Now Boarding...

The past couple of weeks I’ve had the good fortune to do an inordinate amount of traveling (at least for me), and while flying to various destinations on largely leisure travel, I witnessed several things that literally drove me nuts. I know that many of those living in the modern era are convinced that they are the only people inhabiting the planet, but the deterioration of the airline travel experience really seems to be spiraling out of control.  
 

Now, let’s just establish at the outset that this diatribe is probably going to upset a few people.  To be honest, it wouldn’t be completely surprising if half of the approximately six people that regularly follow this weekly offering stop doing so after today. However, even after considering the potential downside, I’ve decided to plow ahead nonetheless. I can’t really afford to lose any friends here, but somehow, I’m naively hoping that two of the six will feel the same way and that maybe we’ll start a trend.

OK…here’s the deal. Quite a few people (most of the six) have pointed out to me that a good deal of the subject matter contained here each week deals with nostalgia. As one reader recently noted…much of the Friday Song blog seems to be about a fixation for “days gone by.” 

To be honest, that actually stung a bit because though I suspect I’m the quintessential old soul, I don’t like to think of myself as obsessed with the past. When I note the myriad of technological improvements just in my lifetime alone, I am often almost overwhelmed at the good things that have evolved over the course my mere forty-nine years (don’t laugh…it’s been a rough life).  

Actually, I can still remember a time before cell phones, when an actual human being was enough to hold someone’s attention.  But as much as I might romanticize the way I liked things before, I am under no illusion that we’ll ever retrieve much of that simplicity nor do I deny the obvious fact that we’re largely better off off due to much of the progress. There are however a couple of areas when I’m convinced we’re de-evolving, and though I suspect  we’ll never reverse the trend, I’m still clinging to the far-fetched hope that somehow, someway, some things are going to come back.

Now, though I’m only 49 (remember what I said about laughing), I can still remember a time flying commercial airlines when the planes only had props and when people actually dressed up…I mean really dressed up, when they traveled by air. The fact that planes now have jet engines is a vivid example of the way things have improved over time. The fact that many of the people that now fly in them dress and behave as though they were raised in a freaking barn, is an equally clear example of how we’ve regressed (I can also remember a time when you would never see or hear a word like “freaking” and what it implied).

When I was a young boy, I can remember flying on TWA planes with legions of flight attendants wearing outfits that looked like something out of the Royal Navy. Male passengers were often in suits or at least slacks, and women were usually dressed as nice or better. Somehow though, in the course of just a few decades, we have advanced technologically while undergoing an equally proportionate deterioration in the area of civility…and in no area is it more evident than commercial air travel.  

Fortunately, I fly often enough on the same airline that I’m upgraded to first class about two-thirds of the time (I never buy the first class ticket). Unfortunately, even the curtain and those bigger seats provide little insulation from the depravity that seems to have largely overtaking the industry. Regardless of where I’m seated, there is an increasing chance I’ll be placed next to some cat in cutoffs and flip-flops (it’s especially nice when they then cross their leg and rest there dirty foot on their knee about 24 inches from my face). Sometimes, that fresh-from-drunk-tank look is exceeded by somebody in what I swear has to be a pair of pajamas (at least the bottoms). Increasingly, they’ll augment that stellar fresh-off-the-mattress-without-brushing look by towing along a stained, lice-laden pillow from home.

Now, I know we’ll never get back to a time where folks dress up to fly. Guys in white uniforms are never going to come jogging out from the Texaco station again to wash my windows and people will probably never get back to visiting with one another for more than 5 minutes without looking at their smartphones. Though some things are clearly gone for good, maybe people will stop boarding planes looking as they do in bed or after a workout at the gym. Perhaps, some element of consideration will seep back into travel. Sure, I know generations of folks obsessed with only their own comfort will find it astonishing to recognize they have a duty of consideration to those around them, but maybe, just maybe, some young hip, throw-back star will come along and stop dressing like a meat locker… and instead inspire folks to emulate something with bit more classic style.

