In the Engine Room

"I am not afraid of storms, for I am learning how to sail my ship," Louisa May Alcott.



The muddy river water pools around my feet, which are thrust beneath the seat in front of me.  My left hip is hugging the gunnel's edge, while the right one is slightly rotated away from the middle, allowing greater reach with my paddle.  Sweat continues down my face, under my chin and quickly disappears inside the life preserver hugging my chest.  The temperature inside the vest must be ten degrees hotter than the air temperature, which is hovering around 83 degrees.  Above me, an American Eagle glides gracefully through the air -- unlike the 595 pound boat which I find myself in.  Around us, the Black River is a choppy assortment of waves and debris aided by a gusty July wind.

Our steersman yells, "Attention madam!  Paddles ready!"

I ask myself one last time, am I ready?  How did I find myself in this boat again?  What sounded like a good idea last year has become reality along with the aching muscles and sore back.  Mentally I am focused on the water lapping against the side of the boat.  It is a brownish-green liquid about to be slice and pulled behind by my wooden paddle.  Physically, I am stiff despite the ten minute warm-up consisting of squats and arm circles.  It will only get worse.

The air horn to my right blasts the silence as 20 paddles plunge simultaneously into the water. 

 

It has been nearly a year since my last visit to the Engine Room.

During that time, I have turned another year older, scratched my cornea twice, broken my thumb and volunteered to be a part of the Big Blue Dragon Boat Race held in La Crosse on the fifth day of July.  Some more painful than others, but valuable lessons -- each and every one.

Unlike my last race in Dubuque, Iowa, my understanding of the sport of dragon boat racing is much better.  Our crew of doctors, therapists and nurses are now familiar to me.  Friendly faces which were smiling with the satisfaction of participating are now replaced with a determined visage inoculated with knowledge from a winter camp held in Florida.

The Engine Room, not to be confused with the Timing Box or Terminators, is now etched permanently in my mind as a place where your paddle digs deep and pulls with power for practically the entire race.  I joked with my wife that they hired me for my muscle, not my mind  (and then she tells me they must not think much of my muscle either, because they're not paying me anything).

The Engine Room is located in the middle of the boat in rows 4, 5, 6 and 7.  My row companion is a big man who likes to remind me that there is always more to give.  When you think you've paddled as hard as you can, there is always another attempt where you will be asked to give "just a little more."  John -- who broke a paddle in the Dubuque race -- is also the only one of us who can get us to laugh by doing a bluegrass boogie dance best left to the imagination.

The night before the race I dreamt that I was rowing so hard that one of my arms fell off -- much like the movie "Monte Python and the Holy Grail."  Lori, who is one of our lead strokers, turns around and says, "Don't stop paddling!  Use your other arm!"  My dream continues, of course, until I've lost both arms and legs. For passionate strokers like Lori, the Engine Room is ALL about effort.

The Timing Box is the first 3 rows and includes our lead strokers.  This is an area where some of our most determined rowers set the pace for the entire boat.  Our practices stressed the importance of three things -- all under the influence of those people in the Timing Box --  timing, endurance and focus.

The success of our boat starts with the timing set by our two lead strokers.  It is critical to get a good start.  If not, you will find yourself half a boat length behind the leader before you can finish your initial push.  For this year's first two races we went with a wet start, which meant we buried the paddle up to our hands.  When we found ourselves falling behind, we switched to a dry start, which gave us a better jump on the competition and resulted in a reduction of almost 2 seconds.

Endurance is equally important for the middle of the race, and one we seemed to excel at.  In every race we gained on the lead boat the longer we paddled.  With each race going 300 meters, your Timing Box must set the pace to a level that can be maintained for most of the race.  It's not until the final 50 meters that the word goes out to push harder. This is where close races are lost or won.  Nothing gets left in the boat as we grunt, gasp and snort our way to the finish line.

Terminators are in the last three rows of the dragon boat.  These rowers must have strong front end grips to keep the pressure on the fast water passing by.  As you can imagine, water towards the back of the boat is very fast -- all of it coming your way from the paddlers in the Timing Box and Engine Room.  It is very easy to paddle in the last few rows, so it is very important that this group apply steady pressure to their paddles throughout the race. 

Assisting in this process is the steersman who is in communication with the drummer (at the front of the boat).  Throughout the race, communication and understanding of the number of starting strokes, power strokes and finish strokes is key to a winning time.  The boat's length of forty feet may not seem like much, but when a terminator's paddle needs to enter the water at exactly the same time as the lead paddle, focus is the key.




In utter exhaustion, I hang my head as river water runs down my left arm and legs.   Despite my heavy breathing, I can hear our steersman yell "Hold water!"  

As our boat slows to the rush of bubbles and swirling water, I glance over to my left to see the other dragon boats slow to a stop. The sound of paddles resting on wood accompanies shouts of congratulations and joy.  "We did it," I mumble to those around me.  "We finished second!"

Unknown to us, we had finished with a time of 1:17:59.  That was less than two seconds faster than Hanson's Heroes, who had dogged us all day.  First place would go to The Ultimate Salon and Spa with a time of 1:12:80 which blew away the competition in the Corporate Mixed Division.  

Our boat gently rocks as the waves push against its side.  Bright blue, yellow and red boat houses line the edges of the Black River.  Many of them are crowded with spectators anxious for the final race of the day.  They shout words of encouragement and wave their arms, hoping to get our attention.

Our steersman turns the boat out of the warm breeze blowing from the South and tells us to gently paddle up river.  The change is dramatic.  Without the wind blowing against us, I feel like the boat is gliding on top on the water.  Almost like the Big Blue dragon had somehow drifted below us to carry the boat to its starting buoy.

I hear someone say that they are glad we have placed second, but now it means we will have to race again -- back to back.  The boating committee had decided it would be fun to have a regatta championship race where the top two finishers from the Corporate Division and the Community Division would face off in a final winner-take-all race.  The trouble with that idea is that the two winners from the Corporate Division will be at a disadvantage having just finished a race.  

Nonetheless, I am thrilled -- as are all of us on the boat -- because it means one more race.  One more opportunity "to get our bitch on."  One more chance at victory.

 

A dragon boat race is a combination of serious racing and spectacle.

Each participating team choses a unique shirt and name, indicating where they work (Vendi the Red), where they are from (Cashton Fitness Crew), a cause (Healing Dragons) or something funny (Dragon Bottom). Paddlers wear everything from pink tutus and green wigs to someone wearing a German dirndl dress or a beautiful Asian headdress and gown.

Craziest of them all, however, are the sweeps, or steersmen, who spend the day maintaining boat balance and communicating commands.  His or her understanding of the boat's environment and water conditions can make the difference between winning and losing.  Some of my favorite sweeps use humor through what they wear or what they say.  It is pretty easy to tell which ones have been in the sun too long -- they're usually the crazy ones wearing the florescent wig with a coconut bra and grass skirt.

Of course, the greatest spectacle comes in the boats themselves, with their large drums and colorful dragon heads and tail sections.  Opening ceremonies include the "awakening of the dragon" where the festival VIP is invited to dot the eyes on a dragon boat head with a brush dipped in red paint in order to reanimate the creature's bold spirit for hearty racing.

This year's Big Blue Dragon Boat Race in La Crosse has reanimated my own passion for the sport, which remains one of the more difficult things I have done.  It allows me to participate at a highly competitive level, yet spend time with a group of people who are equally at ease listening to Rob Zombie and AC/DC as they are eating dinner at a classy restaurant in downtown Dubuque.

