9/11, 9/12... What's the Difference?

I never met Tom.

And I never will.

Tom and I worked together.

Sorta.

We worked in the same building.

A big building.

But we never met.

As far as I know.

Tom never met his son either.

The boy was born in the spring of 2002.

Six months after September 11, 2001.

The day that Tom died.

Tom was a passenger on one of the planes that struck the World Trade Center.

He was headed home.

To be with his pregnant wife.

He never made it.

As you might imagine, I heard nothing but good things about Tom after that tragic day.

And apparently it was all true.

Tom was just a good guy.

Living the dream.

Making plans to be a dad.

For the first time.

Unfortunately he was in the wrong place.

At the very wrong time.

Sadly, Tom’s story is far from unique.

The list of people who were in the wrong place.

At the wrong time.

Runs long.

Very long.

2,977 long.

That’s the number of people who lost their life in the attack.

Ten years ago.

Today.

It’s still hard to believe.

Impossible to believe that what we all watched that morning was real.

And not some terrible made-for-TV movie.

I went to bed on September 10, 2011 with a disturbing image in my head.

The image of Denver Broncos Wide Receiver Ed McCaffrey breaking his leg on Monday Night Football.

Tuesday morning I didn’t even know a game had been played.

I woke up to a phone call that day.

I was told to put on the television.

When I asked what channel.

I was told, “it doesn’t matter”.

None of us saw the first plane hit the North Tower at 8:46 that morning.

But 17 minutes later we all saw the second plane hit the South Tower.

Again.

And again.

And again.

Even if we didn’t believe it.

It was real.

From that point on, it was impossible to turn off the television.

No matter what channel.

I will never forget watching the towers fall to the ground.

Like somebody had lit the game of Jenga on fire.

Like you, I have seen the horrifying images dozens of dozens.

Of dozens.

Of times.

And each time, I watch with my mouth wide open.

Even ten years later.

Exactly ten years later.

It’s still impossible to believe.

Impossible to comprehend.

To think that there were real people in those buildings.

It’s more than the human heart can handle.

When you think that there were brothers and sisters.

Fathers and mothers.

Aunts and Uncles.

Real people.

Losing their lives in front of our eyes.

It is a tragedy beyond words.

Exactly ten years later, many of us have moved on.

Maybe most of us have moved on.

Especially the lucky ones who didn’t lose anyone on that day.

Of course 9/11 is a day that this country will never forget.

But it is a day that many in this country will never truly remember.

For some, the only lasting memory is a longer wait at airport security.

Not being able to carry on toiletries more than 3.4 ounces can be such an inconvenience. 

Or God forbid your bag needs to get checked before you enter a stadium.

For so many, 9/11 is now just a day filed on the annual calendar.

A sad day?

Absolutely.

A tragic day?

No doubt.

A life changing day?

Not so sure.

Just a day.

You could certainly make a strong case that the war that ensued has affected many more people than those affected by the events on September 11, 2001.

In fact, since 9/11 more than twice as many U.S. Service Personnel have been killed in Iraq and Afghanistan than in the original attack on our soil.

6,239.

And counting.

Gone.

And many forgotten.

Of course there was something extra special about 9/11 this year.

It was the 10th anniversary.

And in this country, we love big round numbers.

But for the families that were changed forever ten years ago today.

Like Tom’s family.

There’s really not much of a difference between 9/11.

And 9/12.

A Perfect Game

When I was 12 years old my dad and I went to the Catskills.

In Upstate New York.

We spent a few days (and nights) at Grossingers.

The swingin resort.

For Jews.

50 and older.

To say I stood out like a pre-teenager at a Jewish resort.

Would be an understatement.

32 years later, I still remember a few details about our trip.

One.

We were there when Yankees Catcher Thurman Munson died in a plane crash.

And two.

Grossingers served a lot of herring.

Pickled herring.

Creamed herring.

Smoked herring.

And we ate them all.

(I’m not sure I’ve had herring since.)

Last week my 12-year old son and I made our own trek to Upstate New York.

But there was no Scandinavian fish involved.

Just baseball.

100% baseball.

We were in Cooperstown, New York.

The home of baseball.

And we were there for a baseball tournament.

What else?

Actually this was not just “a” baseball tournament.

This was “THE” baseball tournament.

The most incredible week of baseball I have ever experienced.

And I didn’t even play.

For 12 weeks this summer, 104 “12 and Under” teams will make the trip to Cooperstown Dreams Park.

That’s 104 teams PER week.

For 12 weeks.

1,248 teams.

About 12 players per team.

14,976 players visiting a city with the population of 1,852.

To play baseball.

Add three or four coaches.

And a couple dozen parents.

Per team.

And we are approaching 50,000 visitors for the summer.

Do you think the Cooperstown Tourism Board is a fan of Dreams Park?

These teams are coming from all the country.

Alabama to Utah.

Houston to Hawaii.

To Florida.

25 teams from Florida.

1 from Delaware.

And that’s just last week.

It didn’t take us long to realize that we had no chance.

We come from a place where baseball is king.

From March through July.

The teams from Florida and Georgia and Texas and California play year round.

Or at least they could.