When I was a kid, I remember my father popping me in the head as we walked down a Ramada motel hallway very early one morning while on one of our classic summer car trips (had to cross the desert early to ensure the radiator didn’t overheat…another example of real progress). I wasn’t initially sure what I’d done wrong, but my dad quickly pointed out there were paying customers trying to sleep just on the other side of the hallway door and that even my “inside” voice wasn’t appropriate for that early hour. He told me we had a duty to leave quietly and consider the comfort of others by not subjecting them to our pre-dawn conversation. When I asked why, he told me that is how we would expect to be treated if we were trying to sleep.

Some will have trouble connecting today’s song to the drivel above, but then again, that is nothing new. There is something about this tune however that just smacks of class, and I always connect it to the original Hollywood gem Sabrina. I have no way of knowing this, but I want to believe not one of the stars of this film ever boarded a plane looking like they’d just rolled out of bed.

Have a great weekend…and if you live on the east coast, stay dry.

Audrey, Bill and Bogie...

The Voice of the Dodgers

There was an obituary in this past Tuesday’s New York Times for a fellow by the name of Nate Allbright. He was 87, and to my knowledge, I had never heard of him before. This actually seemed more that a bit odd, because the caption above the article stated that Mr. Allbright had been the “Voice of Dodger Games…” As a once devoted Los Angeles Dodger fan (I attended 56 home games one year and mooched every ticket), I was fairly certain the only voice of the Dodgers in my lifetime was Vin Scully (and perhaps Red Barber). I recall routinely hearing Scully fondly refer to Barber, but the name Allbright wasn’t ringing a bell. Given his age and my affinity for my hometown Los Angeles team, Nate Allbright seemed like someone I should know.

As I read the obituary, I realized that Allbright had been the voice of Brooklyn Dodger games he didn’t actually attend. As the story noted, for cost savings purposes he had been employed by the Dodgers during the 50’s to broadcast games remotely, creatively re-enacting the contests as though he was actually there. He would begin his broadcasts by saying “Welcome to Ebbett’s Field,” and his accounts went to stations on the Dodger network throughout the eastern United States from Cleveland to Miami.

Using Morse code teletype feeds (something like B1W for ball 1 wide) he would deploy sound effects to recreate the game on radio. The article noted that over the span of a decade, he broadcast over 1,500 games without ever seeing one. Fifty two stations apparently carried the Dodger network the first year and that number doubled in year two. He apparently had sound effects to mimic all the needed sounds; the crowd roar, the slap of the ball in a glove, and he could make the noise of the bat cracking the ball by using his tongue on the roof of his mouth. Apparently, if the teletype jammed, or if a feed was delayed, he would buy time and narrate several fictitious foul balls or feign a slight rain delay by crinkling a cigarette wrapper. According to Dodger Owner Walter O’Malley, Allbright was so good at his craft that O’Malley once suggested they should skip playing the actual games and just let Nate do his thing.

Actually, thanks to the advent of television putting an end to the need for Nate’s recreating talents, he actually did get the opportunity to do just as O’Malley suggested. The obituary noted that he broadcast fictitious games during the baseball and football labor disputes, creating entire imaginary games that never actually took place. He did this according to him, largely because of the demand of fans to listen to games on the radio…even if they weren’t real.

When I was a kid, I laid in bed many nights nestling my beloved transistor radio while listening to Vin Scully magically paint a vivid picture of Dodger games. His words seemed like poetry to me, and in my mind I could clearly s stars like ee Garvey, Lopes, Russell, Cey, Yeager, Sutton, Baker, Monday, Smith and so many others. Sometimes, when things went well, I would leap from my bed and run out to see if my dad was still listening (or watching) so we could celebrate together. I don’t have the time to sit and listen to baseball games on the radio anymore and I haven’t listened to full game since I stumbled across the broadcast the night Cal Ripken broke the consecutive game streak (I was listening while driving to North Dakota). But though it’s probably been almost thirty years, I remember the magic of those Dodger games like it was yesterday.