While we didn't win this year's race, we did finish third out of fifty-two boats.  Pretty good for a group that only practiced a few times in the weeks leading up to the race.  Many of those who paddled with me will participate in other dragon boat races, including one to be held in Florida.  For these warriors, dragon boat racing is more than a once-a-year event.  It's an opportunity to challenge themselves with a passage in life to be enjoyed again and again.



"We are Mayo Heartland Express,
with different heart beats within the chest.
Twenty paddles and drummer become one stroke,
that's how we move this damn dragon boat!"

In Tandem We Trust

Liz and I are sitting quietly in the Three Rivers Lodge, watching rain fall from cloudy skies, causing unsuspecting people to rush to the nearest dry shelter.  Sunlight, from a break in the clouds to our left casts a sunny glow on sidewalks that continue to be pelted by the heavy rainfall.

We are drying out ourselves, after being caught in the rain as we bicycled to my downtown office. The weather forecast had called for afternoon showers, but I foolishly thought it would hold off.  Liz reminded me of this fact as the first drops of rain pelted our jackets.  Part of the problem was the bicycle we are using. The other part is when we would need to be on it.

 

We are using a Burley tandem bike for a 32-mile fun ride as part of the 2014 Festival Fitness Coulee Region Bike Tour in La Crosse.  At ninety-six inches long, the bike is too big to put into the back of the Toyota Highlander and too long to mount on our bike rack. 

As a result, we had decided the best way is for Liz to stop at my office after work, drive us home in my car, then ride the bike back to the office, leave it in the break room, and finally take her car home.  A little complicated, but really our only option. 

The bike tour is taking place at 7:30 tomorrow morning, so we had to deal with it now -- rain or shine.  And so we did.

As I bite into my batter fried cod, I watch the Mississippi River flow rapidly to our south.  The combined flow of the Black, La Crosse and Mississippi rivers (and others further north) is enough to flood the banks of Pettibone Park, its campground and boat landing.  The official flood stage in La Crosse is 12 feet, and the river is currently sitting at 12 feet 6 inches.

Much like the combined strength of the three rivers, riding a tandem bicycle uses the peddling power of two riders, combining them into a synchronized push that takes less effort and allows for faster travel.  Essential to this coupling is teamwork, empathy, cooperation, and mutual understanding.  The most important "essential" is communication.  Starting, resting and stopping is impossible without communicating. 

I am excited about tomorrow's 32 mile ride, but I'm not sure Liz feels the same.  I originally wanted to run the 5K, but after Liz convinced me that her running days were over, I asked if she wanted to try the fun ride to Stoddard and back.  It was not a timed race, and we had wanted to do more bicycling this year, so it sounded like the perfect solution. 

Tomorrow's ride will decide if I am right.




Prior to the bike tour, I'd never paid any attention to tandem bikes. I probably paid more attention to recumbent bikes -- and that was because they looked so strange.  The reason we were even considering a tandem was because of Tom and Marilyn Tiggelaar, friends who happen to have three of them. They've been trying to get us on one for a year.

Tandems are surprisingly popular today, but that wasn't always the case. Patents related to tandem bicycles date from the late 1800s.  The two-wheeled configuration that we see today seems to show up in the early 1890s as "courting bikes" designed for a man and a woman which put the woman in the front seat with the man behind and steering the bike through a linkage from the rear position.

These frames were very common at the start of the next century.  Some variations included racing tandems designed for men and women, others included triplets, quads, quints and even a ten-seat goliath from the Orient Bicycle Company.

Early tandem bikes became popular because of their use in courting rituals, as interested suitors could take ladies out for a bike ride, without the woman having to exert herself physically.  That may be true, but I can't image it being very easy to get on and off the bicycle.

By the end of World War I, tandem bikes were being replaced by more traditional single seat bikes.  From 1920 to 1970 names like Gazelle, Raleigh, Fugi, Cannodale, Huffy and Schwinn dominated the bicycle world.  Many of them still do.

It wasn't until the 1970's that tandems made a comeback in large part because of Bill McCready and Santana Bicycles.  Due to better technology and higher performance with single bicycles, Santana was able to design a bike that was accessible to more people, with features that made them fun to ride.  As enthusiast level bicycles became more popular, so did the tandem. 

Today, you can buy tandems from high-end manufacturers like Santana for $10,000 - $12,000.  But you can also buy one on Amazon.com for $275.  Typically, I'd expect to spend a couple thousand dollars for a good tandem bike.  Like most bicycles, what's available depends on how much money you have in your wallet.

 

So how does it work?

With the two person bicycle, the rider who rides at the front is termed the captain, pilot or the steersman, while the rider who rides at the back of the bicycle is termed the navigator or the stroker.  You can tell already -- just by the terms used -- that riding a tandem will challenge even the strongest of marriages.

The biggest thing about tandems is the level of cooperation between the captain and the stroker.  By definition, the front rider should have good bike-handling skills and good judgement.  That includes control of the bike, balance (whether stopped or in motion), steering, shifting and braking.  To keep the stroker happy, the captain must earn the stroker's confidence by stopping when she wants to stop and must slow down when she wants to slow down.  Since the stroker can't see the road ahead, the captain has the special responsibility of warning her of any bumps, obstacles and road hazards.  Or beer stops if you are so inclined.

The rear driver has responsibilities too.  She is not just a passenger, but an equal participant.  The stroker has the responsibility of providing power when starting.  Since the captain is standing on both feet to begin, it is the job of the stroker to provide enough power to maintain balance and power to move the bike forward.

The other responsibility is a lot tougher.  The stroker must not try to steer, since unplanned weight shifts on the part of a stroker can make the captain's job much harder.  Same philosophy applies when taking turns.  As a tandem, both riders should lean over the centerline of the bike to avoid accidents.

As simple as these things sound, trust me when I say it gets very tricky when you are in a narrow space or surrounded in traffic by other bikes and automobiles.  A quick maneuver on a single bike is easy -- on a tandem not only do you lack such flexibility, but you also have to anticipate your move or you will find yourself in a ditch or planted in someone's car door before you know it.  Beating an approaching train is usually not a good idea, although it has been done.

In terms of speed, tandems are faster than two regular bicycles; you have less mass, double the engines and better drafting.  At the same time, tandems don't accelerate well and they don't climb well, but once they get going on a flat stretch or into the wind (which is always), they are very fast.

Fortunately, once you get the hang of a tandem bicycle, you are able to do things together that you can't always do when you are on separate bikes.  That includes taking pictures, answering the phone, enjoying the view, rubbing a stiff back, eating (or drinking) and talking.

Given these advantages, it's not surprising that tandem bikes are so popular.




Liz and I have a direct path to the bar where they are serving Pearl Street beer.  Our choices include the brewery's DTB Brown ale and El Hefe Bavarian beer.  A muttered request later and I am tilting the El Hefe to my lips, quenching a thirst that began 10 miles earlier as we passed Goose Island Park for the second time.

"That's got to be the best damn beer I've had in a long time!" I say to Tom Tiggelaar who has opted for the DTB.  Tom and his wife Marilyn are joining us for some beer and brats after we had put the tandem bikes in a secure area.  "Almost makes me want to ride another 32 miles."

"Not quite," says Tom as we find a picnic table near the beer tent.

We are surrounded by people who have finished the 5K run and half marathon, wearing tin foil capes and running shorts.  An odd combination, I think as Liz smiles and bites into her brat.  For that matter, Liz and drinking beer is another odd combination.  She never drinks beer, but here she is enjoying the full-bodied flavor of one of Pearl Street's most popular brews.  Earlier, I discovered that she and I make a good team on the tandem, and now I find out that she likes an occasional beer.  What's next -- a sudden passion for biking up 3 mile?  I doubt it.

