Playing Hooky

Wednesday marks the end of baseball’s regular season.

And the end of the worst fantasy baseball season I’ve ever had.

Considering I’ve been playing that make believe sport since 1987, that’s saying something.

But as much as I love the fantasy game, there’s nothing like going to a real one.

Our local team wrapped up its home schedule last week with one of those mid-week afternoon delights.

So I did what any good father would do.

I took my son out of school at 11 in the morning.

And we headed to the stadium.

When my son saw me waiting at the front desk, he thought for sure he’d been busted.

For what, he didn’t know.

But the last thing he expected to hear out of my mouth was...

“Do you want to go to the game today?”

You should’ve seen the smile on his face.

It was like I had asked him if he wanted to leave school early to go to a baseball game.

I knew he had a science test in the morning, so before we left I asked how he did.

“104%”, he said.

What?

Does he think I was born yesterday?

Percents only goes up to 100.

Before I could complain to the principal.

My son informed me he got the extra 4% for a bonus question.

Must be the new math.

So off to the game we went.

To say my son was excited about the day’s developments would be an understatement.

104% on his science test.

And now this.

On the way to the game I shared a story with my son that my dad had shared with me when I was around 12.

It went a little something like this.

My dad was raised in Jersey City, New Jersey.

A stone’s throw from New York City.

One beautiful spring day.

“The first beautiful day of the year.”

My dad and his buddies were walking to school.

As they got closer, one of the boys had a brilliant idea.

“Today is way too beautiful to go to school.  How ‘bout we play hooky and go to the Yankees game?”

What boy could say no to that?

So they zigged instead of zagging.

And headed towards the train station.

As the story goes, on their way there they ran into their teacher.

It was pretty obvious these boys were not headed to school.

But away from it.

So when the teacher said, “where are you going?”

The answer “school” wasn’t really an option.

So they took the leap of faith.

And told him the truth.

The teacher took a long pause.

Then said, “would you mind if I went with you?”

SAY HEY WHAT?

And off they went.

My dad said he treated them like kings.

Bought them peanuts.

AND cracker jacks.

Of course, everyone was sworn to secrecy.

Which my dad honored.

Until the time was right to share it with me.

I think my son loved that story as much as I did.

For our day of hooky, we got to the stadium more than an hour before the first pitch.

Unheard of for me.

But a perfect time to get him some autographs.

We worked our way down to the first base area where the home team comes out to the field.

And we waited.

And waited.

And waited some more.

There must’ve been 372 people just like us.

Waiting for autographs.

Finally 31 minutes before the game, a handful of players came out to do their stretching.

May not have been all starting nine.

But there were at least seven.

Including the hot shot center-fielder who was greeted by a rousing cheer.

A cheer he didn’t even acknowledge.

Maybe he had his iPod in.

The multi-gazillionaire infielder followed him.

Now I realize that every second is precious.

But this was “fan appreciation day”.

I’m sure you could find a few seconds to make the day of a 12-year-old.

Even if it wasn’t my 12-year-old.

After all, you make 17 cents every second.

$10.46 a minute.

$627 an hour.

$15,068 a day.

$105,769 a week.

All guaranteed, whether he gives 104% or not.

He got on the field at 12:39.

Left at 12:57.

Never said a word.

Never looked our way.

“Did he sign an autograph?”, you say.

HA!

And neither did any of his teammates.


Not a one.


Sure my son was disappointed.

But nothing a footlong hot dog couldn’t cure.

I said “when you make the major leagues I hope you don’t forget how you feel right now.”

“I hope so too,” he said.

For the next three hours we sat in a baseball stadium.

And enjoyed every pitch.

And every hit.

It was a perfect day.

And a perfect game.

Maybe someday he will share this story with his son.

Sweet Child O' Mine

Michael King.

One of the most important figures of our lifetime.

Well, you may know him as Martin.

Martin Luther King.

Jr.

In 1935, King’s father changed his name and his son’s name from Michael.

To Martin Luther.

In honor of the 16th Century German Protestant Reformer.

I learned this last week.

From my seven-year old daughter.

My seven-year old daughter who skipped first grade earlier this school year.

Yes, I probably should’ve known this about Mr. King before last week.

But they somehow forgot to teach us that information.

At my Hebrew Day School.

This morning she told me that the Statue of Liberty was modeled after the sculptor’s mother.

What kind of school is she going to?

What happened to extended recess?

My daughter is in a great time in her life.

Sure, she bickers with her older brother.

And sometimes with her older sister.

But at age 7, almost everything is perfect.

Oh to be seven again.

Tomorrow is a big day in her little life.