I never heard one of Nate Allbright’s recreated broadcasts, but they must have been something to hear. He sounded like a talented man, who was able to use his skills to weave simple teletype messages into a believable baseball experience. I’m not really sure why, but hearing of his passing saddened me, I guess because it made me think of yet another bygone thing I used to love but no long have time, or the attention span, to enjoy.

I hope you have a truly wonderful weekend. Whenever you are, maybe you can set aside a few hours to take in America’s pastime. If you can’t make to the park, maybe you can at least catch part of a game on the radio. If you don’t have a few hours, perhaps you can at least take a few minutes to listen to a special song. If you do, I think you might smile.

Have a great weekend.  

If you're not smiling after this...I can't help you

Grandpa's Kitchen

The chipped linoleum on my grandparent’s kitchen floor was off-white as I recall, and it looked as though it had been there since sometime in the 1940s. The counter tops were Formica, and I suspect they had been installed about the same time as the flooring. Across from the radiator on the south side of the room was the refrigerator. It too appeared to be from sometime in the 1940s…and at least to me, it seemed to be one of the first post-ice box electrical appliances that actually contained a condenser to refrigerate air. It was white enamel, and judging from the huge metallic latch handle, it may have just as well been built by the U.S. Navy as General Electric. Though I never had to lift it, I suspected it weighed about 1,000 pounds. On top of the refrigerator was a worn King James bible, and a small monthly daily devotional called "Our Daily Bread."

In the center of the room, between the refrigerator and the radiator, the four-seat kitchen table had a Formica top with a metal band around the perimeter. The table's chairs were metal too, with plastic seat cushions. In all my years visiting that house, from sometime in the 1960s until the early 1990s, I don't believe that table ever changed.

The Table

Growing up in Los Angeles, I wasn’t there for every breakfast at that North Dakota table, but every morning I was, the ritual was always exactly the same. The menu didn’t vary much. It was usually some variation of eggs, some type of meat (usually bacon), piles of white toast (usually Wonder bread), and slabs of real Land O’ Lakes butter. The coffee was made by pouring the coffee grounds directly into the boiling water. There was always real cream and a bowl of sugar cubes on the table, and my grandpa would pour his coffee onto the saucer (to let it cool) and slurp it off the small dish often while sucking on a sugar cube.

No Whole Grain Here

Once we were done eating, grandpa would fetch the old bible and the daily devotional from the top of the refrigerator. In all the days I was in that house, I don’t ever recall him missing this daily routine. He would read the assigned short simple lesson from the pamphlet, and then recite a couple of bible passages from the associated scripture. After that, he would slap the bible shut and enthusiastically pray in a thick a thick Swedish accent. Every day until she passed away, he would ask for relief for my ailing grandmother, and usually request some help to ensure a bountiful harvest. On the days I was there, he would almost always include thanks for the visit and appeal for my safe return trip home. In my mind’s eye, I can see us all sitting there like it was yesterday.

As for me, I don’t remember the last time I even looked at a bible. To be honest, I’m not sure where that prized book I received in confirmation even is. I know I’ve looked up some verses up electronically for some teaching that I do (looking up the Golden Rule), but that was all online. I may have picked up a large print bible in a Barnes and Noble a few years ago but that was only to get a sense of how it might work as a Christmas present for my mom. Other than the gospel music I play occasionally with a buddy at a bar in Old Town now and then, I really have almost no remaining connection to the devotion that was so central to my grandfather’s life.

What’s all this mean? Well, if you’ve been reading this for any length of time, you know better than to presume I know. I really don't have a clue other than I heard this morning’s song on Pandora earlier in the week, and I guess it just got me to thinking about that kitchen table. As I get older and find my self reminiscing, it's always about times like these and seldcom ever about work.  

Whatever you’re doing the next two days, try to make it a truly wonderful weekend. If you can, steal away some time and do something that counts with your family.

