That's What a Golden Age Looks Like: NBA All-Star Weekend 2010

 

The 2010 All-Star Game was a success.  Although the weekend was marred by probably the worst or one of the worst dunk contests of all time, the rest of the events held up. 

As I mentioned in my brief post on Saturday, the weekend started off right with the Rookie/Sophmore challenge on Friday night.  This game pits first year and second year players up against each other so that they may exhibit the skills that they are usually prevented from showing when they are on their actual teams and limited by veterans and limited minutes.  This game featured a ton of highlight worthy dunks and moves and was characterized by plenty of fast and loose action.  What this game showed was that in young stars like Tyreke Evans (Sacramento), Russell Westbrook (Oklahoma City), Dejuan Blair (Spurs-next Charles Barkley like loveable persona), Brandon Jennings (Milwaukee), O.J. Mayo (Grizzlies), Eric Gordon (Clippers), and Brook Lopez (Nets – unfortunately) that the NBA will have plenty of marketable faces for years to come.  Out of the 18 players in this game, it is not a stretch to say that 9 or possibly 10 of these young guys will end up being All-Stars (Evans, Mayo, Gordon, Beasley, Curry, Blair, Westbrook, Lopez, Jennings, M. Gasol) and the rest will be almost at that level and at least likeable guys (Love, Flynn, Harden).  This has not often been the case with young talent in the NBA over the past ten years.  While I was watching the Rookie/Sophmore game, I muttered to my roommate, Erik Gundel,  “if this game is this good, I can’t wait for the actual All-Star Game.”  The league is once again building a solid foundation of players from winning college programs who learned under excellent head coaches.  Although, the “Lebron Rule” only keeps most of these players in college for a year before entering the NBA, I believe that they get a certain sense of discipline and perspective from having that one year of college experience as opposed to jumping just from high school to the NBA.  That is how the NBA rose to its golden era in the late 80’s and 90’s.  Guys went to college, played under winning coaches and in winning programs and then entered the NBA were they were humbled playing under greats like Magic, Bird, Dr. J, McHale, Parrish, Isiah and Jordan.  The same thing is happening now.  These young guys are all supremely talented, but they now enter a league where they have to face guys like Wade, Lebron, Kobe, Carmelo, Howard – legitimate stars who are larger than life and who have actual “good guy” personalities (yes, even Kobe in some respects).  This is all good.

Saturday night of All-Star Weekend is usually the most entertaining night because of the skills competition and of course the Dunk Contest.  This year there was an entertaining 3-Point Shootout with Paul Pierce winning in surprising fashion over Chauncey Billups and Stephon Curry, who I am sure will be in the contest many times. Steve Nash won the Skills Competition over younger players like Deron Williams, Russell Westbrook and Brandon Jennings.  Finally, Nate Robinson won the Dunk Contest in disappointing fashion of Demar DeRozen.  This year’s dunk contest featured too many obscure players in order to garner any actual interest or excitement.  The league really needs to figure out how to incorporate the stars back into  the contest in order to make it exciting.  There needs to be some kind of campaign within the ranks of the superstars where they talk each other into doing the contest again, otherwise the Dunk Contest may fall back into obscurity after its resurgence in the past few years thanks to Nate Robinson and Dwight Howard.

Now, the All-Star Game itself. I already broke down the merits of the rosters in my preview of the weekend and although the rosters were slightly tweaked because of injuries, the replacements that were put in were more than serviceable.  There are no two back to back weekends that are more similar or more entertaining in sports than Super Bowl Weekend and NBA All-Star Weekend.  With the record crowd of 108,713 on hand to watch the game, the NBA went for the true Super Bowl spectacle effect. Much has been made today in the aftermath of the game that the NBA cannot go back to doing the game in regular arenas and they should cater to the large domes, much like the Super Bowl caters to warm weather environments with excellent stadiums. I don’t know if I would get that worked up about the concept yet.  There is a certain novelty to the size and newness of the new Cowboys Stadium that may not be present in other domes.  I  happen to enjoy the touring aspect of the All-Star Weekend that allows each city with a franchise to play host.  It allows for crowd favorites and a certain pride for the history of each franchise to be showcased for good and for bad.  However, it is terrific to know that the NBA is able to draw a crowd of that size to witness its product.  It is something that is encouraging to a lifelong fan of the game and the league such as myself.

The actual game, too, was terrific.  The East seemed to have the game locked up with maybe not total superior talent, but a superior competitive edge (Lebron and Wade), until the West staged a late comeback.  Deron Williams’ mental error in fouling Wade when he didn’t have to ended up costing the West the game.  The final score: 141-139.  It had all the offense you could want and even some excellent defensive plays from time to time.  Each player had his chance to showcase his abilities and at each time there was one player whom you thought would take away the MVP: Carmelo early, then Dwight Howard, then Lebron, then Durant for a short period, then Wade, then Lebron, then Wade, then Lebron, then Wade, then Carmelo if he makes this three at the buzzer-NO!.

In the end, Dwyane Wade (my man) was named the MVP.  And with the line that he put up, there was no argument: 28 points (game high), 11 assists, 6 rebounds and five steals.  He simply did what he does all year round and play perhaps the most complete all around game in the NBA.  He and Lebron worked seamlessly together and put on a fantastic display of dunks, passing and (most importantly) defense.  Watching the two of them play together is truly amazing and it will be treat to see this continue for hopefully most of this next decade.  I don’t want them to ever be on the same team, because it is too much fun to watch them compete.  Even in the game, they were neck and neck with scoring and you found yourself rooting for each one to top the other.  While Lebron sat out in the second quarter, Wade upped his scoring.  Then, when Lebron was back in, he became more aggressive and you could almost sense he was thinking “gotta match Dwyane, gotta match Dwyane.”  I don’t know if there have been two players so closely linked in their styles and competition in the history of the NBA.  That is not to use “closely” as an adjective to describe their similarity in style, but to describe the scrutiny that each has  placed on them by the rest of the league and in their comparison to one another.  Wade edging out Lebron to win this award just ups the ante that much.  Lebron has two All-Star MVPs and one League MVP, while Wade as one All-Star MVP, one Finals MVP, one Championship and one Scoring Title.  These guys could go back and forth with the accolades and awards for years to come and we will be all the richer for it.  Especially if the NBA begins is climb back to the forefront of cultural consciousness as it once did when Michael Jordan ruled the court and the world.  I hope these two are able to bring it back to that level because then the world can be further exposed to the great personalities and talents that were on display last night from players such as Dwight Howard, Kevin Durant, Rajon Rondo, Carmelo Anthony, Deron Williams, Paul Pierce, Chris Bosh and Derrick Rose.  These players are all terrific but they need the powers of Wade and Lebron to bring this game to everyone’s TV sets and not just to devoted, beerswilling fans like me.

The mixture of  aging veterans (leadership and poise), rising veterans (awe, grace, envy or the “I wanna be like Mike Effect”), and young players (hope, skill, potential) that is present in the NBA right now is bound for success.  All of these aspects were on display this past weekend and it left me, while I was watching the All-Star Game on Sunday Night, mumbling “Now things are finally back in order.”  And this year more than I ever I truly believe it.  After a decade of trying to fill the shoes of Michael Jordan and restore order to the league, it seems that the solution is not to find the next M.J. per se, but to find a level of competition, sportsmanship and personality for the league that will breed the next M.J. or transcendant player.  Lebron may be that player, Wade may be an M.J. copy and neither of them will ever be the “next M.J.” but they are laying and have laid a foundation for the league to be that great again, for the league to produce players that have the competitive fire, the knowledge of the game and the extreme level of skill that the majority of the stars in M.J.’s era had.

We will never get Michael back again.  But we can get his league back again.  And in many ways, that is a much better reward.

Small Updates

Saturday morning.  Found this picture while cleaning up the old computer.  This was from about a year ago I believe.

Small little update to some of the content on the site.  Now, at the top, you will see that I have added the "Blogger" function called "Pages."  I now have a separate page as part of this blog, which is aptly titled - Puddles of My Friends.  This is a space I will be using to post up live events that my friends are putting on.  This could include concerts, art shows, recitals, pick-up basketball games, eating chinese food, etc.  As they let me know I will let you know, which is actually one in the same so now this have become sort of meta, hasn't it?  So check it out up at the top.

Anyway, the rave reviews are coming in for my 1992 NBA All-Star Game play by play.  This has led me to think about doing a play by play for tomorrow night's game.  I think I may try to do that but ultimately just make some notes about it.  I'll have my dog at the apartment as well so I'll be busy.

