transcendental or great as Jordan, but who could conceivably win as many championships and have perhaps a more productive career (though he never willingly walked away from the game in his prime like Michael did—arguably twice). It is this kind of story-telling, this kind of history manifesting itself that makes this NBA season so terrific. We have a slate of great games each week filled with talented and focused players as well as certain players writing themselves into history and myth with each passing weak. It’s a shame if the league loses its momentum by going into a lockout during the summer.

- What has also made this season compelling was the insanity that was the Trade Deadline. Never before has the league had such activity when at the Trade Deadline. If you don’t believe me, just look at all the trades that were made.  The two or three days prior to Thursday, February 24, 2011 were extraordinarily fascinating to a basketball fan. You had all these teams posturing and positioning themselves in case there is a lockout. Players were traded without any rumors being spread. Players you thought were untouchable or untradeable were all of a sudden gone. Even the smallest cash-saving trade became fascinating. Each trade reflected the mindset of that team and its ownership in relation to the lockout. Some (Nets) were confident that the lockout would not be a huge ordeal and that any new CBA would allow them to keep a high-profile star and build around. Other teams (Celtics) were nervous and wanted to make their changes and save their money NOW.  Usually, the Trade Deadline passes, teams don’t make a move and NBA fans groan and wonder at “what if.” 2011 was a completely different story.

- The most notable trade was the Denver Nuggets trading Carmelo Anthony to the New York Knicks for Raymond Felton, Wilson Chandler, Danillo Gallinari and Timofey Mozgov. This trade was six months in the making and after months of posturing and countless news stories and rumors, Carmelo wound up in New York, which is where he wanted to play all along.  Now, Carmelo Anthony is a great player. He is one of the best scorers in the league and one of the most reliable players in crunch-time. However, he is not a great defender and he has not exactly shown great flashes of leadership. Despite that, he is productive and the Knicks had to make the move. I don’t know how his partnership with Amare will pan out for the Knicks. Together they provide a great core of leadership, but they are going to have to become more accountable on defense in order to make a huge impact on this team.  I think it is fascinating, though, that Amare shouldered the load of New York for the first half of the season. Amare made the city excited about basketball again. He talked big and the Knicks backed it up for much of the early part of the season playing energetic, up-tempo basketball and showing a scrappiness (see Fields and Felton) that made the team endearing to the crowd.  It seemed that Amare’s confidence and success spread and rubbed off on St. John’s as well which has made the Garden the center of the basketball universe once again. Then, Carmelo pushed everything over the top. I have heard that the Garden is back to its early 90’s level again and then some. Even the Big East Tournament was phenomenal with Kemba Walker, a New York City kid, stealing the spotlight with buzzer beaters and gutsy play. Every New Yorker wanted the trade to happen so badly that they are now throwing all of their energy into the team. And why not? The Knicks have two of the ten starting All-Stars from the 2011 NBA All-Star Game—that’s pretty impressive when you break it down. However, I’m not sure where it will all lead. I have no doubts about Carmelo and Amare playing well together—their games compliment each other well. I am just curious about what they will accomplish. Perhaps it doesn’t actually matter what they accomplish. Maybe all that matters is that New York remembered that it is a basketball town over any other sport. Yet, knowing New York, even remembering that elemental fact is going to get old at some point.

- I just want to give a shout-out to Kevin Love and his double-double streak.  Seriously, if you do not know who Kevin Love is or how good of a player he is, you really need to look him up.


- The other major trade was the Utah Jazz sending Deron Williams to the New Jersey Nets. This trade was an absolute shocker, even Deron didn’t know about it. However, the Jazz saw the writing on the wall: Deron had run the out-dated but successful Jerry Sloan out of Salt Lake City; he was going to be a free agent in 2012 and would have held them hostage next year just like Carmelo did to Denver this year; they were not going to lose him for nothing like the Cavaliers and Raptors did with LeBron and Bosh. So, Utah beat Deron to the punch and traded him without warning.  Now the speculation begins as to whether or not Deron stays in New Jersey. The most recent rumor is that Williams has bought into Prokorhov’s plan and wants to be the centerpiece of the team going forward. I went to a Nets game last Friday when they played Blake Griffin and the Clippers (yes, Blake had a dunk that was the ESPN Top Play). The Nets and that arena and Newark are in a sad state. It seems like the set from a movie about a fictional professional sports team. It is truly a bizarro world. I think if they move to Brooklyn it will change the dynamic of the crowd.  Most New Yorkers are obviously Knicks fans and that dynamic won’t change. However, I imagine that most Nets fans are either from New York City or Long Island and those people will come to the games. Also, with the arena so prominently located in Brooklyn with access to the LIRR and most subways (better subway access than MSG actually) when a player like Blake Griffin comes to town, the arena will generate a greater crowd than what I saw in Newark on Friday. Above all, New Yorkers love basketball and even if the Nets aren’t great for the next year or two, each home game they will get to see Deron Williams (a better overall player than Carmelo Anthony and a Top Three point guard) play against some of the greatest superstars in the league. The fact that they won’t have to take the Path Train or NJ Transit after work to do so only makes the deal sweeter. I, unlike a lot of people, think that the Nets in Brooklyn is a no-brainer. It certainly hinges on Deron staying on the team (and from his recent performances while injured and his belief they can steal the eighth seed in the East, I think he is staying), but either way I think it works and that Brooklyn natives and New Yorkers in general will come.