The four of us are feeling pretty good having completed the full thirty-two mile trek in 2 hours and fifty minutes.  Only 45 minutes slower than our son Sean who had completed his ride in 2 hours and five minutes.  Liz had doubts that he even stopped in Stoddard to rest and grab an orange or bagel.  After seeing him bike past us -- heading back to La Crosse -- I was inclined to agree.

"I'm really sorry about the bike," says Marilyn who is sitting opposite me.  "Tom took that bike in earlier to fix it.  The gears shouldn't have been slipping the way they were -- I think we'll drop it off on our way home and make sure the bike shop fixes it this time."

"Don't worry about it," I say.  The sun, which is peaking out behind some white fluffy clouds, warms my face which has gotten cold.  "The only time it was a problem was when we were in sixth gear or pushing it.  I either went with fifth or seventh, although Liz didn't like it when I went to seventh.  I've always known that she likes a lower gear than me.  Today just meant that we had to find common ground."

Other than the bad gear slip that Marilyn was talking about, things had gone well.  So well in fact that I could see doing it again next year, maybe taking it a little further.  Chaseburg was the next stop on the tour which would mean a 43-mile ride.  Certainly doable, but it would mean going up a long hilly stretch which even more experienced riders were talking about -- and not in a good way.

Well, Liz and I would have a year to get ready.  I wonder if...


"Daisy Daisy,
Give me your answer do!
I'm half crazy,
All for the love of you!
It won't be a stylish marriage,
I can't afford a carriage,
But you'll look sweet on the seat
Of a bicycle built for two!

We will go "tandem" as man and wife,
Daisy, Daisy!
Ped'ling away down the road of life,
I and my Daisy Bell!"

-- Dacre 1892

Success Through Failure

They say you can learn a lot from failure.

Ask Bo Ryan and the Wisconsin Badgers basketball team that went to the NCAA's Final Four last week.  Despite having one of the best years in Wisconsin basketball history -- and Bo's first trip to the Final Four -- many fans were left with a sense of failure.  We lost.  Forget the 30 wins throughout an extra-long season, including wins over some of the best teams in the nation.  We lost.  All we can think about is how we fell to the Kentucky Wildcats on a last second shot by Traevon Jackson that rimmed out as time expired in a 74-73 loss.

The way the NCAA sets up the tournament fouses on failure to make it one of the most watched sporting events in the country.   We are asked to fill out brackets that list winners and losers through the first, second and third rounds, Sweet Sixteen, Elite Eight, Final Four and finally National Championship game.  Throughout the three-week tournament, we celebrate the unexpected upsets, shocking exits and unpredictable endings that leave one team (and sometimes its coach) crying over the loss.  Players bent over in disbelief.  Towels hiding tear-streaked faces.  Emotions on video -- to be replayed again and again.

Celebrating failure has never been so popular.



It almost makes you want to ban winning to save the loser the pain and humiliation of going home -- all right, I'm just kidding.  But every few weeks I hear another story about some children's game being changed, because someone complains about the harm it is doing to those who lose.

If you want an extreme example take Idaho (please).  Apparently in that state it is now politically incorrect to cheer for your kids at a sporting event because someone might get their feelings hurt. According to a CBS news story, parents were penalized for cheering on "Silent Cheer Day," a day designated by the Rathdrum, Idaho Parks and Recreation Department in an effort to get spectators to not shout negative remarks to players or referees.  So in typical leftist fashion, someone thought it best to ban all cheering, not just the negative comments, from the game.  I guess now they just flap their arms or flex their fingers open and shut to show approval.

That's crazy, you say.  Maybe, but it's not the first time it's happened.  I remember when our boys were in show choir -- on a trip to Iowa we were treated to a silent cheer when we saw parents opening and closing their hands.  Their reason?   To allow participants to hear the remaining singers rather than a raucous crowd cheering for a soloist.  There were a lot of things that happened in show choir that made me question my sanity and that was one of them.  Can you imagine a Rolling Stones concert where someone complained about the "noise" following a guitar solo by Keith Richards?

Before you get down on our neighbors to the West, know that Iowa show choir fans weren't the first to ban loud cheers.  Apparently the Taliban have been banning vocal cheering at sporting events for years.  And no, I'm not kidding.

I'm a big fan of "Last Man Standing" with Tim Allen on ABC.  This week's episode involved his daughter who is trying to get into West Point Military Academy.  The Academy only takes the best students with the best grades, so when her high school grades suffer from an advanced math class (taught by a teacher who doesn't settle for anything less than maximum effort), she requests an easier class so she'll have a better grade point average.

Of course Tim Allen will have none of it. 

He usually expresses his political opinions through a video blog at work, which emphasizes the show's weekly theme. Allen's blog's are always based on family values, pride in what makes the USA great and constitutional principles of our founding fathers.

So, as part of this week's theme -- which was about failure -- Tim used his daughter as one example of what's wrong with our educational system.  A system that promotes high self esteem over excellence in reading, math and science is cause for concern.  It's really disappointing to see higher dropout rates, failing grades in worldwide assessments and an increase in the numbers of unemployed youth.  How anyone can feel good about how our students are doing is beyond me.

Obviously, there are many complicated factors involved in preparing our children for life after high school and college, but giving students an easy "A" or "B" doesn't do the child or our country any favors when it results in these kinds of numbers:

Results from 2012's Program for International Student Assessment shows the U.S. slipping since 2009 from 25th to 31st in math; from 20th to 24th in science; and from 11th to 21st in reading.  It's unbelievable that a country with so much going for it can't make it into the top ten.  We have more opportunity and more resources to throw at students than probably anyone, and yet many students struggle to simply read or write.  Countries like China, Japan and Korea are kicking our ass and it's easy to see why.  Our foreign students at UW-L (from Asia) spend much more time studying than we do, and the fear of failure drives many of them to study all the time.

As ironic as it sounds, our struggles math, science and reading leads to more sympathy for those who are falling behind -- completely ignoring the reason for our school's continued slide.

I heard the other day that we are leading the world in one important category -- self esteem.




I experience failure everyday.

Not surprising, people are not interested in talking about insurance.  The television show "Fargo" had a painful bit about Martin Freeman (Bilbo Baggins from the movie "The Hobbit") trying to sell a young couple life insurance.  They promptly got up and walked out of his office.

I have been in this business too long to remember what it was like before my first day at Beadle-Ewing Insurance.  But I'm sure I was like most people -- insurance either meant 1) I had to spend a lot of money or 2) thought insurance was something I would never use.  So I realize it's going to be a tough sell.  Even though it is essential to a good life.

So what have I learned by failing everyday?  Maybe the same things that Thomas Edison, Colonel Sanders and Walt Disney learned.

Thomas Edison was once asked if he should quit after failing 9,000 times trying to create a light bulb.  His answer?  "Why would I think or feel like a failure?  And why would I ever consider giving up?  I now know over 9,000 ways that an electric light bulb will not work.  Success is almost within my grasp!"  And shortly after that, and over 10,000 attempts later, Edison invented the light bulb.

Colonel Sanders -- of KFC fame -- entered business at the age of 65.  He decided to supply a recipe to restaurants for cooking chicken and his secret formula.  He purchased a white suit with a classic hat and started knocking on doors.  He heard the word NO over 1,009 times before he got his first YES.  By that time, two years had passed with him sleeping in a beat up old car wearing the same white suit.

And finally Walt Disney -- turned down 302 time for the financing he needed for building Disneyland.  Earlier in his career, he experienced bankruptcy, lost ownership of Oswald the Lucky Rabbit (to be replaced by a mouse called Mickey Mouse), and failed in his attempt to be an actor in Hollywood.  Hardly the recipe for the creation of more than 81 feature films, 48 Academy Awards and the founding of the California Institute of the Arts.