Maybe the biggest so far.

Maybe the biggest day of the 2,746 she has spent on this earth.

Tomorrow will begin like any other.

With a smile.

That’s how she begins every morning.

But that’s where the similarities end.

Sometime around Noon she’ll be on the steps of our State Capitol building.

Reading an essay.

An essay she wrote.

An essay voted the best in our state.

From anyone in her grade.

When I got the call a couple of weeks ago, you would’ve thought it was Ed McMahon on the phone.

With one of those giant checks.

I was so excited someone I had something to do with was so special.

Of course, I didn’t need the phone call to tell me that.

But it was a nice reminder.

This girl is truly something special.

And I am lucky enough to live it up close and personal every day.

She loves singing and soccer and school.

She even loves things that don’t begin with the letter S.

Like softball....

Um, swimming.

Let’s move on.

The point is, she loves life.

And I love watching her love life.

Sure, there are many days I’m home, wishing I wasn’t.

But there is never a day that I don’t want to be with her.

Or her brother.

Or her sister.

And that’s a gift Mr. McMahon couldn’t touch.

Now for most humans, including myself, a trip to the State Capitol would be the day’s headline.

But tomorrow, that’s just the beginning for her.

When we are done there, we are heading back to her school.

For the annual talent show.

As a second grader, she had to go through an audition process.

I’m guessing Simon Cowell wasn’t there.

But I know they didn’t let just anyone in.

My daughter has a lot of talents she could’ve brought to the table.

But she chose to sing.

And why not.

She’s been participating in a local choir for the last year.

But singing a song in English...

...that would’ve been too easy.

Instead, she chose a Spanish song.

Except she doesn’t speak Spanish.

But something attracted her to Cielito Lindo.

The legendary Mariachi song.

You know it.

Ay, ay, ay, ay,
Canta y no llores......

You know it.

Trust me.

And I know it too.

Well I knew it before the talent show.

But I  r e a l  l y  know it now.

She’s been singing it around the house non-stop for the last few weeks.

Who knew I had the words wrong all this time.

Let there be no doubt, I’m very proud of all of my kids.

That’s my job.

(My only job.)

And I truly celebrate every one of their accomplishments.

But there is something very special about tomorrow.

Now it shouldn’t come as any surprise that my kids are talented.

I won things too.

Um...

Like...

...In 12th grade.

In 12th grade I stuffed more marshmallows in my mouth than anyone else in high school.

34.

That’s a talent.

Right?

Invisible Touch

There is nothing better than a great movie.

A movie that captures every emotion in your food chain.

Blazing Saddles made me laugh like I had never laughed before.

I cried when Goose died in Top Gun.

The twists and turns of No Way Out shocked me.

And Silence of the Lambs.

It still scares the fava beans out of me.

The key to a great movie is seeing a good movie before you know anything about it.

Exhibit A -- The Crying Game.

I saw it the day AFTER someone told me about the big, well no so big, surprise.

Needless to say, I was not surprised.

There really is nothing better than watching a movie that grabs you.

And shakes you.

And brings out an emotion in you.

Any emotion.

That’s what happened to me last week.

It was a film I had never seen before.

In fact, I had never heard of it.

And knew nothing about it.

But it was a film I will never forget.

It’s called Tony.

It was produced by a group called Invisible Children.

A group, I am ashamed to admit, I had never heard of until I sat down in that chair.

It’s more documentary than movie.

And it was more real than any reality show.

It left me speechless.

And that says a lot.

I’ve been trying to write this blog for four days, but I couldn’t find the words.

The right words.

But here goes.

Long story short, it’s the story, the true story, of a group of college-age boys from the United States.

Looking for a direction in life.

So they headed to Africa about ten years ago.

On a whim.

To see how the other half lives.

They visited a village in Northern Uganda where they learned about life.

And death.

We’ve all seen the pictures before.

But there was something different about this.

At least for me.

Maybe it was how normal these American kids appeared.

Or maybe it was how normal these African kids appeared.

But for about 45 minutes I was in a coma.

I didn’t move.

I just stared at the screen.

I’m not even sure I was breathing.

The basic story was about how a terrorist group called the Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) swept through Uganda killing anything in its way.

As it was explained in the film, the LRA consists of a group of soldiers who are abducted and brainwashed into becoming soldiers.

Only these soldiers are no soldiers.

They are children.

Young children.

Tony was one of the lucky ones.

If you call his life lucky.

The heartbreak he has endured during his short time on this earth is enough to break anybody’s heart.

And spirit.

But not his.

Somehow he avoided the LRA during their sweep through his country.

As did Angwech Collines.