I can see us sittin' round the table...
                   The Song

Hot Springs

About 60 miles straight south or Rapid City, in the southwest corner of South Dakota, is the southern Black Hills town of Hot Springs. It’s only about 25 minutes east of the Wyoming line, and roughly the same distance just north of the Nebraska boarder. To me, it is the classic Black Hills town…a regular trip back in time with a main street lined with sandstone buildings that look like something out of an 1800’s movie set. The Fall River runs next to the main road, and the city’s warm springs were the impetus for the several late 19^th century health spa resorts that once lined the river.

When I was younger, I would make an annual summer drive from Los Angeles to Abercrombie, North Dakota, and on the morning of the second day (driving straight through), I would drive along Highway 18 from Lusk, Wyoming and into Hot Springs. Just west of Hot Springs, there is an incredible valley, and as I would make that eastward trek in the morning light, it usually struck me as among the most beautiful spots on earth.

Amazingly, my first cousin Brent purchased about 3,000 acres about ten years ago just south of that highway…in pretty much the the exact same spot. He still lives in Fergus Falls, Minnesota, but he flies several times a month (especially in the summer) to spend time in the peaceful ranch setting. For that past couple of years, I have been able to make yearly trips out there in the spring and summer to help with branding (spring) or ride motorcycles (summer) during the Sturgis bike week. For a host of reasons, the time enjoying the Black Hills is always a highlight...and the time spent on horseback or on the bike is therapeutic beyond any words I know how to convey.

I wish I could pinpoint exactly why the annual excursions are so comforting, but I’m presuming it has something to do with the stability of the area. Whether I ride across the state or fly into Rapid and drive down to the ranch, things always seem pretty much the same. After living in the ever-changing hustle-and-bustle of both coasts, there is just a sense of contentment that comes from the sameness the American West.

If you’ve ever been there, you already know the magic you encounter while driving through this beautiful area. If you haven’t, I truly hope you find time to make a visit someday. There is simply something healing about the Black Hills, and when driving down the two-lane roads you really never know what you might see. After a couple of days, you just can’t help but feel that everything is going to be alright.

Have a truly wonderful weekend, and whatever you do, please take a little time to do something you truly love.

Take a ride to the end of the line...

Problems

...and I have a ton of problems.

Like many of you, I have my fair share of day-to-day challenges. Though I try not to think about them too much, there are times amidst the grind of daily life when I cannot help but lament such hurdles and dwell on the many external ingredients that helped create them. While this has become an all too frequent pastime in my relatively pain-free existence, it’s something my father never seemed to do at all.

Though my dad hadn’t finished high-school when he joined the Navy in 1936, he returned from WWII and the Korean War with an almost unexplainable appreciation for his excruciatingly average life. Becoming a master electrician with training he acquired largely in the Navy, he possessed a deep love for his skilled trade and the good life provided through that important and honest work.

Like many blue-collar construction vets of his time, my father was deeply patriotic and quite socially conservative. I believe the last democrat he voted for was LBJ (believing Goldwater was just too extreme), but he loved his union (the International Brotherhood of Electrical Workers) and despite his individualism he believed to the core that he had a far better existence because of wages and benefits provided through collective bargaining than anything he would have attained alone. In many ways, I think he embodied the principles of a lot of his generation, and at least to me, he was a man’s man who loved his wife, his family, his work, his union, and his country at levels I don’t have the writing talent to convey. Though it probably seems corny, I think he saw himself as a truly rich man.

One of the traits that always tripped me out about my father, was the fact that he had almost zero tolerance for complaining or self-pity. Though his life had been far more difficult than mine would likely ever be, he didn’t have much patience for general bellyaching, and he certainly had no time to listen to me complain about much of anything. Though he never said so, given his experiences living through the Depression and taking multiple Kamikaze hits on the USS Ticondaroga, I suspect my life must of looked like a cakewalk to him. That was one of the problems with his old-school rigidity…he just didn’t appreciate all that I had to deal with in the modern era.

                                              
The U.S. Navy aircraft carrier USS Ticonderoga (CV-14) lists to port in the aftermath of a kamikaze attack in which four suicide planes hit the ship, 21 January 1945.