- Finally, a shout-out to my man Tyler Hansbrough from the University of North Carolina. They said you wouldn't do anything in the pros. Hey, you’re not a superstar, but you’re better than people thought—and in a league full of superstars in an era that is perhaps the best ever, that’s saying something. God must have been a Tar Heel fan because he made the sky Carolina Blue.

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

The Night the Ball Let Me Down



This will be the most bloggy post I have ever put on this blog.  Tonight was a terrible night of basketball.  Game 6 of the 2010 NBA Eastern Conference Finals was terribly officiated, terribly played, and basically terrible to watch.  It barely edged out Game 5 of the very same series.  I usually don't believe in NBA conspiracy theories, but tonight actually made me consider that an NBA game might be rigged.  For anyone who watched the game, Kendrick Perkins' two technical fouls will be rescinded and he will play in Game 6 on Friday in Boston.  The Celtics will win that game and go to the 2010 NBA Finals.  If they don't it will be a terrible blow to anyone who has played competitive and passionate basketball.  This Orlando Magic team is a joke. Even if they do come back from 3-0, I will always be convinced that they are soft, that Dwight Howard is a dirty and unlikeable player, and that no one will ever win a title with Jameer Nelson as their point guard.  Game 6 is where Rajon Rondo makes his legacy and where this Celtics team makes their legacy - it is that simple.

That is the worst writing that you will ever read on this blog.

Unfortunately, there will be no podcast up tomorrow as a few recording sessions had to be postponed due to my new work schedule and the holiday weekend.  However, we will be back next week with hopefully two more podcasts. I can't let my Puddlers down.

Also, thanks to whoever clicked on an ad on this blog today - you helped to give me a profit of $0.28 in one day. Thank you very much.

Now, here is the next installment of  From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt. I apologize for this post - I just love basketball and using the dash as a form of punctuation.






A light wind blew across the grounds.  The priest remained by the casket and the crowd stood in the sun.  A woman removed a black hat, touched her hair with a cloth and placed the hat back on top of her head.  Jack Simmons could smell the warmth and moistness of the dirt.

“Looks like you were right,” Jack said. “She was a daughter. A sister.”

“I guess she’s still a sister, huh?” Ed pat Jack on the back.

Jack nodded. “Yeah, a sister.”

There were some  coughs amid the mourners. The priest looked out to the crowd, pleadingly, for someone to come before the casket and speak.  Jack noticed the man who had spoken nudging someone else.  It was a boy.  The kid looked to be about Jack’s age.  The boy paid little attention to the man, instead, pushing strands of his hair to the side.  The boy casually shifted his head and Jack caught his glance.  The face was thin and the cheekbones were high; there seemed to be shadows underneath his eyes.  The boy squinted and frowned in Jack’s direction holding his gaze.  He appeared to be regarding both Jack and Ed, their postures. Jack planted his shovel next to him and dug his hands into his pockets.  The boy’s glance passed.  Jack looked down at his boots and the pieces of grass that stuck to the toes. In some way or another he had witnessed the passing of the ages and the transfer of age to age.  The grass and the dirt had tasted the washes of blood that saw one life give to another. And he had thrown his spade into those layers of life and death.  He had taken sprouts and roots home with him, stuck in the cuffs of his pantlegs to dry and rest on the brown straw welcome mat of his basement apartment. The boy had looked at him with grey eyes marked with shadows.  However, Jack had seen something there.  There was no defiance or mockery – those storms, those eyes suggested something to him.  Something that rhymed with Gettysburg, something that smelled of dying roses, the taste of dried lipblood, the feel of grainy sand on a kneewound – the end and the beginning. Jack could feel a transferrence.  Jack tapped his boot against the base of his shovel’s spade.  The gravesdigger’s life.  There was a song to sing, the sun was shining in rays through the sycamores and on the blades of grass - slowly the spring of turf undertoe.