A NO to Thomas Edison, Colonel Sanders and Walt Disney was not a sign of failure.

Failure is an event that can provide energy to fuel us or drain us depending on how we allow ourselves to view it. My guess is that Bo Ryan is a good enough coach that he didn't dwell on the loss to Kentucky, but rather the 30 successes that came before it.  Instead of the "ONE" loss experienced in Dallas, perhaps he mentioned the "ONE" championship banner hanging from the Kohl Center rafters from the 1941 basketball team that won it all.

That means it's been seventy-three years since our last championship.  So it's been a long, long time.  If a typical Wisconsin team plays somewhere between 30 to 35 games each year, it has played a total of 2,190 to 2,555 games since it last won a national title.  Will next year be the one that ends this long stretch of failure?

I think I hear Thomas Edison saying we're that much closer to success.



This past week, award-winning American actor, Mickey Rooney died in his sleep at the age of 93.   Beginning as a child actor, his career extended over 90 years.  He appeared in more than 200 films and was one of the last surviving stars of the silent film era, having one of the longest careers in the medium's history.  It was said that Mr. Rooney had earned and lost fortunes many times over his movie career.  He is credited with saying, "You always pass failure on your way to success."

In the end, our own success is defined not by opportunity, but in our persistence in defeat.  I am choosing to remember the 2013 Badger basketball team's vision, courage and hard work in reaching the Final Four.  Surely these are the ingredients of all championship teams.

Rum, Frank the Tank and Girl Scout Cookies

The game clock shows 2.3 seconds.

I've seen the video replayed for the tenth time and still the referees are huddled together looking closely at the monitors.  Either they are terribly inept or are looking for something that I can't see.  The rules state that it can't be overturned without indisputable evidence.  How can you look at something for five minutes and claim anything is indisputable?  Doesn't make sense.

Speaking of senses, mine are at their outer limits as we await the referee's decision.  Two days of watching exciting basketball -- many of them  determined by a single possession of the ball -- have tightened my neck and back muscles to the point of breaking.  My heart has been in my throat more often than food.  If someone doesn't make a decision soon, I think I'll fall over dead.

As time slows to an unbearable crawl, the referee turns to the camera and says, "Possession goes to Arizona!"

This past weekend is one that will remain lodged in my mind -- and stomach -- for many years. 

We have been having a blast in Chicago with Liz's brother, sister-in-law and family watching the Wisconsin Badgers and Arizona Wildcats knock each other silly for the last four quarters, plus. 

The room is an obstacle course as I pace back and forth in front of the television.  Without a thought, I step over a variety of toys, including Legos and Barbie accessories, a blanket that has managed to find its way around the house all day, and our favorite mascot for the day -- Daisy.

In my hand is my usual rum and ginger ale.  Only this time there is something special waiting in the wings.  Earlier in the day, Eric, Liz and I had stepped into Binny's Beverage Depot to buy some wine for the night.  Much to my surprise -- sitting on a shelf in the rum section -- was one of the most glorious sights one could ever see.  Like Charlie Brown in his Christmas special doing a double take at the little Christmas tree that had become beautiful, I bend over in disbelief at a brown bottle of 15-year old, imported Ron Matuseum Gran Reserva rum.

"What... is... this?"  I mumble to no one in particular, reaching for the bottle.  Sure enough, it's the real deal.  In my hands is a bottle of rum that has found a way to elude me for most of the last 25 years.  On a spring break trip to the Bahamas in the early 80's, three friends and I spent a sun-filled week disposing of 15 bottles of Gran Reserva.  Not once did I get sick or even wake up the following morning with a hangover.  And if I did, it was because of the Corona beer that had also found its way into my body.

Once, I was able to find a bottle in South Carolina; another time I discovered it in a Mexican airport, and recently a friend and I ordered a case from a distributor in Texas.  Otherwise, I have scoured every liquor store I walk into only to find nothing that comes close to tasting as good as my boy, Ron.

This is a good sign for tonight's basketball game, I think.  If the Badgers win, it'll be shots all around.  With two bottles in hand, I head for the checkout fearful that somehow they will vanish from my grasp like a fragile sand dollar sinking into the salty Atlantic Ocean.



With under five minutes remaining in the game, Frank -- the Tank -- Kaminsky steps back for a three point basket that would give the Badgers a lead they would not lose.  And though Arizona would tie the game three more times in regulation and overtime, the Wildcats would not lead again.  

While other Badgers were timid with their shots, or passed the ball to other players, Frank was aggressive from the start.  At one point, "the Tank" was scoring under the basket with an awkward-looking hook, the next minute he was boxing out and putting back the rebound.  There were stretches in the Oregon, Baylor and Arizona games where he was the only Badger to put the ball in the basket, an indication of the match-up nightmare he was being for those unfortunate enough to guard him.

After the game, Frank Kaminsky was named the West Regional most valuable player, an honor that many, including himself, couldn't have imagined only a few months earlier.  How was it possible for the Badger's seven foot center who had scored a total of 133 points the previous year, to score a total of 66 points in just his last three games? 

A product of Lisle, IL, Kaminsky came to the Badgers as a typical Wisconsin recruit.  That meant that he was probably white, had a high basketball IQ, could shoot from outside the arc, and would put the team before himself.  Coach Ryan's system is often viewed as "old school" where you play solid basketball with ball fakes, solid passing and shut down defense.

Badger ball is a far cry from the likes of our next opponent, Kentucky.  While Bo recruits good players who develop through their senior season, Kentucky's coach sells the program on being a pathway to the NBA.  Instead of players that stick around for 3 or 4 years, Kentucky focuses on one-and-done, McDonald's All-Americans that attend school to play basketball and leave as quickly as March Madness has ended.

It's a debate that many are having this year -- the matchup between Bo's student athletes and Kentucky's one year NBA development players -- and this weekend's Final Four game will probably not provide an answer.  This much is known -- Kentucky's been to the Final Four three times in the last four years.  This is Wisconsin's first visit to the Big Dance since 2000 with coach Dick Bennett.

So it feels to me like this is a much bigger deal to Wisconsin than it is to Kentucky.  How have we been able to do it?

With Kaminsky leading the way in the second half , Wisconsin's starting five have found a way to play more up tempo including lots of three point attempts.  Our defense has become more defined, and every night it seems like someone else contributes a key basket to win the game.  There are very few big men, like "the Tank," who can take you off the dribble and pound it home or pull back for a long three to win the game.  The combination of Kaminsky and guards that can shoot has allowed Wisconsin to take down Michigan State, Florida, Virginia, Michigan Baylor and Arizona.  That's a collection of some of the best basketball programs in the country today.

And when it comes to basketball, it doesn't get any better than that.



The final buzzer sounds as Johnson's shot bounces harmlessly off the backboard.  Badger players run across the court leaping into the air and giving high fives.

Sharon and Liz and I are doing our own hugging and jumping for joy, oblivious to the terrified dog who thinks her world has just ended.  Colin heads off toward the dining room looking for his dad, who has decided it's best if he's not around to see the final minutes of the game.  Put a difficult real estate deal in front of Eric and he's cool with it.  But don't expect there to be any room for error if it's the Badgers or Packers.  Pity the poor child that has to hear the expletives coming from his mouth if things aren't going well.

But tonight, there is no reason to feel bad about the Badgers' effort.  