When I was a teenager, and felt quite certain there was empirical evidence to undisputably prove I was truly all-knowing, I had the unflattering habit of blaming any percieved trouble or crisis I might be having on just about anyone or anything but me. Thinking back, it is amazing how much I knew from about 13 to 25, and how much clarity I had when it came to identifying the flaws of others. Though I had experienced little in the way of real life, I had developed this uncanny ability to have the answers to just about everything. As those of  you know that are cursed with this gift, this type of supreme knowledge comes at a price. Sine I indeed knew so much, I was always aware when the world was conspiring against me. Thankfully, knowing my father had little patience for my insights, I wisely muted much of my tendency to whine about my problems…especially when he was arround.

Thinking back on it, my lack of complaining to my dad might have been less of a calculated attempt to hold back than the reality that he and I really didn’t have many substanative converstatons in those years. As I remember it, I was just too busy. Oh sure, there were times when we’d talk about safe subjects like the Dodgers or the weather, but for a long period we strayed away from anything too deep. He just didn’t have the benefit of my clarity, and anytime we tried to talk about anything too heavy, his inability to see things through a fresh set of lenses was invariably quite frustrating.

There were about six times in my life (it probably happened at about two-year increments between 13 and 25) when the passage of time would result in my getting amnesia about his inability to understand the nuances of my challenges. Usually, while we’d be out in the garage together (he’d be puttering or working while I lifted weights in the gym he built for me), I’d forget his disdain for whining and launch into some longwinded diatribe about my latest dilemma. As I remember it, it was likely about an idiotic teacher, some stupid former friend, an incompetent coach or worst of all some shortsighted girl that didn’t truly appreciate the attributes of a gifted young man. Despite my father’s lack of understanding and insight into problems brought on by others, he would always listen. Sometimes, it was amazing how I’d go on and on while he just kept working, nodding his head occasionally, and listening to me vent without ever interrupting.

When I was finished, he would usually ask a couple of questions for clarification. It was always clear by his line of questioning that he had been listening intently, and it would often seem as though he was finally gaining a further appreciation for both my problem and my justifiable status as the victim. Then, after a couple of minutes of his questioning, he would ask in some variation of ways (so it never seemed familiar) how bad I wanted to truly understand the root of the problem. Once I had expressed a strong desire to listen to any advice that might help me correct the situation, he would then stop what he was doing, walk over to me, and ask me one more time if I wanted to know the source of the problem and any possible remedy. Once I assured him I did, he would tug on my sleeve and guide me over so I was looking directly into the mirror that covered the west wall of the gym area.  We’d stand there a minute, then he’d point at me and pretty much say the same thing. “Now…if you really want to find the problem, stand here long enough and it should become clear to you. If you stand here long enough, you’ll probably find an effective solution too.”

It’s funny, though he pulled the stunt no more than a half-dozen (probably less) times over the course of my lifetime, he did it with enough time in between that my self-absorbed focus never allowed me to see it coming. Damn he was good.

Years later when I began working at the IBEW International Office, a friend and mentor must have spotted my propensity to blame others. Thankfully, he shared the following poem.

The Man in the Glass

When you get what you want in your struggle for self

And the world makes you king for a day,
Just go to a mirror and look at yourself,
And see what that man has to say.

For it isn't your father or mother or wife,
Who judgment upon you must pass;
The fellow whose verdict counts most in your life
Is the one starring back from the glass.

He's the fellow to please, never mind all the rest.
For he's with you clear up to the end,
And you've passed the most dangerous, difficult test
If the man in the glass is your friend.

You may be like Jack Horner and "chisel" a plum,
And think you're a wonderful guy,
But the man in the glass says you're only a bum
If you can't look him straight in the eye.

You may fool the whole world down the pathway of years.

And get pats on the back as you pass,
But your final reward will be the heartaches and tears
If you've cheated the man in the glass.