 

Speaking of NBA All-Star, the Rookie/Sophmore game last night was a real treat to watch.  I'll be providing my thoughts on that game when I do the whole All-Star rundown after the weekend.  Dunk Contest and the rest of the Skills Competitions are tonight. 

Now, the next installment of "From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt":

Maggie turned toward the door.  It was hard to discern from the wall.  She went to take a step forward, but before she did she looked at James.  He didn’t make a move.  Maggie stepped –there is something off about him.  What is he trying to prove by this?  How is he playing this into his favor?  Get rid of this imposter and give me my brother! – toward the door.  She took one step after the other, watching her feet on the red carpet.  As she reached the door, she went to touch the gold square that served as the handle.  The tips of her fingers touched the gold and she turned back to the front entrance of the home.  There was only a slant of light coming in.  It’ll be a beautiful funeral.

Maggie faced the door and slid it open.  A strong blast of mixed perfumes hit her and she was overwhelmed. Death smells so much like life.  A garden, I guess.  She couldn’t focus on the people, the family that were there.  All she could see was the coffin standing up above the seated figures.  There were flowers – of course – but she only saw the form of the coffin, its smooth looking edges, the shining wood finish.  The gold that lined the sides.  Maggie felt like crying as she sniffed in the overbearing scent of wellwishers.  Is Liza going to cry?  Is James?  An image came into her mind of standing next to him at church on Easter.  She’d kept stomping his boot with her heel.  But he didn’t do anything.  He’d just looked at her, no emotion at all.  How did he do it?

She looked back and James was right behind her, still holding Eve’s hand.  He wasn’t looking at the coffin.  He had his eyes set on a man, tall and gaunt, standing at the far corner of the room.  His face was well defined by sharp cheekbones and, although it was reddish with a few lines by the eyes, held a vitality and ease in its skin.  Uncle Connor’s hair was full, whisping by his ears – a little longer than Dad’s – where the brown seamlessly became grey – a little greyer than Dad’s.

Maggie followed James’ glance.  She looked at Uncle Connor standing upright, very straight as he always had.  He looked like Thomas Jefferson – or at least what Thomas Jefferson’s portrait appeared as.

“Do you see?” Maggie whispered to James.

“Of course I do.”

“Does he?”

Maggie craned her head past James and saw her father staring at Uncle Connor. Uncle Connor remained unmoved by their presence.  He kept his head bowed.  Maggie had been so taken in by his presence that she hadn’t noticed Aunt Erin sitting in the chair right in front of him.  The man stands and the woman sits.  It’s like that in so many ways. Not only in the bathroom – though I did sit and pee while he stood and shaved before we had sex – but in the many other poses of life.  Now where’s my camera?

She felt an arm on her shoulder.  It was James’.  He nodded in the direction of Douglas Bryant who was puffing his cheeks and breath impatiently.

“Let’s go.  We have to sit up front.”

“Oh, right.”  Maggie thought briefly of the dog funeral she’d kneeled for in the snow.  That ceremony appealed more to her than what she was now engaged in.  To her, this seemed already like a pagent after a few moments, while that burial had never seemed forced, only natural.

Maggie led the way to the front.  She kept from looking at faces as she passed.  All she saw where the curved archs of the chair backs.  She didn’t even notice that they were poorly gilded with imitation gold.

James watched his sister hurry in front of him with her red hair bent.  He felt inclined to do the same, but kept himself erect.  There was something in him that couldn’t help but scan the crowd.  It was tied to the same feeling he’d felt at the Checkmate the night before.  It was a longing to see someone he knew, to be reminded of his youth, that he hadn’t felt in so many years.  And as his eyes settled on the shape of  James Cicero and Paul Gertz sitting next to each other, he felt a dread in the pit of his stomach at knowing what tied those feelings together and made them one.

Cicero was still thin, but Gertz had gotten much rounder – especially in  the face.  I knew that would keep happening to him without the sports.  He was a good drinker.  Actually, he was more of a big drinker.  Of course all that sloshing and slugging and chugging caught up to him.  James nodded towards the two of them.  Cicero and Gertz nodded back.  But I’m judging what has happened to them? Why is that my defense against what’s sitting up there?  And all of this around me - the flowers, the home, the funeral arrangement, what happens from here to the last mound of dirt – I didn’t plan.  None of this is me.  But at the same time it is. He looked away from his old friends; the friends who’d fed him liquor; helped him learn how to get girls.  He looked away from them and down to Eve at his side.  James took her hand and pulled it close to his thigh.  He wrapped his free hand around it also and squeezed.

As he walked embracing her hand, adding once more to the already innumerable times he’d held it, kissed it, outlined it, and simply looked at it, a wash of ease came over him and gave him goose bumps.  He thought of Eve.  He thought of her delicate nature, the nature that always instinctively told him to swoop her off her feet right now and hold her high into the air.  Twirl her in some way.  Would it be wrong if I did that in front of the family and friends gathered here? Would it be wrong for the baby? James pictured Eve huddling over a swaddled child.  The baby looked generic, a movie baby.  His mind couldn’t wrap around it.  He’d had images of getting a dog, but could never pull the trigger on that.  What was more important than being young, recently married and completely in love with your wife?  He looked back out at the crowd.  Someone out there would tell him “Nothing was wrong with it,” he was sure of that.  In the fourth row from the front, he thought he saw his senior English teacher, Mr. Roland.

Maggie reached the front row of seats set up on the left side of the room.  All of the places were empty.  James was struck by the large amount of flowers that were set up along the left corner, directly across from the front chairs.  There were small potted red flowers and then there were also huge arrangments, pink, white and yellow flowers.  He didn’t know the names, but there were anemones, peruvian lilies, bunches of baby’s breath, daffodils, hyacinths, roses, and carnations.  In front of these startling arrangements were two boards that were set on easels.  In the center of each was a picture of Rose.  The one closer to the coffin and her body had a picture of her when she was young.  James couldn’t remember seeing it before.  Her head was turned slightly away from the camera or whomever was taking the picture.  She looked off, past the limits of the frame, and out.  There were out of focus trees behind her and, even though the picture was black and white, her hair seemed vibrant – redder than if it were in color.  It’s amazing that a color can stand out even when its taken away.  I can’t believe I never saw that picture before.  Mom looks fantastic.  I look at Maggie and then I look at the picture of young mom.  I can feel my heart about to burst comparing them.  I always knew they looked similar but this is unbelievable! Who took that picture?  On the board furthest from her body was a more recent photo.  It was in color.  She was in the backyard wearing loose sweatpants.  There was a straw hat on her head and she knelt close to the dirt of the flowerbed by the den windows, clutching weeds in one hand, while her other was frozen in a wave.  My heart won’t slow down.  Mom looks so old in that picture!  I need to breath.  I squeeze Eve’s hand again.  I hope it isn’t bothering her.  It probably isn’t.  She can understand all of this.  I can’t understand who did all of this.  I know dad didn’t arrange for it to all be done.  Was it Aunt Erin?  Uncle Connor? James let Eve sit first next to Maggie.  Then he sat next to her, he let his eyes focus on his mother’s dead body for the first time.

The 1992 NBA All-Star Game

 

You didn’t ask for it.  You didn’t want it.  But now you are going to get it.  That’s right, in all it’s glory it is my play by play of the 1992 NBA All Star Game.  The game took place on February 9, 1992 from Orlando Florida.  The back drop of the game was that earlier in the season, Magic Johnson had retired from basketball when it was discovered that he had contracted “the HIV virus.”  Magic had announced that he would play in the All-Star Game as part of a comeback training tour to get him prepared for the 1992 Olympics in Barcelona as part of the Dream Team.  So, the NBA added a spot to the Western Conference All-Stars and Magic joined the roster.  With all that set up, let’s get to the programme.

NBC’s coverage opens with a spectacular and inspiringly choppy montage of 80’s and 90’s NBA clips, which is backed by strange outer-space early 90’s murky funk music.  The montage takes a turn to Magic Johnson clips so you know the backdrop of the game before clips of the rest of the players in the game come in as well.

Then, glory, “Roundball Rock” by John Tesh, the legendary NBA on NBC music comes in.   Then Bird, Magic and Jordan do their classic smiling acting as they pass the ball to each other through magical openings in different surfaces and windows.  The music begins to fade and then we are passed off to Bob Costas who is in Orlando with a stiff Quinn Buckner a solid defensive player from the 70’s and early 80’s.

Bob asks Quinn about the players preparation for an All-Star game.  Quinn says the players will be a little nervous but will ultimately come out to “have fun” and “compete.”  Very good, Quinn. Very good. 