Having dispatched Arizona in an overtime thriller, Wisconsin is headed to Dallas for the Final Four.  Let me say that again:  THE FINAL FOUR.  Like the fine taste of the Gran Reserva rum flooding my system, those three words are intoxicating.  Like going to the Super Bowl -- no WINNING the Super Bowl -- there is nothing quit like surviving a last second shot in overtime to get to the pinnacle of college basketball.

As I head out into the kitchen to pour a few glasses of rum on ice, I spot a box of girl scout cookies lying on the countertop.

It was a typical night when Liz's niece called asking us to buy some girl scout cookies.  Jacqueline has the distinction of being the top seller of cookies in her troop (selling more than 250 boxes this year alone), and she's accomplished that feat by calling in favors from family members near and far.

Over the years we have bought the insanely delicious cookies from co-workers, neighbors and stopped at grocery stores selling them as you walk in.  I always look forward to buying them from Jacqueline because I know it helps her troop and it's fun giving her a hard time.  But I must admit, as a 9 (now 10-year old) she does a pretty good job of deflecting our jabs and getting us to order more cookies each year she calls.

The only downside to buying cookies from her is that she lives in Chicago.  Which means sometimes we don't get to eat them for months.  Sometimes half a year.  Thank the cookie gods that they can be put in the freezer for safe keeping.  Depending on where you put them in the freezer, it is possible to forget about them for weeks.  Or even months.  And doesn't it feel like Christmas again when you discover a frosty box of Thin Mints tucked in the back while looking for the frozen Tilapia?

When we are able to pick up our haul of cookies depends on when we can get down to see her family (usually around the time "March Madness" begins because that is when we go down to celebrate Jacqueline's birthday).  I've got some of the best memories of post-season Badger basketball when we are together, including a school record 13-point rally when they defeated Tulsa (watched from a bar during a 2004 early round victory).

But nothing will top the fun we had this year watching the Badgers take home the West regional trophy.  That game will be remembered for a long, long time.  Long after Jacqueline stops calling us about girl scout cookies.



Eric and I are sitting in our chairs, enjoying the taste of our rum, when the calm that fills the near-empty room is broken by Charles Barkley saying, "... just terrible!  These Badgers are good enough that they could beat the Milwaukee Bucks by ten points!"  

I'm not sure if that's a compliment to the Badgers or a slam against the Bucks.  Maybe both.

Either way, we are listening to the various pundits on CBS and the Big Ten channel talk about the game's exciting finish, the controversial foul and the overturned out-of-bounds play.  The television casts a surreal light about the darkened room highlighting empty glasses and a plastic sleeve that contained girl scout cookies just a few minutes before.

The television is showing a video of Bo Ryan cutting down the net -- something I never thought I'd see again.  I wonder if my smile is as big as Bo's, who has never taken the Badgers to the Final Four.  I can't imagine the years he has put into his profession, the miles he has traveled by bus and plane, or the number of players he has coached to reach this point.  

Ever year it is the goal of 351 schools in 33 Division I basketball conferences to see their names listed as one of the Final Four.  And every year it has ended for 347 of them.  This year the Wisconsin Badgers are not one of them.  

Regardless of what happens against Kentucky this weekend, this team has found its way into the hearts of millions of fans -- especially the heart of someone who loves rum and girl scout cookies while visiting family in Chicago on a cold March night.

Voices From the past

Of all the places to be standing, the last place I expected to hear about living in the Big Easy was in a cemetery. 

It has been said that in history you can find all the secrets of living in the present.  Such is the case as I stand outside the rusty arched entrance of Lafayette Cemetery, one of 42 "cities of the dead" found throughout New Orleans.  This particular cemetery was established in 1833 in what is now known as the Garden District for les Americaines (the Americans).  The Garden District features some of the most elegant and expensive homes found in the city.  Successful immigrants built here as part of the city of Lafayette, bringing with them their love of Italianate and Greek Revival architecture.  Today, the surrounding neighborhood -- showcasing enormous lots, spacious gardens and grand courtyards -- are owned by famous actors like John Goodman, Sandra Bullock, and Nicholas Cage, musician Trevor Reznor and author Anne Rice.

As I enter the cemetery gates, I encounter black decorative ironwork and sun-bleached tombs.  Crosses and statues offer a faded contrast to the grey skies above.  The threat of rain forces many of us to keep our umbrellas in hand, ready to open at a moment's notice.  Around me are the bodies and remains of Irish, German, French and Spanish people who lived, worked and died in the later years of  the 19th Century.

If I listen carefully, I can hear their voices.
               

 

Liz, Matt, Sean and I are in the Crescent City (far from the winter snows of Wisconsin) for the week surrounding New Year's Eve.  It is in part a celebration of Matt's graduating from Washington University grad school and part family vacation.  Our children are growing up and we are confident that they will go their own ways soon enough.

As part of our itinerary, we are taking a tour of a cemetery that has been seen in popular movies like "Interview With the Vampire" and "Double Jeopardy."  So much of this city is based on historical events, that we thought it would be interesting to learn about it from a place where they bury their dead above ground since the high water table makes it impossible to keep caskets (and their occupants) from floating to the surface.

Our tour guide has been talking about the early division between the Creoles in the French Quarter and the new Protestant settlers.  As he leads us through rows of attached vaults, some stacked above each other, I discover New Orleans and its citizens have always found a way to bring life to its turbulent past -- including its mysterious voodoo and piracy, its bawdy, tenacious traditions, its artistry of jazz, its diverse cultures and ornate French Quarter decadence.

These voices from the past tell tales of new world explorers from France and Spain, hardships of sickness, hurricanes and a flooding river, and the dueling influence of Roman Catholic and Christian religions.  Born out of these influences was the birth of jazz, Creole cuisine, and tremendous commerce brought about by sugar and cotton plantations located near the Mississippi River.


To the sounds of approval, our waiter sets the plate of bacon wrapped jumbo shrimp and grits on the table.  With my fork, I scoop a small helping of the shrimp and ground yellow grits and put it into my mouth, savoring its unique combination of smokey pecan and red-eye barbecued flavors.

I look up at the others sitting at my table, and see them enjoying their own selection of gumbo ya ya, chicken pontalba, Creole catfish and gulf shrimp with Barbecue sauce.

We are at Mr. B's Bistro, located in the heart of the French Quarter at the intersection of Royal Street and Iberville. This corner is a New Orleans' landmark and celebrated food corner.  The downtown area is flooded with people returning from a Saints football game, and they are jubilant following a 42-17 win over the Tampa Bay Buccaneers.   The throngs of people stop traffic as they crowd the sidewalks, fill the restaurants and find the nearest barstool in their favorite tavern.

Our hotel staff recommended that we get to Mr. B's early, so we are finishing our appetizer of oysters as the first of the revelers spin their way through the building's revolving doors.  The restaurant's host greets the incoming throng and moves them to candle-lit tables draped with white cotton where its front staff of servers, bussers and bartenders eagerly await.  

Many of the incoming are repeat customers, eager to enjoy their upcoming meal.  For us, however, it is our first experience with New Orleans' love affair with food.


When the first settlers arrived from France, they encountered a Louisiana landscape where the water, the marshes and the woods were teeming with wild game and seafood.  This abundance -- in combination with influences from local Indians and West African / French cooking -- created what is known as Creole cuisine.  The Gulf of Mexico and the surrounding waterways provide much of the "meat" for shrimp creole, gumbo, crawfish bisque and e'touffe'e.