Dale Wimbrow (c) 1934
1895-1954

My father has been gone for over five years now, but there are times when I wish he was still around to point me into that glass. Even now, when I’m perplexed at how I ended up at the center of an unpleasant situation, I am amazed how often I eventually recognize I had complete control of the wheel all along the way. When I take the time to read that poem or to think of my father’s simple yet sage advice, it’s astonishing how much better I can make things almost immediately by simply correcting the one thing I can control. Me.

Not sure what you’re doing this weekend, but whatever it is, I hope it’s good. You’ve probably been working pretty hard, so please take some time to recharge these two days with the people (and pets) that you love.

Not sure what today's song has to do wtih this story...but  too be honest...I just wanted to hear it. BTW...I did not have time to proof this so I apologize in advance for any typos and mispellings.

Have a great weekend. 

You get what you need...

Get in the game

…and Division I college football starts in about 41 days.

For me, the best thing about late July has always been the comfort that comes from knowing that college football is not far off. Though the season doesn't start in earnest until early September, knowing that it's right around the corner is simply reassuring...at least to me. For whatever reason, this time of year also makes me nostalgic, and consequently I cannot help but look back at my own noteworthy collegiate athletic experience. If you’ve been receiving these weekly emails for some years today’s story might sound somewhat familiar; however, as Paul Harvey was prone to say, today you’ll get the rest of the story.  

Like a lot of you, I attempted to play several sports in high school. In my case, it was football and baseball. Unlike a lot of you, I really wasn't very good at either of them. As a matter-of-fact, last time I checked, I still held the record for 22 passed balls in one varsity baseball game. When I wasn't in the outfield or pitching I was a catcher, and for those of you that don't know baseball, you may want to bow to me in the hallway because let's just say it was a truly phenomenal accomplishment. For those of you that do know baseball, yes the story is true and it was much uglier that anything you're imagining so please don’t share what you know with the folks that don’t.   

Though my varsity baseball experience was more of a recreational thing (the football coach was also the baseball coach and he graciously let me play), my real sport was football. In the spirit of consistency, I also wasn't very good on the gridiron however there was one element of the game at which I somewhat excelled. Ever since I was a little boy, my father spent an inordinate time with me tossing a football. He'd often suggest, usually during halftime of a televised Los Angeles Rams' game, that we go out in the yard and toss the ball around. One thing he always had me do, even as a little tike, was punt the ball. He would work with me meticulously, and though I didn't like hitting and tackling (it hurt too much), by the time I reached Hamilton High in inner-city Los Angeles, I really was pretty decent at punting the ball.

Amazingly, I was provided the opportunity to go on a couple of recruiting trips, and eventually ended up at UCLA (pretty much explains their fall from top 20 prominence). I reported to camp on August 16th, 1980, and for me, the opportunity to play at the Division I level was surreal. After several days of rigorous strength and conditioning training, I was finally given the chance for which I'd spent a good deal of my life preparing. I had envisioned the outcome since I was a kid, and looked forward to the response as I booted the ball 65-plus yards through the air.

I remember it like it was yesterday, a new gold metallic Bruin helmet freshly drilled with a gunmetal gray drop cage.

I was standing there at the special teams segment of practice (the last part of regular double-day sessions) with over 100 of some of the best players in the nation when coach Donahue called my name. I confidently jogged out in front of the group, marked off 15-yards behind the long snapper, and called for the ball.

Now, in my three years at Hamilton High School, the one thing we didn't really have was a good long snapper. During my entire high school career, I don't believe I fielded more that 10 snaps where I didn't have to short-hop the ball. Sometimes the guy could float it back without bouncing, but usually I had to catch it skipping off the ground at least once. Actually, I became a pretty decent short stop.