Then, ever the economic sports anchor, Costas runs down the Magic has HIV backstory. While he is doing this, you have to marvel at how good Costas’ hair looks and the fact that he has always looked like child man, which has made him soothing to listen to in some way.  Costas leads us into a Dick Enberg interview with Magic Johnson.  Now, if you don’t follow sports carefully, Dick Enberg is one of the worst play by play guys out there.  However, he is great for unintentionally funny lines that sound vaguely homoerotic or innane.  His pinnacle coming in either the 2009 Australian Open (“look at Federer and Nadal fling those balls at each other”) or at the 2008 U.S. Open when McEnroe commented on the amount of people that drink New York water and asked “I wonder who takes those surveys?” (a stupid question in itself) to which Enberg responded, “Thirsty guys.”  Enberg doesn’t disappoint on this 1992 day either.

In their interview, Dick and Magic discuss Magic’s battle with HIV. Almost twenty years later, its hard to feel the impact that this story had at the time.  Magic has been healthy and living with the virus for years and HIV and AIDS have become well known parts of life.  At the time, though, this was staggering that a charismatic, handsome, rich and notoriously heterosexual black man could have HIV.

During the interview, Magic brings up a good point of how Dr. J passed the NBA leadership torch to him and that he has now passed it to Michael Jordan, although perhaps too soon.  Magic notes that he feels bad he has to because Michael has no competition left to measure himself by. Magic says that both he and Michael know this to be true and that he wishes it wasn’t.  This is a poignant point because it somehow makes Michael’s sustained success that much more fascinating since he had no true rival to work him up (maybe the Knicks collectively) when he was on top.  He competed against himself and cast his own competitiveness onto innocent bystanders.  Just an interesting point by Magic.

 

We return to Bob and Quinn who say that magic has left the door open.  Well he left quite a few doors open in the first place.  (Too soon? Still?)  They say that Magic has given HIV sufferers hope to get better.  That’s true, but they don’t have millions have dollars that Magic has used to help him fight the disease. But I digress.

We skip to pre-tip where Magic and Isiah greet each other at midcourt and kiss on the cheek.  These two are now mortal enemies.  Sad.

The starting lineups are announced:

East:
Phil Jackson – Coach

Reserves:
Michael Adams – Bullets
Brad Daugherty – Cavaliers
Joe Dumars – Pistons (Hall of Fame)
Reggie Lewis – Celtics
Mark Price – Cavaliers
Dennis Rodman – Pistons (potential Hall of Fame)
Kevin Willis (for Dominique Wilkens) – Hawks

Starters:
Charles Barkley – Sixers, but on his way to the Suns (Hall of Fame)
Patrick Ewing – Knicks (Hall of Fame)
Scottie Pippin – Bulls (Hall of Fame)
Isiah Thomas – Pistons (Hall of Fame)
Michael Jordan – Bulls (Hall of Fame)

West:

Don Nelson – Coach

Reserves:
Tim Hardaway – Warriors (originally starting but gave place for Magic)
Jeff Hornacek – Suns, but on his way to Sixers for Barkley
“Thunder” Dan Majerle – Suns
Dikembe Mutumbo – Nuggets
Hakeem Olajuwon – Rockets (Hall of Fame)
John Stockton – Jazz (Hall of Fame)
Otis Thorpe – Rockets
James Worthy – Lakers (Hall of Fame)

Starters:
Karl Malone – Jazz (Hall of Fame)
Chris Mullin – Warriors (Near Hall of Fame)
David Robinson – Spurs (Hall of Fame)
Clyde Drexler – Trailblazers (Hall of Fame) First All-Star start - hmmm…
Magic Johnson – Lakers (Hall of Fame)

Michael Bolton steps onto the court looking terrible and begins to belt out the National Anthem, wrenching every syllable that he can out of the song.  Thank god that’s over.

Players get ready for the tip and Dick Enberg tells us that the East won by two points in 1991.  The East leads the series 27-14.

First Quarter:

The East wins the tip and Jordan soars in for a layup, but Clyde blocks him at the rim.  Dick and “The Czar” Mike Fratello begin to discuss the Jordan vs. Drexler talk that dominated 1992 but was quickley discarded after Jordan owned Clyde in the 1992 Finals.

Malone hits Mullin quickly on the other end for an easy layup.  A sign of things to come.

Ewing back the other way nails his patented step back two from the baseline extended.

Magic makes a nice ball fake down at the other basket and Isiah fouls him as he goes up for a finger roll.  Magic makes both.

Barkley misses at the other end and Magic leads the break with a terrific outlet pass to Mullin who swishes a shot from the right corner. Then, Magic and Isiah exchange beautiful coast to coast layups.  Jordan gets in on the scoring with a smooth gliding reverse layup through traffic.  The action is fast and loose.  The first thing you notice is the ridiculous amount of body control and grace these guys all had.

Meanwhile, Mike Fratello tells Dick that Barkley is not a good defender but that he will make an excellent studio host on TNT someday.  No, he didn’t say the last part. Maybe if they had those Taco Bell boxes back then Sir Charles would have been a better defender?

Pippin glides in for the East and makes a monstrous dunk, which sets a theme for him for the rest of the game. Dick tells us that Scottie went to Central Arkansa on a managerial scholarship for football and was a walk-on for basketball.  Good fact.

Pippin and Jordan run an out of bounds play where Jordan fakes Clyde out in the paint and rises up for an alley-oop.  Masterful.

The West takes the ball down to the other end and Fratello points out how big the West looks compared to the East.  And damnit, he’s right.  Well, the West could trot out Hakeem, Dikembe, and Robinson.  Barkley was 6’4” for Christ sake.

On the court I notice the classic “NBA Stay in School” early 90’s campaign with the weird early 90’s off-neon colors and shapes.  Interesting how the rest of the 90’s in the NBA would be about leaving school to make millions of millions of dollars and have out of wedlock children.  Funny how life works.

M.J. and Magic exchange layups, though Jordan’s is of couse more breathtaking and gravity defying, but this was Magic’s came so we aren’t keeping track.

Magic takes a seat and the actual starter Tim Hardaway comes in.  Young Tim Hardaway was one of my favorite players of all time.  A cross over that any guard should study.

The West’s passing is absolutely textbook and its actually quite alarming how good it is.  Watching it just makes you want to jump up and start playing basketball.  Timmy drives into the lane and drops it off for David Robinson who slams it home.  How fast was Timmy? Damn.

At the other end, Pippin follows up an Isiah miss with a ridiculous dunk.  You forget how much of an athletic freak Scottie was and he was just coming up in 1992. Unbelieveable.

The subs start coming in.  Good to see Mark Price’s pale face out there. The West continues to put on a passing clinic and are slowly building a lead.

Jordan glides in and misses a layup after a magnificent drive.  Clyde comes back and makes a driving dunk and then hits a three.  After a steal from the East, Hardaway leads the break, fakes behind the back and dishes to Clyde who lays it in.  A very nice sequence for Drexler.

2:33 left in the first quarter and the West has a 12 point lead.

Price hits Pippin for a nast reverse alley-oop dunk and Pippin absolutely flushes it down. 

Staggering stat: Rodman averaged 18 rebounds in 1992!

Charles Barkley is interviewed by Ahmad Rashad (the man) at courtside.  Charles tells Ahmad, “I have one NBA All-Star MVP from last year.  I don’t need to kill myself to get another.”  And he wondered why Michael always beat him.

Hornacek and Price are on the court for the West and East respectively.  Great white guys with great heads of hair, which were outlawed by the NBA in 2000.



Second Quarter:

The second quarter opens and Rodman dunks right on Olajuwon.  Rodman would later go on to marry Carmen Electra and marry himself.

Magic comes down and does one of his classic “push the ball like a point guard, backdown my defender like a power forward and make a move to the paint like Kareem” and gets fouled.

The West is just flat outplaying the East as Hardaway nails a three to bring the lead to 14.  Dick says that Hardaway’s stats in his first three years match up with Magic’s.  More on this later.

Magic with a phenomental reverse one handed layup through the lane!  He started from the right side, shielded the ball with his body and his left hand and then finished away from the defender with his right hand.  Beautiful.

  

Magic backs down Rodman, plays a little two man game with Worthy and then nails a baby sky hook over Rodman.  Vintage Magic. Its funny, but Worthy, who was younger and much less HIV positive than Magic in 1992 looks and moves like he is 3-5 years older.

Reggie Lewis nails a smooth 18 footer for the East. He was 26 years old.  One year later he was dead.

Jordan re-enters the game and nails an 18 footer.  He has 8.

Sloppy sequence:  Michael Adams misses a 3 in the corner after a nice Jordan pass.  Hornacek takes the ball the other way, fakes drive and pulls up for about a 16 footer and bricks it.  However, even on these sloppy sequences and bricked shots, the mechanics and the moves are much crisper and more graceful than the current NBA.  Wait, how old am I?  Today’s NBA is just great!