Many people shopped for meals at the local marketplace.  Like many river towns, New Orleans' market formed near the Mississippi River.  It was crammed with people buying and selling food from around the world.  For sale were alligators, frog legs, Louisiana sausage, and an assortment of tropical fruits like lemons, strawberries, bananas and oranges.   In the early days, voices could be heard of women and salesmen bartering the prices or quality of goods, and vendors hollering out their specials. Much of their conversations were carried on in French, English, Italian, Spanish and German.  Added to these were the sounds of chickens, parrots and other caged birds, monkeys for sale and perhaps a brass band playing in the background.

Today, tourists who walk on Decatur Street near the Mississippi River, enjoy a market experience that includes clothing and record stores, as well as outdoor cafes selling Po'Boys, muffalettas and sugary beignets.  Those shopping in the marketplace can take the Canal Street trolley past the warehouse district which lies along the river.  These nearby buildings used to house much of the commerce and shipping that made New Orleans a destination for food, drink and culture.

New Orleans love affair with food continues through the contribution of well known chefs like Paul Prudhomme, Alex Patout, John Folse and Emerile Lagasse.  Whether at a well-known restaurant like Mr. B's Bistro or a local favorite like Something Cafe with its excellent jambalya, eating in New Orleans is unlike anywhere else in the United States.

 

 

New Year's Day is coming to a close as we walk down Frenchmen Street to a small bar called The Spotted Cat Music Club.  Our hotel staff had said that this street is to New Orleans' locals what Bourbon Street is to visiting tourists.  This is where we had come to hear authentic jazz and blues. 

Frenchmen Street borders the French Quarter to the west and is a short section in the Faubourg Marigny neighborhood.  This area was once the plantation of a wealthy Creole born man who influenced the city of New Orleans with his "soie de vivre" -- or a keen sense of enjoyment.  Through the years the Faubourg Marigny neighborhood has developed into a block of thriving New Orleans' music, culture and food.   It is a diverse neighborhood with a personality that is unique to this city.


A poster taped to the window of a bar to my left advertises bands that will be playing throughout the holiday week.  A quick glance shows names that are well-known in this part of New Orleans, but not to me:  Meschiya Lake and the Little Big Horns, the New Orleans Cottonmouth Kings, New Orleans Moonshiners and Washboard Chaz Blues Trio.  I step around a tuba (lying on the sidewalk) with the name "DisFUNKtional Bone" written on the instrument's round bell, announcing another popular bar band.  

All around us, the blast of  jazz, blues and rock music screams from nearby open doors, inviting us into their dark, sweaty and crowded confines.

We cross the street to another open door where a blue haze shimmers and a persistent drum beat rattles the windows.  As we walk through the entrance, a band ensemble kicks in to the sounds of  "St. James Infirmary Blues," featuring Ecrib Muller on the trumpet.  The full sound of guitars, drums, keyboards and bass propel us through the thickening crowd to the back of this small, but popular building.   Our temporary destination is the bar where I order a round of Abita Amber beer for me and the boys and a rum and coke for Liz.

For the next couple hours, jazz is alive and well in N'awlins.  And we are at the center of it.


When people think of New Orleans, they think of jazz.  This unique sound comes from the city's exotic culture dating back to the early 1800's when slaves brought their music and dance from West Africa.

It was later, in a district near the French Quarter called Storyville that black musicians found work as musicians.  It was here -- in the bordellos and nightclubs -- that people like Jelly Roll Morton, Louis Armstrong and Sidney Bechet crafted their unique sound.  As their music evolved, its popularity grew beyond the boarders of New Orleans and even Louisiana.  Over time, their bands migrated north by riverboats to Chicago and St. Louis.

Other styles of music found in New Orleans included the early Cuban music known as habanera, an Afro-Carribean rhythm popularized by songs like "New Orleans' Blues."  Dixieland music could also be found in early music dating back to 1859, but it was not popular in the usual sense, because the term referred to any area of the South where slaves had not yet received emancipation.  A citizen of New Orleans once said, "You must understand that there was always a bad feeling between the northern part of the country and the southern part.  After the Civil War, they still battle against each other, and to those boys (the North) everything was Dixie and Dixieland as far as they were concerned.  But to tell the facts, as far as we blacks were concerned, it was New Orleans music -- New Orleans, not Dixieland Jazz."

Meanwhile, new music continued to evolve in New Orleans through the contributions of Fats Domino with his rhythm and blues.  Dr. John and James Booker both were popular during the 1950's, and in recent decades we've enjoyed such popular artists like the Neville Brothers and the Meters.  Today, Wynton Marsalis and Harry Connick, Jr. carry on the city's rich musical tradition.

                                                                     
It's early morning, before the crowds return for another day of partying.  Standing outside the Hotel Mazarin, I can see a trail of what looks like soap running into the gutters of the street.  Apparently the city sends out a team to clean the garbage and power wash the streets nightly.  Despite the city's best efforts, however, the smell of something wet -- booze, sweat, vomit or rain from the night before? -- hits my nose as I walk down Bienville Street toward the river and Jackson Square.  

 

Our stay in New Orleans has planted us in the middle of the French Quarter, which is only a block away from Bourbon Street (Rue des Bourbon).  To even the casual observer, Bourbon Street is something to behold, at other times, to be avoided.  

Our walk down Bourbon Street -- less than eight hours before -- is best defined as a visit to an insane asylum which has let its inmates loose.   The open container law in the French Quarter allows drinking alcoholic beverages in the street, and we -- like the rest of the inmates -- take full advantage of it.  Large plastic cups litter the street, joining the drunk passed out on the curb holding a piece of paper advertising Huge Ass Beers.

We quickly pass through upper Bourbon Street, a noisy eight-block section of blue, red, yellow and purple neon colors with people surging up one side and down the other.  In the sparse light coming from one doorway, I hear a young man shout, "No cover charge, mister.  Eight dollars for drinks!"  but I continue walking.  Another window has a curtain that is parted showing dancing girls clad in G-strings and high heeled shoes.  I keep telling myself that it's best not to make eye contact -- but I can't help myself.  Standing before me is a young girl -- no more than 16 years old -- leaning against a door papered with a variety of naked women.  A hidden strobe light flashes inside the building, casting her in its unnatural light.  I turn my head and continue down Bourbon Street.

Dodging an incoming throng of Oklahoma football fans in town for the Sugar Bowl, I feel like the quarterback for the Auburn Tigers faking a step to the left, then darting quickly to the right.  The four of us continue past a road barrier that has closed off the next couple of blocks.  We pass bars with names like Pat O'Brien's,  Jean Laffite's Blacksmith Shop, the Famous Door, Spirits on Bourbon, Razzo and the Cat's Meow.  

Hours later, on the way back to our hotel, we pass more strip clubs, Marie Laveau's House of Voodoo, the Old Absinthe House and finally the Royal Sonesta Hotel.  The sound of loud bands and the vibration of a thousand revelers vanishes as we enter the safety of our hotel lobby for a much needed night of rest.


In addition to the bars, restaurants, souvenir shops and strip clubs that line the street, Bourbon Street's history also provides a look into New Orleans' rich past.  For that matter, the architecture throughout the French Quarter features over 200 years of rich characters, chaos and intrigue.


Walk down any street and you will find aging buildings with shops on the first floor and apartments or homes above.   Outside doors are tall and surmounted by arched and barred transoms.  Above them one can image prostitutes and musicians leaning over hand-wrought iron railings laughing and shouting at those below.  The wrought and caste iron railings are everywhere you look, some with the most intricate designs to be found anywhere.  The plaster and brick façade looks old and in some instances you wonder how the building remains standing.

As a horse-drawn carriage meanders past, you catch a glimpse of some of the wonderful courtyards tucked between buildings.  They contain murmuring fountains and shady sitting areas.  When it rains (which is often), people dash to the nearest art shop or tavern to dry off and spend time drinking a beer or ice tea.