In 1980, UCLA had a very, very good long-snapper. When I called for the football at that very first practice, it was hurled at me like it was shot out of a freakin' howitzer. To be honest, I'm not sure you could throw a ball that hard from 15 yards. The ball, which seemed like it was traveling about 80mph, slipped through my hands barely touching my fingers and the nose of the football came right across the top of my new drop cage and caught me right on the bridge of the nose. My head snapped back, I tumbled backward losing my balance and fell awkwardly to the grass. The impact of my head slamming the ground caused my helmet popped off and I could feel blood starting to stream down my face. This description cannot do it justice, as it truly was genuine cartoon material. As 100-plus football players laughed hysterically, I looked up to see coach Terry Donahue standing there and with an amazed and amused look on his face. He looked down with is arms crossed across his clipboard and said, "son, I don't think I've ever seen it go quite that bad."

When I got to my feet Coach Donohue was actually very encouraging and I'd love to tell you I went on to NFL greatness. Sadly though, I'm not sure I've ever fully recovered from that experience. Though I was in prime physical condition, and while I literally prepared much of my life for that specific moment to kick the ball, I was clearly unprepared to catch the ball. As a result of that failure, my college football career pretty much crashed and burned right there as I literally let the opportunity of a lifetime slip right through my fingers.

As I suspect you might imagine, it took me a long time to recover from that debacle but the following spring I had a chance for redemption and it came with the announcement that there would be tryouts for the UCLA baseball team. While I couldn’t catch real well (see above), I had developed the ability to throw a fairly decent knuckle ball. It was something that few young players could do, and while my ball didn’t have a ton of movement, I could pitch it consistently with very little in the way of rotation.

Determined to make up for my football failures, I drove my red 1972 Ford Pinto (yes...it was as cool as it sounds...great 8-Track system) over to UCLA’s Jackie Robinson Field on the assigned day of tryouts. Though I was nervous for sure, I was looking forward to putting the punting horror in the rearview mirror once and for all. The closer I got to the stadium though, the more nervous I got. When I arrived, I was struck by all the baseball talent milling around the parking lot. These were some genuine studs, and much of their gear alone seemed to be worth substantially more than my automobile. As I sat there in silence and watched the legions of young ballplayers walk to the field, I was overcome with the fear of another failure and never got out of the car.

What's the value of all this to you? To be honest, I don't know either. I guess if you’re thinking of starting an NFL franchise or a MLB expansion team, I’ve saved you at least one recruiting phone call.  However there may also be a lesson here that has something to do with being prepared and taking risks. We all have opportunities in our life, and when faced with the chance to do something special, there is something to be said for preparing, and then climbing over the rail and entering the arena. I don’t have a lot to show for my failed UCLA football career, but the willingness to try has left me with some entertaining (though unflattering) stories. Other than the shame and the haunting that comes from chickening out, I have nothing to show for the day I sat paralyzed in the baseball parking lot.

Looking around today, there are plenty of challenges and more reasons than ever to stand on the sidelines. For true competitors though, there is no better time to be on the field. This life is so much shorter than any of us ever thinks, so if you have an opportunity to do something extraordinary anytime soon…don’t just sit there...get in the game.

Have a terrific weekend and enjoy the song (may take a minute to load).

Get in the game...

Vacations

...and if you haven't already, it's time to take a vacation.

A co-worker and friend mentioned to me yesterday evening that he was planning to take the vacation he put off last year. When I asked him if he intended to go to the same place, he said yes...Tuscany. That got me thinking about this, and though you may recall some of this if you've been receving the Friday emails for a couple of years, the setting really is magical so I thought it warranted yet another more descriptive visit.

About 116 kilometers south of Florence, there is a Renaissance hilltop town in southeast Tuscany called Montepulciano. As you walk on the well-preserved medieval streets into the walled entrance of the town, there is a restaurant on the left-hand side of the street named Cafe Poliziano.

The Restaurant...

As you walk through the main dinning room there is a balcony that overlooks a Tuscan scene complete with Italian villas, Cyprus trees and the rolling vineyards that produce the red Vino Nobilie di Montepulciano wine famous to the region. My wife, my cousin Michael (who lived in Padua) and I wandered into the restaurant one afternoon about two years ago, and spotting the recently vacated balcony, I boldly walked through the crowded dining room and sat at the lone table outside.