The pace has slower considerably as we have 4:00 minutes left in the half.  The West has shot 64% as Stockton drills a three. Hornacek follows that three up with a long two from the corner.  Stockton. Hornacek.  1997-2000 Utah Jazz Teams.  Hated them.

Isiah nails a long two and the half ends with Magic having 16 points.  The West leads 79-55. This is getting out of hand.

Third Quarter:

Jordan grabs a loose ball and swishes a 15 footer at the top of the key.  He has 10.

Pippin comes back and slides through traffic and misses a layup.  Dick says, “Boy, he runs like a quarter-miler.”  Dick Enberg, making pointless asides since 1992 and earlier.

In the paint, Barkley pulls off some nice moves: behind the back fake and a dish to Jordan who slams it home with a classic leaning-forward one hander.

The West comes down and Drexler hammers is down to answer.  This is followed by Fratello mentioning how Magic said that if the Blazer allowed Clyde to take over in the clutch that they could seriously challenge the Bulls.  This storyline dominated 1992.  However, it is shortly followed by Clyde running on the break and finishing with a breathtaking layup off the glass.  He was damn good that year.

The East has another miss on their end.  Magic leads a break with superb passing, which all leads to a Robinson dunk.  Finally, on the other end Michael drives and makes another flying reverse layup off the glass.  He has 14.

For the West it is a rerun: great passing, Robinson dunk. Ho hum.

Jordan steals the ball and lays it off to Pippin who, “EXPLODES to the HOLE” according to Dick, and finishes with a nice two-handed jam.

The West is up 30 points with 6:56 left.  After a long Magic outlet pass, Drexler makes a touch pass to Mullin, who passes back to Drexler who finishes.

We come back from a commercial break and a replay of the 1972 All-Star game is shown. Jerry “The Logo” West is working on Clyde “The Glide” Frazer and then nails the game winner at the buzzer over him.  Great memories at the L.A. Forum.

On the East’s end, Michael drives in from the corner, gets his head as high as the rim, decides not to lay it up and leaves it for a Ewing dunk.

Isiah cuts the West lead to 100-76 after a jumper.

Drexler steals the ball and takes the ball on the run.  He glides and hammers home a one handed curling dunk.  Very nice.  Clyde has 20 points on 9 of 14 shooting.  Dick Enberg explains that he is a Clyde Drexler fan – a very touching moment.

The West is just destroying the East, they just can’t miss. You know that the talent in the game is good when you mumble, “Even Worthy has 7.”  He is one of the 50 Greatest Players of All Time.

Clyde again has the ball in transition.  He splits two defenders and hammers home a Jordanesque split leg dunk.  112-81, West.  After the dunk, Dick wonders who gave him the nickname Glide.  Where is Marv Albert for the love of God.

Olajuwon blocks two Pippin dunk attempts at the other end.  After that sequence, Tim Hardaway takes the ball down and nails another three.

Price catches a long pass on the East’s end and makes a simple reverse layup while Dick says he is “feisty enough to be a wide receiver.” Ummm…Jerry “Feisty” Rice?

Fourth Quarter:

The camera pans the crowd and we get a great MC Hammer and entourage shot.  Give me Jay-Z and Beyonce or even Lady GaGa any day.

A “1992 NBA Headlines” graphic comes up:

1.    Magic retires
2.    Bird and McHale Ail (the Celtics were already slipping)
3.    Bulls – 70 Win Season? (They fell off.  This was four years too soon, but may have been the best Bulls team)
4.    Riley’s Knicks Lead Atlantic (get fans hopes up only to choke repeatedly for years)
5.    Dominique Wilkens Out for Season (Poor ‘Nique)
6.    Heat Hot for Playoff Spot (Tsk. Tsk.)
7.    Pacific – 4 Games Separate Four Teams (Kind of like the West now)

The camera moves back to the crowd where there is a great shot of David Stern on a landline phone.  Where is it coming from?  As Stern is on the phone, Fratello reflects on his greatness. 

In the game, Lewis passes to Barkley. Barkley misses the pass.  This is the millionth missed pass by the East.

7:53 left in the game.  125-90.

Tim Hardaway in transition again. He dribbles between the legs, moves through the paint from right to left and finishes with a lefty layup.  This leads to the Hardaway vs. Magic graphic after three years:

Hardaway: 205 games, 19.7 points per game, 9.3 assists per game (Wow!)

Magic: 192 games, 18.9 points per game, 8.5 assists per game.

Very interesting comparison. I loved Timmy.  He had injuries that slowed him down, but he did have all the tools and the potential in the world.  1992 Tim Hardaway was to be admired. 2006 Tim Hardaway: “Gay people don’t belong on this planet or in this country.”  Oh, Timmy.

133-96 at the 5:30 mark.

Jordan with a smooth pass to Barkley for a dunk to get the East to 100.  Isiah then steals a Mutumbo pass, dishes it to Barkley who dunks right on Mutumbo.  He was only 6’4”.  What a freak.

Magic brings the ball down and drains a 24 foot three pointer. After an East miss, Magic takes the ball to almost the same exact spot and nails another three.  The crowd is on its feet for this.  The next West possession, Magic hits Majerle with a textbook backdoor pass and Majerle lays it in.  Every player on the West has scored.

Lasting images from the game: Isiah plays Magic one on one.  Isiah playfully dribble as Magic playfully defends (didn’t he always?) and then chucks up a three as the shot clock expires. 

Lasting images from the game:  45 seconds left and Jordan plays Magic one on one.  The crowd is on its feet.  MJ takes it easy on Magic, drives baseline and takes a difficult jumper that misses.  Magic brings the ball down and backs down Isiah.  The crowd is going crazy.  The shot clock winds down and Magic takes a step back and puts up a three.  He drains it with three seconds left on the shot clock!

The East lets the clock run out.  West wins big.  Magic is the MVP.

 

Well, it isn’t one of the legendarily competitive All-Star games, but it had all the talent;  it had the Magic storyline; it had the vintage NBA look of the late 80’s early 90’s; young Bob Costas; John Tesh “Roundball Rock”; Ahmad Rashad; and terrible Dick Enberg commentary.  A must watch for any NBA fan.

If this doesn’t excite you for live NBA All-Star action this weekend, then I don’t know what will.  I’ll enjoy it and I hope you tune in. Or maybe you can crack a beer with me and watch it all.
 

Keep On

No, I didn't take that picture.  Artsy right?  Tired of the snow pictures right?  Yeah, me too, but I wanted to get something up here tonight.  I just watched the North Carolina/Duke game on ESPN and it was probably one of the worst games in the long storied rivalry.  I should have been writing a long post about that rivalry, instead UNC is having a terrible year and Duke is mediocre at best.  Nevertheless I am frustrated.

Tomorrow, I will be putting up my play-by-play of the 1992 All-Star game for those of you who like basketball, jokes and gushing hyperbole.

Coming soon will be reviews of the movie "The Last Station," Thomas Wolfe as a writer, and the books "Family Album" by Penelope Lively and "A Fan's Notes" by  Frederick Exley.

Then of course will be my run down of All-Star weekend, which begins Friday.

Also, if you read this blog and would like me to write my thoughts on any albums or books, just e-mail me or post a comment and I will be happy to look into it.  I'm looking for a next album to review anyway.

Now, the next installment of Part II of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt.




Above a purple flower arrangement there was a brooding portrait of Mr. Abraham Bryant.  The background was Dutch Black and Doug’s father looked pale and forboding wearing a small smile.  Ben remembered Abraham.  He remembered how he and Connor used to use Doug for rides at school.  Abraham Bryant would drive them home in the family hearse.  Ben had always found it amusing – as he’d tell in stories when he was grown – when they’d pull into the driveway to shout, “Back from the dad, ma!”

    Ben felt the flask in the inside pocket of his black suit jacket.  It weighed down the breast slightly, but in the mirror it wasn’t noticable. The last time he’d come to a wake at Bryant and Sons, it was for Lucy. It had been good to see her made up and smiling, some color in her.  It was much better seeing her in peach than in the red he’d left her in after the surgery. I did that stone sober.  No, not this time.  But maybe then I wasn’t sober either.  There is nothing sober about guilt and anger.

Doug held out a meaty red hand towards the sliding handle of one of the home’s doors.

    “Wait,” Ben said. “I want the kids to bring me in.”

    “But,” Doug answered. “You have guests and well wishers waiting.  I don’t condone this in my home, Ben.  I’ve let it go on enough.”

    “God damnit, Doug.  Just give me this.”  Ben squeezed his sunglasses in his right hand.  He looked Doug directly in the face, every moment or so glancing at his developing jowels. “I’m sorry.”