The historical buildings, food and music found in New Orleans tell a story of great beginnings, terrible losses and renewed ambition.  These stories, told by voices which permeate the cobbled brick streets and historic buildings of the French Quarter, Frenchmen Street, and Lafayette Cemetery make The Big Easy one of the most fascinating cities in America today.

Living in a Van Down by the River

Rolling Stones Magazine recently listed a Saturday Night Live skit featuring comedian Chris Farley as Matt Foley, a 35-year old motivational speaker, as one of SNL's all time best.  In the skit, Chris lectures two teenagers (played by David Spade and Christina Applegate) about the direction their lives will take if they keep smoking dope.  I have to admit that it is one of the funniest skits I have ever seen, and Chris Farley is hilarious as the screaming, sweating motivational speaker.

As he is pulls and twists on the belt of his pants, he screams to the young teenagers: "You kids are probably thinking to yourselves that you are going to go out and get the world by the tail, you're going to wrap it around and pull it down and put it in your pocket."

He continues, "We'll, I'm here to tell you that you're probably going to find out as you go out there, that you're not going to amount to jack squat!  You're going to wind up eating a steady diet of government cheese, and ... LIVING IN A VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER!"

The final line is delivered with such despair and self-loathing (delivered as only Chris Farley can) that the audience breaks up laughing.  It IS a funny line -- and one that goes down as one of his all time greats.

While watching the skit again this morning, I started thinking how perfect -- and prescient -- it was for  today.  The consequences of doing nothing with your life resonates with so many things happening with America right now, that it's hard to believe it was performed over 20 years ago.

Here's how it resonates with me --

Take the push to legalize dope.  Like gay marriage, it's become the media darling of 2014.  Since a bill legalizing it in Colorado, the push to legalize marijuana is going into overdrive.  States like Hawaii, Maine, Pennsylvania, Rhode Island and Vermont all have legislation pending that will legalize pot.  Other states are watching closely to see what happens.

I feel like this country has lost its mind -- the inmates are controlling the asylum.   One-hundred years after California was the first to criminalize marijuana, our country is ready to embark on an experiment that will dumb down its citizens, increase drug use, and most importantly for our government, increase tax revenues.  Maybe that's all I need to know.  Legislators are selling their souls to the devil, hoping the legalization of pot will sooth another kind of addiction -- spending our money.

Never underestimate the capacity of our government to throw its citizens under the bus.  If it means more power and money flowing to Washington D.C. and its bureaucracy, you can guarantee they'll find a way to do it.  Our elected officials don't give a damn about the people they represent, as is clearly evident in the laws they pass or laws they don't enforce.

My oldest son and I have had a number of discussions about the legalization of pot.  Showing his youthful indiscretion, he asks:  Why is it ok to buy alcohol, but not pot?  Won't it reduce violent crime that is associated with selling pot?  Isn't it our right to have freedom to do what we want (appealing to his libertarian side)?

I've never bought into the argument that one wrong (alcoholism) should permit another wrong (being stoned).  Both are stupid, and ruin lives in ways I'm fortunate not to have experienced.  In addition, I'm a believer in pot's"gateway effect" which could lead to other drug use that are even more destructive.  Why take the chance?

As for crime, since when does the cost of criminalizing an activity lead to its suspension?  Yeah, we spend a lot of time and money on busting drug dealers and putting users in jail.  Maybe we need to rethink the need to jail users (charge them a punitive amount to discourage its use), but I'm sure the dealers in Mexico, South America, Asia and West Africa aren't going to quit selling heroin and cocaine just because you take marijuana off the shelf.

Besides, law enforcement officers are against the use of legal items like guns -- what makes you think they could possibly feel good about legalizing a product that will only lead to more violence?

The point I'm making is that people in this county are acting out the parts of Jim Carrey and Jeff Daniels in the movie "Dumb and Dumber."  Roles which lead to a less productive society and by fiat, longer lines at the welfare office.  Why do we want that?

Chris Farley's skit also resonates when I hear that Obama Care is going to result in millions losing their jobs.  Democrats, fearing retribution, have come up with the spin that this will allow people the freedom to quit their jobs and find the time to do what they really want to do.  Like the single mom who is going to leave her miserable job as an accountant so she can be the artist she always wanted to be.  According to Obama, it will no longer be necessary for her to suffer at work just to maintain the health benefits that cover her and her baby.

Now the State will take care of her health insurance costs by subsidizing her "family" through higher taxation on those of us still working.  For these blood sucking parasites, they will finally find their calling as unemployed artists, actors and musicians.  At some point in their "career" they'll realize that working means more than just getting health benefits.  But by that time, I suppose the State will also provide cable television, cell phones, and other necessities we currently work for.

In step with Obama Care freeing people to pursue their dreams, is the perverse requirement for people to pay more for their health insurance if they earn too much.  Nothing will encourage people to quit a productive life than the idea that they can get more in benefits by working less.

It is not by accident that Obama Care was set up to fail.  The entire premise behind its subsidies and tax credits was to reward those who had less. Are you unemployed, a minimum wage earner, college student, or  a single mom?  Do we have a plan for you...

On the other hand, if you work full time earning a salary that barely pays the mortgage, your auto payment and some of the college expenses for your two kids, we are going to require you to pay 25 to 50% more for your health plan.  It's the only way to be fair to those in need.

No wonder Obama keeps delaying its implementation.  People are going to revolt when they find out how bad it's going to be.  Or quit their jobs and join the unemployed.  It's madness, and once again, our country is buying it every four years.  Presidents Roosevelt, Kennedy, Carter, Clinton and now Obama follow the same game plan.  But they need us (living in a van down by the river) to pull it off.

The irony of Chris Farley's funny characterization of Matt Foley trying to get teenagers to stop smoking pot is that he died at the age of 33 while speedballing cocaine, heroin and morphine.  Hardly the future he envisioned while performing for Saturday Night Live.

Too bad life isn't like television, where you can watch reruns and learn from your mistakes.

Never Too Old for Hoops

Age is mind over matter.

Like a fierce gladiator going to battle, I wrap the flexible neoprene fabric around my right knee and stretch it till it's comfortably in place.  I reach into a bag and pull out two ankle braces, lace them up and slip on my tennis shoes which contain arch supports.  An elbow strap for compression completes my five minutes of prep and I rise to my feet.

I shut my locker, grab the ball and walk out of the room, which is still stinking from the exertion of sweaty bodies and wet towels.  A blast of fresh air coming from the hallway brings my mind and body into focus, preparing me for the next 90 minutes of exercise. 

As I open the door leading into the Mathy Center gym area, I hear the squeak of shoes on waxed floors followed by the swish of a basketball falling through an overhead net.  A throng of bodies flood the area only to push and shove its way to the other end of the court.  Like a school of fish flashing through water, the assorted bodies surge to one player, then separate only to dart to the left as the ball is passed to a streaking figure who grabs it and banks it through a basket.

I continue to my left, leaving the mass of young players and part a full length curtain that hides another court populated by a very different collection of players.  A group of five men stand around -- their bodies decidedly bent with age, their hair gray and receding, and their demeanor much more relaxed and accommodating.

Upon my arrival, one of the men slaps his hands and asks for the basketball.  "Hey, Ward," I smile and pass him the ball.  "How's the foot?"

With a shrug of his shoulders, he answers "Not good.  I'm looking forward to getting off my feet for a few days and give it some rest."  Like all of these guys, Ward Jones has been playing noon ball for years.  Despite the plantar fasciitis, it hasn't kept him from playing three times a week at Viterbo University with other professors, students and alumni.