    The boy stood up and adjusted the collar of his shirt beneath his black coat.  He moved forward to the casket and the priest.  The boy made the sign of the cross before the priest. There was a small purple flower on the lapel of his coat. Jack saw the boy and the purple flower.  The flower was the same color as the dress Emma had worn the first time he’d seen her. Flowers didn’t have names to him, they had shapes.  However, she had a name and he’d called her by it for so many years.  They grew together.  They saw the horses from the neighbors’ farm die and the foals and phillies grow and ride.  They’d seen the rain pour down from the pink sky in the summer and the waves of the sound, made of ice, pull slowly in the winter.  And the smell of honeysuckles was always familiar and strange to him when he rode in his car around corners, the edges of his truck brushing the roadweeds.  And she’d been there. And he saw them bury her with a scrap of that purple dress draped across her breasts. What he’d known naked and clothed, now covered in black satin – he’d touched it – with a stretch of purple.

    “Mom,” the boy started. Jack cupped his hand across the bridge of his nose to see. “Mom.” The boy stopped talking and frowned at the mourners.  He took a deep breath. “My mother was the one who gave birth to the world.  You all know what  I mean when I say that and she knows right now.  If this is the end, then surely she will come to know the beginning of something new. Matter is neither created nor destroyed.  Dad and Uncle Connor know that better than anyone else.”

    The boy stopped again.  He ran his hands through his har.  He puffed it up, but it kept a clean shape, much like the man who’d spoken before him. The man who was his brother.

    “Yes, my mother gave birth to the world. Amen.”

    The boy held his hands clasped in front of him and bowed his head.  Strands of his hair fell further down into space.  Then, the boy raised his head.  He seemed to look over the crowd.  His eyes widened and he lowered his head and moved away from the casket.  Jack kicked the spade of his shovel and pieces of still moist dirt fell to the grass.

    Ed Verlaine cleared his throat and spit.  He felt goosebumps from immediate guilt, but it had been necessary.  What a strange speech for that kid to make.  When Ed’s mother died, he knew that it would be a sunny day like this one, but not quite as hot.  He’d wear a classy black suit and he’d see his Uncle Frank standing in front of his family next to Ed’s sister and dad.  His Uncle would probably be crying, because even if he was perpetually tan and perpetually tough, he was really soft in the end.  Ed had seen him cry more than a few times and he knew that his uncle secretly loved that movie “Terms of Endearment.”  He would stand in front of his family in the sun in his suit, sweat collecting under his knees as it was now and he would say confidently, without his voice breaking or cracking, all of the things that he felt for his mother.  The things he had always felt for her.  What those things were he could not exactly say – the words did not show themselves in his mind or begin to take shape and sound on his silent tongue.  A slow excitement began to burn in Ed Verlaine’s stomach through the bloat that he felt from the chicken cutlet he had eaten for lunch and the 16 oz Budweiser he had dranken to wash it down.  He felt the excitement rise and he thought of the feeling of being a boy at the town pool.  The chlorine from the pool was strong and it stung his eyes. His mother wore a plain black bathing suit and would hold his baby sister and cover her with suntan lotion.  Sometimes, she would put her in the daycare center in the shade and if the day was especially hot, she would jump into the pool with him.  He remembered the sensation – the excitement – of watching his mother jump in the pool just like him.  The way she held her nose as she jumped in and she would pay attention only to him in the clear and unclear aqua blue of the pool. 

He would say all of this in slow prepared sentences in front of his mother’s casket. The words would come out – he was positive they would.  His Uncle would have tear streaks down the sides of his red nose.  But what did all of that mean?  What was that feeling? Ed Verlaine rubbed his stomach; he felt his intestines pushing out, his skin taut like a drum.  Was that what the feeling of love was?  Or was love that soft spot in the middle of a girl’s thigh? The curves of the hips and the small freckles?  He did not want to think about that.  He wanted to think about the water and the pool and his mother and the speech he would give at her funeral, the speech that would make his family cry and would make a stranger come up to him and shake his hand and say, “You’re a fine American.  That was a some damn speech.” 

“Hey, Jack” Ed said. “Is your family all still around.”

Jack nodded.

“Mother? Father?”

Jack nodded again.

“Grandpas? Grandmas?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh,” Ed said.  He looked down at his shovel. “What kind of speech was that? Imagine giving a speech like that at your mother’s funeral.  I wonder what that kid was thinking.”

Jack Simmons turned to Ed Verlaine.  “Maybe it was the best he could do.”

“Maybe.  But you have to do better than that.  I mean, at a funeral?”

Jack Simmons looked at Ed Verlaine. “What would you say?” He said in a calm voice.