    Doug looked down at the carpet.  He wiped his recently shined loafer in a windshield wiper semi-circle on the floor.  It left a whitish streak behind. “I’ll go in and tell them you’ll only be a moment.”  Doug went to open the door, but stopped and looked up at Ben. “I never liked a drunk.”

    “Neither did I,” Ben said.  He felt half-surprised at and half-prepared for the remark.

    Doug considered the exchange – felt nothing - and slid open the door a crack.  He managed to slide his husky frame in with an appearing ease.  Ben could make out Erin through the door’s opening before Doug closed it.  Maybe he’s here. The white of the door merged with the white of the wall making the room seem hidden.  Ben walked over to the purple flower arrangement and put the sunglasses back on his face.  He looked up at the darkly tinted face of Abraham Bryant.  He glanced quickly from side to side and took a long pull from his flask. Burn Sark! Burn upon my sea! If Crane wasn’t gay would he have jumped ship and drowned?

Abraham Bryant, right before he died, was the one who told Ben that he would’ve done the services for Tom had he died in the creek that day.  A family of bastards – the father and his sons.  I don’t remember George that well, though.  He’s probably around here shilling for more bodies.  Ben concealed the flask and stooped down to smell the flower arrangement. Despite the taste of scotch on his tongue, he smelt the perfume of the plants.  There were gladiolas, pansies, darker purple roses, which gave the whole arrangement its morbidity.  His wife, Rose, had never smelled like these flowers, the stale air in this building.  She’d smelt like moist skin, like mint toothpaste, like dish soap, broth, and, when they went out, like vanilla extract.  He wondered if they rubbed their smells on her body when she was dead and naked and lying before them.  Will her body smell the way the Bryants wanted it to smell when they lower her into the ground?

Ben rose from the flowers, he wouldn’t admit it, but he felt faint.  His feeling of faintness was not due to his drinking, but from the overwhelming sadness and loneliness that had suddenly overcome him.  It was as if the bittersweet – or even too sweet – smell of those grotesque purple flowers had given a scent or brief form to the life that waited for him without Rose.  The bright red carpet appeared to recede from him, but at the same time it was elongating and stretching out for an eternity.  What am I?  Will I have to live forever without her? Do I have a hundred more left in me?  Left for me?  He steadied himself on the wood table. No, I’ll just have to hang on for a few years and die warm in my bed.  Maybe I’ll put a glass of milk on the nightstand too, for the cookies as my last supper.  If its going to be a last supper then I’ll have to put the milk on her nightstand.  I’ll have to clear it off first.

“Dad,” Maggie said from behind.  She touched Ben’s side.

He turned slowly and put his hand on top of her hand. “Ah, thank God its you, Mags. I was afraid it might be a ghost.”  As he faced her he saw his other three children standing behind and beside her.  He saw Eve standing back, her hand low holding James’.  His oldest son James who seemed to have lost some of his confidence or poise in the few days since he’d come home.  Ben knew this observation could’ve only been all of the drinking, but he also knew that it could’ve been because of all the drinking.

“Oh, Dad,” Liza stepped up next to Maggie.

“Well,” James said. “Shouldn’t we go in?”

“Man’s eternal dilemma,” Ben answered.

Tom laughed without looking at his father.  He kept his eyes on the picture of Abraham Bryant.  What was up his ass?  That could’ve been man’s eternal question too.  At least that’s what it seems like everyone is always wondering about each other.  No, but we should go in, we should take the plunge.  Will I feel sanctity like in church, will there be a meaning in there?  Maybe she’ll come too. Now that’s a plunge.

“What are we waiting for?” James asked.

“Is Uncle Connor here?” Maggie asked.

“Ah,” Ben began.

“The other⎯”

Ben nodded.  He pointed toward the door. “Lead the way, kids.”

Snow?

I once wrote a story a long time ago called "Snow."  It was a brooding story very much in the influence of James Joyce.  Things really haven't changed so much since I was 17.  Anyway, we are supposed to get this big snow storm tomorrow.  Who knows if it's going to touch down.  I kind of hope it does just to get a little change of pace, though I would like to be up and about when it happens to walk around in it and see the panic in the faces of drivers on the city roads.  There is always something funny about the snow in the city.  Anyway, I'm feeling restless as usual and wanting to get out of the city and out into somewhere with space.  But I am trying to leave my job with grace and in doing that I have to swallow a great deal of hobo pride - as much as it pains me and makes me tired.

In any case, as I said last night, Part I of From Here to The Last Mound of Dirt is finished.  I will begin posting excerpts from Part II now.  Part II is drastically different in its perspective from Part I.  There are no short first person sections that break it up. Part II is made up of three long sections from the respective persepectives of a funeral director, Douglas Bryant, a limo driver, Peter Kosciuzko, and two gravediggers, Jack Simmons and Ed Verlaine.  Each of these characters exists at varying distances from the O'Donnell family, who are the focus of the novel.  This section is really the crux of the novel and the whole concept rides on it.  So, please follow along and let me know what you think.



Bryant and Sons Funeral Home stood white, bright and proud along Old Town Road.  The black lettering of the name was no different than any other funeral home in a ten mile radius of town.  The curves of each character were set with a bolder font, which made the name seem bigger.  The name Bryant – in bold – was regal, classical and, most important of all for the said family in propriety, memorable.

    Douglas Bryant paced the cement front steps impatiently.  In his pocket he thumbed at a piece of loose, callused skin that was on the edge of his middle finger.  He checked the watch on his other wrist.  “Damnit,” he thought. “That bastard O’Donnell is running late.”  He’d heard from Susan, his wife,  that Ben had gone on one of his famous benders again.  Susan had heard this from Ben’s sister-in-law, Erin.  Connor was always the more respectable brother, never carrying on like Ben had.  Funeral Director Bryant wondered if there had been any public displays as there had been years ago, the kind everyone talked about.  The most famous was when that widow who lived on West Meadow found Ben sleeping in a bathtub on the piece of beach behind her house.

    Douglas reminded himself to stop picking at his skin.  His hand rested in his pocket, slowly sweating onto the fabric.  A light breeze pushed his white hair back.  He looked across the street at the brick high school which stood equally as proud.  A small faint smile moved over his lips.  Cars moved in and out of the school parking lot and he felt as though he could hear the uncaring shouts of the students in and outside of the hallways; hear the stick and pull of cleats on the wet September fields.  There was a chance the football team might be good this year.  His son, Frank, was a nose tackle.

    Douglas listened to the traffic pass and continued to think of his son.  Frank was born with the same unfortunate husky build that he had carried his whole life.  However, Frank had used althletics to turn that shape into something positive, something admirable in terms of sacks and tackles.  Mr. Bryant sighed and realized he was picking at the skin on his finger again.  They weren’t getting along – he and his son – and Douglas blamed it on himself.  He was tough on Frank, wanted him to have a standout season and get a chance to go to a big university.  That would give him the possibility to get away.  Douglas looked up at the proud black lettered name on the building.  It would give Frank a chance to avoid entering this business, a business that he – Douglas – was supposed to love and cherish as much as his father Abraham.  God rest his soul.

    The loose skin fell off Funeral Director Bryant’s finger and dropped in a corner of his pocket, lost to him.  From the white noise of traffic two cars veered into the parking lot.  Douglas checked his watch and then peered into the window of one of the cars.  Ben O’Donnell was riding in the passenger seat.  The car stopped and one of Ben’s son’s stood up from the driver’s side.  It was Tom O’Donnell.  He was the strange son, the one with all that potential, who’d been at the head of the class but who’d never gone away.  The one who’d tried to kill himself three years ago.

    “How late are we?” Tom O’Donnell asked, his sharp face squinting in the sunlight.

    Funeral Director Bryant didn’t want to be stern, he didn’t want to seem like a hard ass. “Fairly late I would say,” he began.  Realizing that his tone sounded gruff, he tried to change it, but found his voice cracking. “Your family has been waiting for about twenty minutes.”

    The passenger window rolled down.  Ben O’Donnell, wearing sunglasses – surely not out of grief, thought Funeral Director Bryant – stuck his head out.

    “They can stand to wait.  All of them, Douglas.”

    Douglas Bryant was taken back by this blatant rudeness.  But before he could say anything, Tom O’Donnell spoke up.

    “I’m sorry, Mr. Bryant,” he said. “We’ve been getting calls all morning.  My father’s been having a tough time –"

    “Don’t apologize for me,” Ben O’Donnell said.  He opened the car door and got out.  Douglas Bryant noticed Ben stepping with a certain looseness in his step, almost a wobble, but it was held together. Yes, he still had to be drunk.