These basketball junkies, at one time grade school, high school, or college players, can't get enough of the game of basketball.  I am no different.

As the husband of a Viterbo University alumni graduate, I started coming to the school's gym to play racquetball.  It was free and (unlike the YMCA) courts were available.  At the end of my lunch hour, I started talking to this small group of men who shared the locker room and quickly discovered that my passion for basketball was shared by others.  While my days of hitting a small blue ball continued for many years, the object of my affection quickly changed from the racquetball court to the basketball court.

And for nearly 21 years, noon basketball has become my escape from old age, where magically I'm a young boy again.


                                                     *          *          *          *          *


There is nothing better than basketball.

Well, next to my wife and two sons, there's nothing better than basketball.  And even that has been called into question at times, when basketball interferes with vacation and weekend trips.

Where does this obsession come from?

My earliest recollection of playing basketball goes back to fifth grade at First Lutheran grade school in La Crosse.  As I was a tall kid for my class, it didn't take long for our basketball coach, Jerry Grunholz, to track me down and ask me if I'd ever played basketball.   As my coach was to learn, playing basketball was one thing, being good at it was another.  My first game in fifth grade was against the Pioneers of Lewiston, Minnesota.  I came off the bench in the first quarter and was so nervous that the first two balls passed my way slipped right through my trembling hands.  Somehow, my capacity to catch and dribble had been replaced by an inability to catch a bouncing ball.  Two blocks of slippery ice had more trraction than my hands. 

Acknowledging his mistake, Coach Grunholz had me back on the bench for the remainder of the game.  

Despite my sloppy beginnings, I stuck with it.  There was something different about basketball than football, track, swimming and baseball.  I was a good athlete (not fast, but athletic) and my height made it easier to play basketball than other sports.  By the time I reached eighth grade, our "A"team of Bill Juen, Randy Mitten, Tom Grams and Steve Jenkins had beaten the likes of the Mount Calvary Hawks,  the Lewiston Pioneers, and the Nodine Patriots.  I can't say we ever had a good team, but I do remember the excitement of practice and scrimmages, and the thrill of running on court to a full gym of parents and siblings cheering us on.

 I don't know where it came from, but I always had a love for sports -- the Green Bay Packers won the 1967 NFL Championship game against the Dallas Cowboys in what later became known as the Ice Bowl, and I was in front of our television watching it.  As for basketball, I remember watching Notre Dame end UCLA's 88 game winning streak in 1974.  The Fighting Irish beat Bill Walton and UCLA by a score of 71-70.  It represented the first time UCLA had lost a game in more than three years.

 

Yeah, sports was in my blood.  Whereas my older brother and dad would go hunting or fishing, I would spend my time in our driveway shooting hoops, or watching it on television.  I can remember somedays when I would be so excited from watching a game on television, that I would shovel part of our driveway and shoot a few baskets just to get it out of my system.

What began with the First Lutheran Wildcats continued into middle school where I played center for the Longfellow Trojans.  Coming from a small parochial school like First Lutheran meant my competition was upgraded by the likes of Aquinas, Tomah, Sparta, Logan and Lincoln middle schools.  But the game was the same despite the fact that I was no longer one of the tallest player on the court.

At First Lutheran we scrambled to find enough players to make a team.  Not so at Longfellow where we had tryouts to determine who made the team.  I remember the excitement of seeing my name listed on the team  roster along with other boys from the prior year:  Tom Juan, Bill Weber, Paul Mundinger, Matt Venghen, Randy Newton and Dan Michaels.  Being the new kid in school, I felt I had to try harder to prove my value and to let them know I could be counted on.

One memorable game had our team on the brink of losing.  Our better shooters had fouled out and I was one of the few remaining starters as the game wound down.  My hook shot as time expired sent it into overtime, where our team eventually won after a number of my shots kept us in the lead.  You hear about shooters being "in a zone" where everything goes in.  This was one of those games.  I'm not bragging when I say that I couldn't miss, -- believe me -- I had plenty of other games that brought me back to earth.

My memories of that game include running from the court, walking through a gauntlet of cheering students to our locker room.  It was one of the first times I can remember where I felt like people knew who I was.  Coming from First Lutheran in ninth grade, it was hard to make new friends.  Most of my classmates had been together since grade school, so there was a familiarity that I was missing.  I always felt like sports was one of the best ways to make new friends, not only with your teammates, but also with students in class.   All of a sudden, everyone knows you and wants to talk about the game.  I can understand why professional athletes have the egos they do.  Add a couple million dollars to the mix and they think they can do anything.

The following year I tried out and made the high school basketball team at La Crosse Central.  Once again, the competition was tougher, but tryouts went well and I was happy to make the team.  When the season began, however, I discovered that band and basketball practiced at the same time.  Not wanting to give up either, I surprised my coach (and my parents) by quitting the team and playing with my friends on Saturday mornings in a city high school league.  

Initially it was hard giving up the competitive game I'd grown up loving, but I soon discovered that a game between friends was just as much fun.  Playing in the pep band on Friday nights at Central and the Mary E. Sawyer Auditorium kept me close to the high school game -- even if it was from the bleachers.  

Through the remaining years -- in college and after graduation -- I always found a way to track down a game of hoops, both in city leagues and at the Y.  I continue to watch my Wisconsin Badgers fight it out in the Big Ten, and take days off around March Madness to watch the initial rounds of the tournament.  A few of us from noon ball even travel to Madison to watch the boys state tournament.

As I said, there's nothing better than basketball.


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As I spin to the left, I receive the pass with my right hand.  After faking a move to the center of the lane, I drop to the baseline and finger roll the basketball off the back board and into the basket -- game point. 

"Another game we should have won," complains Rick Kyte, walking forward to shake my hand.  "Nice comeback!"

As a professor at Viterbo University, Rick is one of four teachers who are playing basketball today.  The remaining group includes a pastor, a financial planner at Wells Fargo, a journalist for the La Crosse Tribune, an owner of a cleaning business, a CFO for a hospital and a number of retired businessmen.

As is typical for this group, each team consisted of a fairly balanced group of "seasoned" players mixed in with a few students.  Our game has gotten worse with age.  We are trying hard to convince ourselves that we can play with the younger guys next door, but reality has us on the losing side.

It has become a game of attrition for our group -- this has been an especially tough year for some of the players.  Last summer we had one of the retired players suffer a heart attack while waiting to enter the game.  As he lay there -- his heart stopped -- two of us (who luckily were trained in CPR) were pushing on his chest and performing mouth to mouth until the paramedics arrived.  It was the first time I had ever seen something like that, and I'll never forget it.  A few weeks later, another player didn't feel right and he went to see his doctor, who promptly put him into surgery to perform heart surgery.

It's a fine line between our love of basketball and our fear of injury. 

Most of us have suffered broken noses, dislocated fingers, torn rotator cuff injuries and even scratched corneas.  Some wrap their knees, elbows and ankles to keep playing, despite the pain.  I think all of us keep Johnson & Johnson in business one way or the other.

But it's the enjoyment of the friendly competition, the thrill of hitting the winning shot and the camaraderie that keeps us coming back.  Last month, one of the players came to play right after a colonoscopy.  He asked the doctor to back off the anesthesia so he come join us.  The funny thing is all of us understood why...

"Let's go!" shouts Tom Tiggelaar, looking at the clock on the wall.  "We have time for one more game -- let's do it."  As guys grab a last drink of water and gather under the basket, Ron Amel takes the ball at the top of the key and says, "You guys know we only remember the last game, right?"

Maybe for some, I think.  But I remember them all, even the ones I lose.