Ed Verlaine took the loose cigarette out of his pocket and slid it behind his ear.  He rubbed his thumb along the rough edge of his lighter’s wheel.  He thought of the pool, the whiteness of the sun on the water, and the chlorine smell in his nose, the chlorine feel on his skin, his sister as a little baby stomping on puddles on the sedimentary concrete, crying when one of the rocks hit the center of her foot, and his father driving his purple car somewhere far away into New York City to try to sell toys to rich businessmen. 

“I would say,” Ed started.  The sensation of water dripping from an icicle ran along his shoulder.  There were girls walking along the paths that had been cleared of the snow.  He thought of their boots and their legs.  Worlds were moving away from him, wrapping and unwrapping themselves.  What was that feeling?

“I would say something damn good,” he said confidently.  “I don’t know what the words would be, but I know the feeling.  I know what I would try to say.”

Jack Simmons frowned.  He shifted his lips sideways to the left.  There was an older man walking up to the casket now.  He took long steps.  The man’s strides seemed serious, they were measured, but there was no awareness to them – he stood tall, his shoulders slightly back, looking forward.  The older man brushed hair behind his ears.

“Why?” Ed Verlaine asked? “What would you say?”

The older man was tall and he was lean.  There was a weight about him, even though he held himself high and natural.  The man brought one hand up to his mouth and wiped his mouth.  Jack thought that he could’ve been exactly like the wind.

“What would you say? That man is born astride the grave? Some short bullshit like that?”

Jack Verlaine shrugged.  His eyes remained on Ed Verlaine.  Jack raised his right eyebrow and pointed to the older man.  Ed Verlaine looked behind himself and then back to the crowd and the older man.

“What?”

Jack pointed again.

“I always admired, Rose.  I did.  At first it was because she was able to know my brother so well.  That she was able to walk so much beside Ben, that in a way she was part of Ben.” The older man took a deep breath. “I suppose that is what being married is, but, to me, it seemed especially different in their case.  Maybe it was because Rose always carried herself so gracefully and never gave any of herself away.  Maybe that was why she walked the  same way as Ben.”

“What about this guy?” Ed Verlaine said.

“Listen.”

“Seems like he can speak fine.  You know these people or something, Jack?” Ed pulled his loose cigarette out of his pocket and cradled it in a limp fist.

Jack Simmons shook his head.

“You’re pretty damn interested. I –”

Jack Simmons looked at Ed.

Ed shook his head.  He eased the hand with the palmed cigarette back into his pocket.

“My brother,” the older man continued. “first met Rose while he was in med school.  He drove taxis at night.  Maybe some of you know this story already.” The older man paused.  He wet his lips and pushed strands of his hair behind his right ear. “But I like remembering it so I am going to tell it.  Rose was also originally from the Island, but she had just moved into our town. She had gotten a job at the university library.  Ben drove her home from the Park Bench that first night and he wouldn’t stop talking about her.  We used to tease him about the ‘red headed passenger,’ which is what we called her.”

The older man smiled, apparently playing images of long past memories through his head. He reached both hands into his pockets and leaned back.  The hum of a passing plane in the distance droned overhead.

“But my brother was hooked.  It really was the best thing for him because we didn’t know if he would make it through school at the time, but he meets a new girl who works in the library and who is smart and he begins spending all of his time in the library.”

A low laugh came from the mourners.  Ed Verlaine saw a few women dabbing their eyes with black veils or handkerchiefs.  The older man did not smile or laugh.  He kept his eyes forward and pushed strands of his hair behind his left ear.  Ed Verlaine felt the heat of the sun underneath the zipper of his uniform.

“It really was the best thing for him – meeting her.  She was patient during the ‘Billy’ years.” The older man focused on one point in the crowd.  Jack Simmons couldn’t follow his gaze.

“And she gave him and helped him raise his four thoughtful and wonderful children.” The older man kept his gaze on his focal point.  He squinted. “And when we lost Lucy –” He stopped.  “Yes, she really was the best thing for him.  I know that I will miss her.  I don’t know what Ben will do without her.  That is just something he will have to get used to.”

The older man nodded.  He squinted and slowly left the casket;  his posture held up and back; his steps measured, even, paced – the spring of turf underfoot.  Jack Simmons watched him as he returned to the black and white mass of the crowd.  The older man exhaled.  Jack could feel his grace – the inside of a dress pant leg, the smell of skin and the soft curl of hair after leaving the ocean.  Jack bit on his chapped lower lip – he felt the raised skin with his teeth.  That older man, his grace was made up of all of those things and still even more: the light given off by one candle in the dark, the light slanting through his living room on a Sunday afternoon when he was a child, the way Emma’s hands moved when she passed the thread through fabric, her legs crossed, her back sloped forward, her forehead smooth and round with hair pulled back and bunned at the top of her head.  That was all grace and life and the purple sash of death slung between two shoulders.