Andrew and Me

Andrew and I spent last weekend together without his mom, who was off to a high school reunion in Wisconsin.

It turned out to be a somewhat traumatic and intellectually challenging experience for both of us.

He’s three, and pretty smart for his age.  He knows and understands words.  He has good instincts.  He seems to sense what is happening around him. He knows when it’s time to go to the bathroom, and almost always knows how to tell me. He announces in his own way when he is hungry or thirsty. And when I put his food in front of him he won’t touch it until I put grated cheese on top.

I sense that he really likes me. He follows me wherever I go, even into the privacy of my bathroom. He sits under my chair when I eat. He even comes with me to den to watch the Indians game…and unlike me he seems rather relaxed about it.

Is he suffering like I’m suffering? I asked myself, after my once beloved team began to fall apart.  My jaws were tight, my mouth dry I was sweating, wondering what this embarrassing performance  means to the reputation of my beleaguered town…I’m beginning to hate the coach, the owner and everything about the team. I even hate the announcers. 

The New Normal Run Amok

   I winced the other day when the main story on page one of the New York Times declared pretty much without equivocation that births out of wedlock are the “New Normal” in America.
   My initial reaction was one of sadness for the nation and for the mothers who either by choice or by pain of abandonment go it alone.  But mostly a personal pain for the children, primarily for the boys, who must grow up without a father.  You might call it, as does the Cleveland Plain 
Dealer, "Fatherless in America. A national tragedy.”  I was startled to learn the 76 % of children  born in Cleveland out of wedlock.  fatherless boys we are told are much more likely to end up in jail, to fail in school, to become jobless.
   A national tragedy you bet.  If we wnt to fix  America, here's a very good place to start.
   I drew partly on my own experience as I wrote this story about “LeBron and Me” a while ago touching on this subject.. This is a slightly expanded and updated version that tells it as it is, or, at least, as it is for me.…

LeBron and Me

I felt an eerie, uneasy kinship with LeBron the other night as I watched him slowly, painfully walk off the court in Miami, in defeat in game six with Dallas in the NBA playoffs.

I wondered how he really felt inside.  This huge boy in a man’s body, lifted by passion and athleticism to heights few mortals ever reach,

What are his inner resources? To whom can he turn as he feels the pain of loss? Not to the man who made his mother pregnant at age 16 and never returned.

I think I know something about that sense of loss. And the inability to deal with it likes a “man”, so to speak.

Like LeBron, I grew up without a father.  It was not good experience.  This devastating loss of the man in your life leaves a hole in you gut a mile wide. And it never really goes away.  No matter how hard you try, on the basketball court or on the courtyard of life.

Particularly when the man you came to depend on disappears, or in LeBron’s case, was never there at all.
I was enchanted when he told the journalists at a news conference after the playoff loss that it was truly up to “the Man upstairs” to determine when he would ultimately win that coveted championship ring. Something, he had indicated he wanted more than anything in this world.

Hunting Down The Welfare Queens

             I was attracted to Joe Nocera’s column on the Op Ed page of this week’s New York Times (Living in Fear of the NCAA) that tells us of the probing into the very personal financial lives of the families of some college star athletes. The column set my mind wandering back 60 Years to a time when I found myself professionally involved in what you might call, the hunt for “welfare queens”, a similar, but slightly different situation.

            I was a young reporter quite new to the business, and somewhat naive to the realities of big city daily journalism. I was assigned to the “health and welfare beat” of the Cleveland Press. The job was touted by my top editors as key for Ohio’s largest newspaper that had earned a reputation as serving the fundamental needs and interests of the hard working blue collar population of our great town.

           Our  compasionate concern for the working poor, the sick and helpless, and their struggles for a decent life in our heavy industry town separated our newspaper from the rest. Indeed, Time magazine had just listed The Press one of the ten greatest newspapers in the nation. 

Coming To Terms With The Enemy

       It is often said that time is of the essence.

       Indeed:  As the seconds, minutes, days and years, tumble relentlessly by, the movement of time emerges as a haunting, implacable enemy.  Chasing you from behind.  Catching up even as you seem to run faster. And then leaving you in its dust once more.

          I don’t like that. I never have. 

          I recall, many years ago, as a young journalist, I was dating a very attractive red-headed social worker who I had met while covering the Juvenile Court. She was a joy to be with. One night we drove down to Perkins Beach, a lovely, fairly private place to park to look at the stars, or whatever.

After philosophizing about the beauty of the brightly lit downtown skyline, I put my arm around her and moved close, as though to kiss.  She pulled away. “Too soon”, she whispered through her warm, perhaps passionate breath.

“Finite anxiety” was the problem, she said almost clinically, concerning my move to caress her.  Too frantic. Too focused on time, advised this lovely young Baptist who declared that she believed in reincarnation. For her, time was a friend. For me it was the enemy.  Needless to say that relationship, with its excellent potential, never went anywhere.

Time had taken its toll.

I have often wanted to stop the movement of time.  To make it stand still to force it backwards.  To dispose of it entirely.

          Now that I have moved well into my golden years this intense pursuit of the runaway clock has become much more than an intellectual enterprise.

 I have tried to convince myself that time itself does not actually exist except as the concoction of some Middle Ages scientists who were trying to calculate the movement of the sun around the earth and, after Galileo, the earth around the sun.

         But, as the age of reason progressed, time became almost pervasive. The master, rather than the servant. There was the March of Time weekly feature at the movies, Time Magazine, and of course, Timex watches which “keep on ticking when they take a licking,” as John Cameron Swayze used to say on the radio.