Thankfully she stayed out of harm’s way as well.

Her cousin was not as fortunate.

Collines told the story of how her cousin was taken away.

And turned into a killer.

Fortunately, her cousin was eventually able to escape from the LRA.

But not before damage had been done.

Collines story was one of many that made this film a must see.

For me.

And for the children.

The not so Invisible 100 or so Middle School children I watched the film with.

Invisible Children makes these films and takes these films to schools around the United States.

Exposing our kids to a life they couldn’t even comprehend.

A life I couldn’t comprehend.

The film had all the drama you would ever want from a movie.

The only difference is that this was all true.

No Hollywood ending here.

No riding off into the sunset.

No sunset.

By the end of the film, life had been sucked out of me.

I was literally in tears.

But this experience was far from over.

In fact, when the film ended, a young girl picked up a microphone and stepped to the front of the room.

This young girl was Collines.

The girl we had just seen in the film.

She was in the U.S. for the first time, here to talk about the work of the Invisible Children.

Here to talk about how this group has changed her life.

And has changed her country.

For 20 minutes, she fielded questions from the audience.

An audience of children.

They asked about her cousin.

About her country.

About her dreams.

They asked her why.

And who.

And what.

And where.

And she answered every question.

And when she was done, several kids went up to her.

And gave her a hug.

A moment that can only happen in the movies.

Breakfast With The Beatles

My seven-year old daughter was sick yesterday.

So she stayed home from school.

Poor girl.

Lucky me.

I got to make her breakfast.

Something we call an Egg Surprise.

That’s when you cut a hole in a piece of bread.

Throw it in a pan.

Drop an egg inside the hole.

Egg white in this case.

And fry it up.

And when you bite the bread.

SURPRISE!

It tastes like an omelette.

Well kinda sorta.

After that we took a 90-minute nap together.

We read books together.

We laughed and sang together.

It was a perfect morning.

So perfect, that at one point, I just started mumbling the words to “I Feel Fine.”

By The Beatles.

It was the line, “I’m so glad, that she’s my little girl.”

That made her smile.

Which made me smile.

While my rendition of the song was pretty darn good, if I must say so myself.

It definitely wasn’t even better than the real thing.

So I went on youtube to show her what the song is really supposed to sound like.

I typed in... “I Feel Fine” and “The Beatles”.

And in half a second I found “about 4,180 results”.

About 4,180?

Either it is or it isn’t, right?

Anywhoo... we had more versions of that song than Microsoft has versions of Windows.

I had a live version from the classic Shea Stadium concert.

Another live one from Japan.

A piano cover.

A version by The Supremes.

A version without vocals.

And then with vocals.

A guitar lesson on how to play the song.

And about 4,174 others.

About.

God Bless youtube.

And God Bless The Beatles.

I certainly couldn’t stop there.

We listened to one of my all-time faves, Oh Darling.

Revolution.

Real Love.

And a handful of others.

Including “Here Comes The Sun.”

A song she recognized.

“Hey, that’s from The Bee Movie,” she said.

A movie released in 2007.

38 years after The Beatles released the original.

It was cool watching her play air guitar.

Better than I play the real guitar.

And air drums.

Not quite like Ringo.

One thing that was really neat about the youtube videos was all the old pictures of the Fab Four.

I got to tell her about Sgt. Pepper.

And Ed Sullivan.

And the album cover from Abbey Road.

Actually she knew that one.

“That picture is hanging in my teacher’s room.”

Cool teacher.

She wanted to know the four names of these lads.

So I told her.

And then quizzed her on who was who.

My version of home schooling.

She didn’t do so well.

I think the matching mop tops and ever-changing facial hair threw her off.

With all of the black and white photos, she asked if all four guys were still alive.

That’s when the conversation changed.

I explained that Paul and Ringo are still with us.

And that George died from smoking cigarettes.

Maybe not 100% accurate, but close enough for a seven-year old.

And another good home lesson.

Then came the story of John Lennon.

I shared the details with her.

Keeping it as simple as possible.

But she kept asking.

And I kept answering.

As simple as I could.

And in the same way it didn’t make sense to this 13-year old boy on December 8, 1980.

It didn’t make sense to his seven-year old daughter.

30 plus years later.

I was eventually able to change the subject.

By playing her some of John’s solo stuff.

Including a little ditty called “Beautiful Boy”.

A beautiful song John wrote for his son five-year old son Sean.

Within a few lines, my daughter started singing along.

It’s a simple song.

But very touching.

For the last verse, she changed the lyrics.

To Beautiful, Beautiful, Beautiful.... 

Beautiful Dad.

I’m so glad that she's my little girl.