Our team entered this shindig with an 18-game winning streak.

That streak ended about six minutes into our first game.

Most of our boys are pretty good baseball players.

For 12 year old boys.

But compared to the man-childs we were facing.

We had no chance.

We faced a team from Tennessee where several of our players went up to the waist of several of their players.

No joke.

As long as you don’t turn 13 before May 1, you are eligible.

I’m sure most of the teams were on the up and up.

But we ran across several teams who brought in extra players just for this tournament.

I guess you could say there were more ringers than an AT&T store.

But this tournament is a big deal.

And the organizers definitely know what they are doing.

Every thing was first class.

23 baseball fields.

All with lights.

That work.

10 of those fields broadcast games live on the internet.

A couple dozen batting cages.

For teams to practice hitting.

Acres of perfectly manicured grass.

For teams to practice fielding.

Grounds crew at each stadium before EVERY game to re-chalk the field.

Concession stands where you didn’t need a gold card to buy a hot dog.

They have definitely found the formula.

And it works.

Which may explain why they just entered their 15th year.

So far, they’ve had 12,669 teams.

343,000 innings played.

210,000 home runs.

1.1 million runs scored.

One team in 2008 -- from Miami -- hit a record 73 homers in one week.

(We hit three.)

Several major league stars played here.

Before they were stars.

David Price of Tampa.

Matt Garza of the Cubs.

And Washington’s Bryce Harper, the #1 Overall Draft Pick last year.

Like the Olympics, the week starts with Opening Ceremonies.

Including skydivers.

Like the all-star game, we had a home run hitting contest.

And then the games begin.

Which was the worst part for us.

By far.

If you made me, I’m sure I could nitpick and find something wrong with the tournament.

No place to hang clothes in the barracks.

How’s that?

Yes, we lived in barracks for the week.

Ok, that’s a whole ‘nother blog.

But everything included, this was an incredible experience.

For everyone.

My best trip to Upstate New York.

By far.

Home Alone

Thomas Wolfe once said you can’t go home again.

Or maybe it was The Moody Blues.

But either way, I can go home again.

And I did.

Sure, it wasn’t the way I drew it up.

But I’m back.

Back at the scene of the crime.

Back in the city where my career ended.

The first time.

Back in my old stomped on grounds.

In a different house.

But the same city.

A city where I know where to find the best burger.

The best tamales.

The best $4 cup of coffee.

For $2.

You know, the important things.

I’ve been back for three+ months now, but it is still weird.

Weird to be back.

Home.

If that’s what this is.

I was supposed to be in New York right now.

That was my destiny.

Um... destiny schmestiny.

So much for those best laid plans.

Was that Thomas Wolfe too?

Sure there are a lot of advantages to being back.

But there is one giant disadvantage.

The constant reminder of going back.

As in backwards.

A year ago at this time I was without a job.

Filling my days at home, with something.

A year later, I am without a job.

Filling my days at home, with....

Something.

Sure, there are things I love to do with all that free time.

Many things.

Like anything with the kids.

Band practice.

Working out.

Going to Costco.

But what I don’t like is that constant feeling of coulda, woulda, shoulda.

Sometimes it feels like I never left.

Did I really spend three months in New York?

Or was that just a dream?

Or a nightmare?

I have the blogs to prove I was there.

I think.

And I also have the scar.

Covering up the other scar.

All-in-all, I will NEVER regret my time in New York.

I wish my family would’ve been with me.

But it was one of the most amazing times of my life.

I saw Jersey Boys.

Twice.

Nothing better than that.

But the time here?

Home.

I can’t say the same.

Ok, the first four years were good.

Sometimes great.

But still, to think of the careers.

Of my thirty co-workers.

Friends.

Executed, with no notice.

That’s a moment I will never forgive.

Or forget.

And yes, I realize that carrying a grudge is as healthy for me as one of those burgers.

Or seven of those tamales.

I still carry that grudge with me.

Everywhere I go in this town.

And I hate it.

Just the thought of where I used to work makes me sick.

I was told “that’s business, get over it.”

I was told that 33 hours after we were all blindsided.

Told that by the guy who cowardly let his people get wiped out.

And he’s still there.

Working in the same job.

Every day.

Like nothing ever happened.

Karma, are you listening?

Don’t get me wrong, I wish no ill will on anyone.

Not even him.

Really.

But I have always believed that people get what they deserve.

Good or bad.

Eventually.

I still have some friends who still work with that company.

Well, facebook friends.

I don’t really talk to them.

I don’t want to talk to them.

It’s definitely a case of “it’s not you, it’s me.”

These are good people who are just trying to make a car payment.

I’m the one who can’t get over it.

I’m the one who had a former co-worker walk in front of my car the other day while I was parked at Costco.

And instead of lifting my head to say hello.

I looked down.

And let her walk by.

I’m the one who saw a former co-worker at the gym today.

And instead of saying hello.

And faking a smile.

I walked the other way.

It’s really not a good feeling.

And definitely not a proud feeling.

But it’s a feeling.

A feeling that won’t go away.

And I was once told that you can control your actions.

But you can’t fight your feelings.

I think that was Thomas Wolfe.

Or maybe REO Speedwagon.