     “Dougie can take a little joke. Can’t you, Doug?”

    “It’s up to you how you want to honor your wife, Ben.  I’m not one to make judgments.”

    “Sure you are.”

    The second car honked and Tom O’Donnell gave a small wave. “We’ll meet you inside, dad.”  Then he stooped in, his dark face vanishing, and both cars continued around the corner of the building.

    “Let’s go, Ben,” Funeral Director Bryant said, walking briskly up to the heavy white front doors of the home.

    Ben followed him.  His limbs felt light and alive as he watched Doug Bryant’s round frame move in front of him.  Doug pulled open the door.  Ben stopped.  His head felt remarkably clear, there was no ache or bluriness.  Everything was bright and seemed to sit exactly right,  even Doug in his greenish black suit and his slightly damp parted white hair.  Ben took off his sunglasses.  He looked Doug up and down, then hugged him.

    “You’re a saint, Doug.”

    “Thank you, Ben.  I appreciate that.  But anything we can do, you know –"

     Ben passed by him and stepped onto the red carpet.  It was thick and gave with his shoes.  The carpet could carry him along on its spring, it would be able to carry him through this entire ceremony.  He didn’t need carrying, though.  This was where her wake was.  Connor over there by the door looking in at the crowd as I entered, like I am now.  He’s not here. Can I make out his ghost?

    “This way, Ben,” Doug said from his side.

The Super Bowl

It's funny how twenty-four hours can change everything.  On Sunday afternoon I was reading Bill Simmons' latest mailbag and in one of his dissections of a reader comment, he made the remark about how far Peyton Manning of 2010 had come from Peyton Manning circa 2003-2004.  The new Peyton Manning was clutch, a guy you would never bet against with two minutes left in a game.  The 2010 Peyton Manning was the ultimate quarterback.  His coach, Jim Caldwell was a limp replacement for Tony Dungy, a figurehead who knew that Peyton was really coaching the offense.  And as the Colts headed into Miami and their Super Bowl against the Saints,  you had to believe that this was Peyton Manning's time to place himself into history.  He'd already banished the demons of the Patriots and the label of "never won the big one" back in 2006.  And each year he'd steadily rewritten his own on the field failures.  So, now at the dawn of a new decade, with one of the symbols of the past 20 years of the NFL almost certainly fading away (Brett Farve) it seemed  like Manning was about to take the great stone ledger and etch his name into it.

However, for whatever reason it was not to be.  You can call it outcoaching, you can call it fate or you can simply call it good defense, but Peyton threw the game away when it mattered most.  The Colts had a perfect opportunity to tie the game and send it into overtime, but Peyton underthrew a slant route to Austin Collie and the Saints took it the other way for a pick six. I'm not a superstitious guy, but I do believe in fate and fate isn't handed to you, its made up of elements that are there, lingering in the air and then you connect them together to make the reality.  Fate is timing, fate is position and fate is action.  Last night, Peyton Manning had the elements all there: a third MVP season, a second Super Bowl Title pending, a reputation as the best quarterback of all time, a reputation as the model of the quarterback, in other words, entering a plateau that maybe only Michael Jordan, Wayne Gretzky and Muhammed Ali exist on.  However, Peyton was rattled, he threw the pick and then this happened:

What filled in the void created by the thrust of Peyton's action?  It was the story of Drew Brees as a great guy, as perhaps the best quarterback in the game over the past two years.  It was the images of Drew Brees holding his son as the confetti fell around them, Drew lightly crying while his son wore headphones and drooled slightly.  It was a tender moment, that proved the advertising mind behind the Google advertistment during the game true.  That damn Google commercial that showed time passing through the words the search box only to end with the search for the question, "how to assemble a crib?"  It was the best passing of time sequence since UP.  But that's what this Super Bowl did. It gave the world a chance to glimpse true success: achievement at your job, achievement in your community,  achivement in the pronlonging of human life.  In some strange way, the Saints win put Drew Brees on display and without knowing it, with a smirk like Tom Brady or a frown of determination like Peyton Manning, he showed us the allures of succes, of working hard, of enjoying what you do and in the end, just enjoying what life can give you.    He meant none of this obviously, it was just images on a screen and a belly full of beer. 

Now, I don't want to be hard on Peyton.  I truly think he has become an impeccable athlete.  I love his current public persona as well.  I think he is an amazing competitor and I've never seen a football player like him, much less a quarterback.  And there is something fascinating in the way he has always flirted with perfection and the journey of becoming an historical figure.  However, maybe the allure of seeing Peyton succeed and become fixed and static with achievement isn't what we want.  Maybe we need to see him fail only to have him pull himself together again to show his resiliency and his form. 

What gets me, is that out of the two postures in the pictures above I don't know which is more intriguing.  One is obviously the posture of defeat and the other of victory. However, Peyton Manning is by no means a loser, but there is something about his posture that makes me think of a song with slow piano, like "Congratulations" by Paul Simon or (and maybe I have been watching too much of Ricky Gervais' Extras) "Tea for the Tillerman" by Cat Stevens.  The confetti of the celebration falls around the form of Peyton Manning and he realizes that he's tired and there's something else out there, that no matter how much success he has there will never be enough for him or anybody else that follows him and wishes him well.  And maybe, just maybe he has to walk away, let that weary piano dictate his soul to the next destination.

Would Peyton ever do that? No, of course not.  Does it seem like a good story or even a cliche? Sure does.  Does it seemed like misplaced thinking for my own weariness of job and position in life?  Most likely.  But what good would sports be if they couldn't change history in the span of twenty four hours?  What good would they be if they didn't make you question your own mettle and achievements?  What good would they be if they didn't make you think of music?

Exactly.


Editors Note:  In my last post I was mistaken when I mentioned that The Sanctuaries would be playing at Cake Shop on February 25. The show will actually be on February 23rd, which is a Tuesday.  Its not on the calender on the website yet, but trust me its going down.


Now,  the next installment of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt.  This is the last portion of what is known as "Part I" of the book.  The next section features a drastic shift in perspective.  Rather than be told from the perspectives of each of the living O'Donnell family members, the next Part is broken up into three larger sections, each told from the third person perspective of a character in relation to the family. The first is the funeral director at the funeral home, the second is the limo driver to the cemetary, and the third are the gravediggers at the cemetary.  I will be breaking these sections up and providing them to you at cut-off points I deem appropriate.  Please continue to follow me if you have been.

James

There’s dad in bed.  I’ve got the lamp on.  The lamp that was on mom’s side.  They both look the same, the dark green shades.  Her magazines are still laying next to her clock.  Harpers, New Living, Better Homes & Gardens.  A book is draped over the clock, marking the page.  It’s Sons and Lovers.  D.H. Lawrence.  One of those pastoral looking paintings is on the cover, like all the old  books they gave us in high school.  I look up to the lamp and follow its light over to dads’ shape beneath the covers.  He licks his lips.  I watch him as I put the glass to his lips.  The water tilts and he drinks and there are drips falling to the sheets.  I put the water back.

“You’re in a bad way, huh, dad?”

“Ah, Jimmy, I’ll be alright.”

I laugh hearing it.

“You’ve been calling me Jimmy a lot since I’ve been home.”

“Ah, Jimmy, James, what’s the difference? There’s nothing in a name.”

I turn down to my knee.  I scratch the denim.

    “I think there is.”

    His lips smack.

    “A rose by any other name a Rose.”

    I look up.  His eyes are still closed.  His body is stretched out beneath the blanket.  It looks like he just fell from the top of a building, spread eagle, right on his back.  The light shapes the curves of his body.  It makes him look bigger than he ever was.  I’ve been bigger than him for years, but he had that thin toughness, that look to him .  Everyone used to call it old-man strength, the power that came from within your manhood when you got married and gave birth to a kid, the power of protection. It was supposed to be the same stuff that lions and bears were made of – all males.  At least Cicero and Gertz used to say that about coach at practice.  About dad too.

    “Are you going to be alright tomorrow, dad?’

    Licking again.  Now his eyes are open. 

    “Me?”

    I laugh. “Yeah, you.”

    “I’ll be alriight.” He stops. “I was there one night.  It was at a club in Manhattan.  I forget the name now, but it was downtown.  I think it was ’71.  Billy was playing there.  I got so drunk with him before the set that he was playing with his feet.”

    “Piano Man with his feet?”

    “This was before that.  He was still a kid, he was  younger than me and I looked up to him. Anyway - Billy tried to get me to come up and play with him, or at least sit at the piano.  The owner didn’t like that and he got a little physical.  Billy was gone to the world and he tried to hit him with his glass –scotch I think.  He missed and smashed the glass over my head.  The next day,” he stops, smacks. “Aieee woke up with noo hangover and noo headache.  I took my MCAT.  The score that got me into school.  That’s what a train ride will do for you.”