The Balcony

We were incredibly lucky to snare that rarified Tuscan perch, and on that epic day we did justice to our good-fortune by drinking copious amounts of red wine while dining on various cheese pasta delicacies of the region. At one point, after we were sufficiently stewed on Italian red table wine, we ordered our fourth bottle and asked the personable waitress where it had come from. With kind of a confused and somewhat annoyed look on her face, she motioned her hands over the balcony railing while proudly pointing at the vineyards below and said…“out there.” The wine was a 2005 Incanto Vino Nobile Di Montepulciano, and though I’m no wine connisuer, I feel compelled to share my personal story of what happened next.

          The Wine

 

She went through quite a process just opening the bottle and pouring out a few drops off the top. She explained why she did it in Italian, but my Rosetta Stone wasn’t mixing well with the previous 7 glasses so I didn’t understand much of what she said. Once she finally poured the Incanto into a glass, it was a shadowy ruby-red color with a semi-opaque core. The wine faded slowly into a fine garnet-tinged rim definition with high viscosity and as I raised the glass to my nose, I sensed a discernable hint of cypress over black cherries... mixed with an earthy minty character, a touch of crushed black plum skins and perhaps even a tinge of wood. Amazingly, there was also is a particular freshness springing from the glass, with an underlying aroma of freshly tanned leather. Once on the palate, the Sangiovese grapes were full-bodied with expansive crushed black cherries and plum. Soon, there were notes of wood (given my propensity to gnaw on trees and 2x4s...I reconized the lumber taste quicker than most others), earthy minerals and juniper…all clearly influenced by the location of the vineyards that sloped along the sides of the hills just below our balcony. As the wine swirled on the midpalate, it was classically Tuscan…bursting with dried cherry, herbs and woody black fruit with firm tannins. As I swallowed, the wine finished with a strong close driven by chestnuts dancing in plum sauce.

Now, I'm hoping you know I didn't write much of  that review (it was largely taken from a wine column that appeared in the newspaper) and if you actually believe I (or anyone else...including the wine columnist that wrote it) smelled or tasted any of that crap, then you need to spend a little less time in cities like Florence and more days in places like Fargo. I did love the wine though…mostly because it tasted exactly like…well…wine. Not sure how it tasted on my midpalate (not entirely sure where my midpalate is though I’m so hoping it’s in my mouth), but if I had to guess, I think it probably reminded me a lot of fermented red grapes. What I liked best was that it provided a really, really, really quality buzz.

As we sipped the Nobile, we asked the waitress if there were any good places to stay in the area. She recommended an establishment run by the owners of the restaurant, but after checking and learning it was booked for the evening, she suggested a spot by the entrance to town called Villa Chicolina. I won’t bore you with details of this magical setting, but if you’re interested,  it does boast of the best infinity pool in Tuscany. I suspect that may be true…but once again, if that matters to you too much, I’d suggest less visits to Sienna and more trips to Saginaw. Anyhow, If you are curious about Villa Chicolina, you can visit the Inn’s website via the link below.

The Inn

Not sure if you’ve had  your summer vacation yet this year, but if not, I’m hopeful you will take some time to disconnect from the electronic leash and simply chill. There’s still about seven weeks before school starts in most places, so grab some extended time or even some long weekends with family and friends. There has been much written of late about the rejuvenating value of time away, and as you pour your heart into your work, you should set some time aside for you…and the people you love.

This is a small thing, but you can actually take the first step this morning by taking a few minutes before the hurricane of the day to listen to some beautiful music. If you close your eyes, you can visit the balcony above (or any other place) in your mind while enjoying one of the world's most famous operatic gems. You may not care for this genre of music, but if you listen nonetheless, you will have a better day. Turn up your speakers...because this really is something special. Best of all...if you do, you are guaranteed to have a better day.

Now…seriously, how many honest-to-goodness guarantees to you actually get any more?

Take a vacation…and have a terrific weekend.

And most importantly...the music