    “Jesus, dad.”

    “He couldn’ta done it better.”

    I laugh and I feel something over my shoulder.  I feel Eve.  I turn and there she is.  Leaning in the light from the small hall into their room.  I feel her?

    “I looked up to younger people my whole life.”

    “Who else?”

    “Your damn uncle.”

    I can’t think of something to say.  I look back at Eve.  One hand is under her chin.  She loves dad.

    “Will he come tomorrow?”

    “If he does, it won’t be because of me.”

    He closes his eyes.  In the dim greenish light it looks like a tear is on his lid.

    “I don’t mean to upset you, dad.  I’ll let you sleep.”

    He opens again.  His eyes are red.  He pulls the blanket down again.  I see his legs move a little closer together.

    “Are you going to be OK, James?”

    “What?”

    “Tomorrow? Are you going to be OK?  Because I can tell somethings not right.  After watching you for almost thirty years and seeing people look up to you, and seeing how your siblings can’t seem to understand or break your courage or poise.  I see something new that I haven’t.”

    “I⎯”

    “People loved me cause I was a drunk and could make ‘em laugh. People love you for something else and I can’t see it so clearly right now.”

    I look down again.  I reach for the carpet.  My vision is watery.  The green light makes me feel heavy and clumsy.  Now Eve is on my shoulder – her hand.

    “Go with your wife,” he says. “Tomorrow is the beginning of the end.  And I mean that in a way.  Its good and bad. I’ll stitch myself back up on my own.”

    “Ben,” Eve says.

    He just closes his eyes.  I turn up and her sight is off in space.  I look to dad’s lit shape, his dim frame.

    “What if I call Uncle Connor?”

    “Don’t call my brother.”  His lids stay shut. “We wear suits and dresses tomorrow.  What is tomorrow anyway?”

    “What do you mean, dad?”

    “Let your wife take you to bed.  She’s a beautiful girl.”

    I push myself up with my knee like I was in a huddle on the wet grass of the field in the morning.  I wish I could hear the birds chirp like they did on a Saturday or Sunday.  I take Eve’s hand and look at her.  I look at her and I know that I love her as we walk around the bed. I keep my grasp on her soft and clammy skin as I turn the lamp on mom’s side off.  We’re in the darkness, a few slants coming from the hall.  I feel sobriety.  I feel the light in Eve’s stomach.  I just don’t know what it all means to me as my father sleeps spread eagle in his bed, drunk, dreaming of his wife.

    A rose by any other name a Rose
    What is tomorrow anyway?

    It’s a funeral for my mom and his wife.  I’ve got a wife who’s about to be a mom.  What does that make me?

Thursday

Ah, remember those Thirsty Thursday college nights? Yeah, I don't really either - forget about 'em.  This is just a little link post to get us into the weekend.  The Super Bowl is coming up on Sunday and a snow storm (somewhat?) is supposed to hit tomorrow night.  I'll hopefully be doing some more sketch filming this weekend if the weather permits.  I will also be enlisting the help of any local Italian deli to provide me with a submarine sandwich for the Super Bowl.  I know just the place, Graham Avenue Meat & Deli, although the Lorimer Street Meat Market is just as good.  Anyway, after the super-serious Gene Clark post from yesterday, we will be moving back to basketball with my play-by-play of the 1992 NBA All-Star Game.  I know how I'll be spending my next day off from work.

Two new links to point out.  The first is my old college roommates band, the Sanctuaries.  You can find a link to his music on the side - his name is David Stern.  However, now he has a band he is playing out with and you can find them listed as the Sanctuaries.  They played at Brouar Falls on Grand Street last Sunday and should be playing at Cake Shop on February 25.

The second is my friend Emily Schenkein and her excellently (read, perfectly) titled blog - Piles of Fruit and a Fully Stocked Bar.  There may be a reference there I am missing, but I love the name anyway.  Check her blog out because it is very good.  You like interesting people right? World's Coolest Dude 2007 wouldn't lead you wrong, right?

On a personal note, keep any eye out because I entered the manuscript of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt into the Amazon CreateSpace Breakthrough Novel Contest.  This is for a shot at a book deal with Penguin.  The first round of judging begins next  week so I may be able to post some feedback up here.  We will see.

Anyway, stay tuned for the new material that I am always bringing to the table.

Now, the next installment of From Here to the Last Mound of Dirt.

Ben

Yes, I’m on the floor.  I feel the drool coming out of my mouth onto the floor.  It’s moist there already.

“You been kissin’ girls, Connor?  God knows Benny’s kissed a few.”

He was a strong and funny old man.  A little too hard on Connor, though.  He used to slap his back and you could hear that slap.  Thock. Hulpth.  A smack is supposed to be fleshy, but this was hollow. 
Here are the girls now.  My blondie on the left and Rose reincarnated on the right.  Is it too soon for reincarnation?  She couldn’t be reincarnated anyway, because she already was.  She is.  So then maybe I’ll look forward to a flower coming off of a tree, or an especially beautiful shepard dog, or perhaps a girl who is too young and sweet for me – like her - will pass me on the street one day from now.  That’ll be ten years or maybe even one hundred years from now and it’ll be her, hair riding behind her, a small wave and that slow creeping smile, like the fade-in of a piano on mono speakers.
“Dad, are you alright,” I hear Liza say.  She kneels down right above me.  I can feel her.  It’s funny how you can feel your own children, its like that organ inside of you is a radar, that glowing recognition of yourself out in the world – a full entity beyond you and inside of you forever. I smell a freshness, something like dirt.  It smells like a moist night by the harbor.  It’s Mags.

“Mags,” I hear myself mumble. “Dance Maquokeeta! Play piano man play!”

“What, dad?” I hear her. “Looks like the damage has been done old timer.”

“Shh, Maggie. I ain’t that old.”

“Not that old, did you say? Maybe not.  But I can think of maybe one of your organs that is.”

I hear the touch of fabric.  It was like a slap.

“Just grab his other arm-pit,” it’s Liza little sing-song.

When dad used to slap Connor on the back it was because he saw something womanish in him.  It was because he was so close to mom.  He must’ve had a few and walked in on Connor confessing his soul’s purpose to mom one of those nights they used to sit at the table after dinner picking at scraps of chicken, or dipping bread in the vinegar at the bottom of the salad bowl.  He was going to be a poet-doctor, like William Carlos Williams.  He was just sensitive and found himself around girls like mom, whether it was at school or at the altar with Erin.

“You looked like sunshine up there,” I said.

“That was weak for such a cunning wordsmith,” Erin said.

“And you,” I turned to him.  He looked handsome.  A little too thin for his tuxedo, but looking suave, pushed back and relaxed like he always did.

“Thank you, Ben.”

He put his hand on my shoulder.  The younger one got married first.  I feel pressure underneath my pits.  My wings are lifting. Praise be to⎯

“Just pull him up, Liza.”

“I am.  Maybe we’re not that strong?”

“What the hell is that clicking noise?”

“It’s the record player I think.”

“Oh yeah.”

I feel my arms hit the rug. 

“Oops.”

“I think I’ll get James.”

“Damnit.  We can do this without him.  The two of us.  Get his legs. I’ll get the armpits.”

I want to laugh but my mouth doesn’t want to.  I was always ticklish down at my ankle.  When Rose found out she was unmerciful! 

“Is that his tickly little ankle?” She talked to me like I was baby.

“No no no! What’s the ransom?”

“Tell me how much you love me.”

“I thought a girl like you didn’t need to be remindahahoo.”  I rolled back on the bed.  She leaned over me.  Her hair covered her face and she moved it.  Her breasts dangled.

“All girls need to.” She ran her fingers gentler.  Five feathers along my bones.

“OK OK.  But what if I have no words?”

She stopped and looked down at me. She kissed me.  She kissed me hard.  Then she pulled away.  Our lips and eyes only so far apart.  Silence, sheets, the smells of our bodies, her breath beginning to turn before bed but I loved it.  I loved it!

“I’ll invent something new.”

I feel myself lifted.

“We got it, Liza. We got it.”  Mags again.  Ah, its always about the girls.  Now its these two.  First my mother who feared God and I feared her and stuck to the shadows where you could curse and didn’t have to be controlled, didn’t have to keep your foot above the break.  Then it was the faces and tinkling music of girls at school, passing passing always passing skirts and jackets.  Then Rose.  She was nothing but – what?  She was everything.  I  saw her from all angles.  I saw her bleed, I saw these girls come out of her.  What was Rose but all colors and all girls and all lights and all clothings and every album and song that I ever loved?  She was that touch on a piano key that makes you think you could live forever.  Do I still have it?  Do I still have it in me to live forever?  Or is that gone with my stitching?  Is all my fabric bleeding out all over this house?  My blood, piss, and half-oxidized alcohol.

The girls at school:

    Connor and Benjamin O’Donnell,
    They were born with their heads in the bottle.

“Just down the hall.  We’ll take a break at the stairs.”

“I’m losing grip on his ankle.”

“Right here, c’mon.”

Now it’s these two.  My blondie and my – my Mags.  I can see Liza ahead of me a litle blurred holding two logs. My legs.  I lean my head back.  Mags’ blurred face, a little point in there on her chin.  Like Rose of course.  I lay my head on my chest and keep my eyes closed.  I’m riding out to sea.  I’ll let myself explode like a Cutty Sark.  I’ll try to live forever.

“Ok, here.”

Thud. Ow!  Right by the fucking ass!

“Oops.”

“What the hell was that?” I hear James.

“Well big – little brother.  Here’s your everloving father.  I think we may need your help hoisting him the rest of the way.”

All my children are here.  My wife is dead.  But where is Tom?  And what is tomorrow anyway?

No Other or The Story of the Story of Departure

Late one night this week, I was listening to this song “Boats” by this band Spring and thinking about departure, because, well, the song is about departure.  I was thinking about departure and about the feeling of a rainy night in April; one of those first mild nights, when you realize that the leaves are back because you can hear the rain pat from one leaf to the next as it falls to the ground.  The sure-fire passion and burning anguish of those cold, thin, winter nights are gone and all that is left is the cool mild air and the feeling that it is all coming back again – the insects, the long nights, the birdcalls, the dirt and scrapes on your knees, that comfort of pushing up your sleeves with a perspiring bottle of beer in your other hand.

When I think of all of this, I see the streets of the neighborhood I grew up in – the sand lined streets, with old colonial and Cape Cod homes butting up against oddly placed late 80’s architecture.  Because what are our childhood homes but the symbol of departure, the image that we use to draw the word and give it meaning to us.  Our childhood homes – not only being places of comfort and inestimable light, warmth and longing – are those places where we can draw forth the life into phrases like, “That’s why I’m this way,” or “That’s what I’m going to do,” or “That’s what I was going to do.”  It is from there we were bound to leave and to there we are destined to gaze when measuring what we don’t have, when measuring our levels of depravity, insomnia, imagination and longing.

"What the hell does this have to do with Gene Clark?  Where are you taking us Domino?"  Well this all has plenty to do with Gene Clark and his album No Other, which opens with one of my favorite songs, “Life’s Greatest Fool.” This is one of the funniest serious songs of all-time.  Now, I don’t reveal too much about myself personally on this blog, but this song in tone and lyric truly nails what I imagine my personality to be.  I’ve said that Gene Clark’s version of “Tears of Rage” is the sound of my soul to one unlucky listener a long time ago, which was actually ages ago (O, hyperbole!), but “Life’s Greatest Fool” taps the nail on the head.  It lopes along amiably with nice slide guitars, tinkling piano and mid-70’s backing singers.  Yet, underneath this lolling dog appearance, Gene Clark delivers some of his most poignant lyrics, lines like, “Do you believe deep in your soul, that too much loneliness makes you grow old?” or “Words can be empty, though filled with sound,” or  “Formed out of pleasure, chiseled by pain, never the highest, never the last one to gain” and “Children laugh and run away, while others look into the darkness of the day.” None of these lines is as pleasant as the galloping honky-tonk on coke rhythm and the last line may even sound like leftover 60’s sentimentality (images of children, etc.), but it’s the last images that strikes true with the rest of the rambling I put above.

This image of children looking into the darkness too reminds me – perhaps obviously – of the neighborhood where I grew up.  These lines suggest the sun setting over the harbor water while I’m standing on one of the slow rising streets up to my home.  But like I said earlier, that vantage point will always be departed from, it is only that image that allows a word like departure to even have meaning for me – for us – because I know what it is to move away from that point  into a perceived loneliness, into a darkness, which is just a departure, which is a change, which is a leaving of something behind.  Now, was Gene Clark trying to say any of this when he wrote the song? No, probably not.  But when he asks if you believe deep in your soul, that too much loneliness makes you grow cold, he sings it like he means it and that’s what makes my imagination move.  Was Gene going through hard times when he wrote this song? Maybe. The album is overproduced to a certain unintentional perfection and  it sounds and feels like a night on coke (credit Allmusic).  But those children looking into the darkness of the day are the ones growing old, they are the ones feeling loneliness at the word departure – at the images they carry with them of a girl on the beach by the reeds with three beer bottles dug into the sand, the kissing stalled at a stop sign, remembering to keep your foot on the break, of the runny nose end of a football game at twilight in late October.

This is an album about bottoming out so of course we’re going to be looking back from whatever apartment we’re in, from whatever art we’re trying to make, or from whatever love we’re trying to find meaning in and think about the departure.  “We all need a fix at a time like this, but doesn’t it feel good to stay alive,” Gene says in “Some Misunderstanding” amid more of that tinkling piano, throbbing round bass, and those damn 70’s backing vocals that make it all that much more dense (the drums on this album are pretty universally outstanding the whole way through). Elsewhere in the song he says that “maybe someone knows what fate is” and “maybe someone knows just why/All I know is its all connected/Maybe someone can explain time.”  Obviously these are the words of someone – a singer, a character – who has fallen off.  But they are also somewhat commonplace questions that we all ask when we’re looking for some kind of answer of identity.  The you of your childhood neighborhood is not the same you as now and maybe you feel bad about that, but maybe there is some kind of fate, maybe there is someone who can explain time, and maybe a fix can certainly help, but its probably better to just keep on going.  These are the things you think about when you think about departure, when you think of those old October evenings and the smell of fries and fried chicken from the neighborhood deli.

Even in the more upbeat country shuffle and pedal steel guitar of the next song, the “True One,” ol’ Gene realizes that “Changes come so quickly easily it can seem bizarre” and that “The longer you stay in one place, the harder it is to leave.”  Even though we lament our departure from whatever we thought we had or from whatever home we though there was, there is no chance we would have ever stayed.  We only have that place, we only have the word "departure" because we left.  When you walked those old streets and scuffed your feet on the pavement, you only had a vague outline of the word, but now you can use it and access its colors and shades because you’ve known it.  The changes are always going to come and you’ll always be left at the station or you’ll always leave someone at the station – because you just have to, otherwise what identity are you going to have for yourself?  What pain will you know? What words will you even be able to speak to tell someone you love them?  The longer you stay in one place, the harder it is to leave because there are more responsibilities to do the right thing and to be fair and merciful to those you know.  However, the truth is that the right thing to do is to help someone grow and often that means departing.

I’ll only go a little further in this exercise.  On the title track “No Other,” the main verse of the song says:

All alone you say 
That you don't want no other
So the lord is love and love is like no other
If the falling tide can turn and then recover
All alone we must  be part of one another

That verse sums the whole thing up very nicely.  We all carry some kind of belief that we are all alone, that we alone stay up scanning the nighttime sky and rooftops for some kind of satisfaction or peace – that calm that we so confusedly grasp for.  We don’t want anything else but what we want and we want someone else just as much as we want to be alone.  And at the end of the day we want that first word known to all men, so the lord is love and love is like no other because love is the love that loves to love the love that loves.  Yet, all alone, we must be part of one another, we must bow ourselves in the collective solitude of the universe and realize, as Joyce put it so eloquently in Ulysses, that “each imagines himself to be the first to enter, whereas he is neither first, nor only, nor alone in a series originating in and repeated to infinity.”

You may not enjoy Gene Clark’s sometimes nasally, but always yearning voice. You may not enjoy overproduced 70’s albums that have been relegated to a certain obscurity, although your corner coffee shop in Williamsburg does play it when you grab a cup on the way to work.  You may not enjoy a guy brow-beating you to death with meaning on his blog.  However, we are always in the process of departure and we can always remember those sensations of the rain on an April night.  Or, one winter afternoon, while you are running, you can see past the clumps of snow on the ground and see a street where the traffic has broken for a moment. The sun is high in the sky and its light spreads over the entire pavement and makes it appear completely gold for a minute – maybe not even gold, but some color you don’t have words for.  And even though you’ve been running and are exhausted, you see that clear piece of  shining road stretching as far as you can imagine, and even though you know the night will come with its cold and its snow, you feel like you could just run and run forever and never stop.  And maybe you can.  Neither Gene Clark or I is going to tell you otherwise.