A Job, not a Career - circa 1970

A Job, not a Career - circa 1970 

                   

Move to New Jersey -
            My wife and year-old daughter had moved to New Jersey two weeks before I separated from the Army on March 1, 1970.  We rented a three bedroom Cape in Madison. I was slated to start work at Peat, Marwick, Mitchell and Co. (PMM&Co), the Co being, not Company, but Co-Partners.  I was just learning about the business world.  I was enthusiastic though a bit nervous because I ... well ... because my job title was consultant. 

             Consultant? 

             What did I know about anything? 

            Very little. 

  The Commute

            I caught the 7:16 train on my first day. Commuting fascinated me. Mostly men, all in suits, lined up waiting in clusters on the station platform at forty foot intervals. Aboard the train, jockeying for a seat, folding newspapers down to steno pad size, eyes straight ahead (no eye contact with those walking by lest someone think you're inviting them to take the open seat next to you), obsessing about being first off, then racing to be first to the next train (“the Tubes”) which, everyone fears, is closing doors andpulling out any second, then racing again to the subway platform. Inside the subway car, lunging for seats, sitting, speechless, dazed looks.

                     
The Office, 345 Park Avenue - Cool

Eventually - miracle - I stepped up to the receptionist’s desk at nine on the dot, and asked for Frank Meyers, the personnel guy.  Standing with me, a pace or two back, was another newcomer, a rather stern fellow with neatly parted clipped hair. He was dressed in a finely pressed, navy pinstriped suit.  He wanted Meyers as well.  I immediately drew comparisons – the navy pinstripes versus mine, what we called Glen Plaid, suggested experience and accomplishment whereas mine I now judged a trifle on the flashy side for business – first day and all. Pin-striped opened his briefcase and jotted a note in a rather impressive large, and well worn leather covered appointment book. My appointment book was the size of a playing card. The cover was, not leather, but thin cardboard with the words “1970 - Pocket Pal” and rightfully, it was in my pants pocket.

 

By Comparison

I surmised that the pin-stripped guy had been a consultant for some years – evidence the appointment book.  I stole a glance into his briefcase and saw stacks of papers, no doubt the organized details of important facts related to his up and coming consulting assignments, for which he was hired. I had a briefcase, but it was not full. The one paper inside was today’s newspaper. I glanced at his face and tried to warm my heart. He was probably a nice guy really, a father, with children, who plays catch with them in the yard, wears flannel shirts and old jeans, and lets his hair go dry on weekends (wet heads were out, among youth, in 1970).

            “How ya doing?” I said, trying to summon warmth.  

            “Good morning,” he replied.  

             Not very businesslike - me. Hereafter “Good morning” would be my greeting of choice.

  The Big Eight Conference

   PMM was what was called a Big Eight Accounting firm.  I knew it was not a football conference, but had no real idea who or what the Big Eight was. Still I put two and two together and surmised, correctly, that a Big Eight Accounting firm meant big deal.  As all large accounting firms, they had a consulting division or group as they called it.  I understood that the two vocations, accounting and consulting, went hand in hand, something like this: accountants looked over the books and when they found problems, they recommended consultants – very convenient that they had their own consultant group. 

Honestly, I felt apprehensive even calling myself a consultant.  This was at a time when consultant meant expert, unlike a few years later when every freelancer – especially the unemployed – called themselves consultants.  My business experience, in 1970, was limited to summer jobs.  I had two years Army experience where I pretended to be a computer programmer but, I had never actually written a computer program. My Army job title, called MOS (Military Occupation Specialty), was Systems Analyst, and it required no technical knowledge to speak of. 

  Not an Expert

   Before the Army I was a graduate assistant football coach. I suspected that Frank Meyers knew I was no expert and, most likely, so did the stern – nice guy - fellow in pin-stripes.  I could have looked like a young computer whiz-kid, except in those days kids of that ilk dressed more casual, being so smart that they could flaunt the dress code. Since I was far from that, I didn’t dare "dress" the part.


 How's the House

  Just then Meyers showed up and greeted us both.  He knew my name at least. The pin-striper was Bill.  Meyers made a bit more of a fuss about Bill.  “Did you find a house yet?” he asked Bill and Bill replied with a smile, that his wife was looking in Connecticut.  Meyers smiled back, he didn’t ask about my house hunt (we're renting in New Jersey, thanks, two bedroom cape, $250 / mo.).  He didn’t know my wife either, nor if I was married, nor that my wife was actually very smart and extremely attractive, in my opinion. I was wishing that I could have brought her along for my first day – would have been nice and I bet he would have made a bigger fuss about me/her. Obviously, Meyers knew little, and cared less, about me - unlike Bill. 
    

Harold and Me  

  I was assigned to a cubicle with a guy named Harold. Harold went to Harvard, which I knew because Harold spent most of every day talking about squash or lunch, or both, and both were always at the Harvard Club. 

            I went to Lehigh. Good school, but no Lehigh Club in NY, that I knew of. 

            When Harold wasn't talking lunch or squash at The Harvard Club he was discussing a report that he was writing about the “cash and carry” business. I could see that this was Harold’s specialty – cash and carry. Wasn’t all business with products “cash and carry?” What was the alternative? Charge and carry - or ship maybe. See what I mean, when I say I didn’t know much about business? Well, it wouldn’t have taken a rocket scientist to guess that “cash and carry” meant pay cash and physically carry it out. No backlog of charges. No shipping. Still the phrase paralyzed me the way receivables and payables disarmed me, to say nothing of those computer terms like link editor or core dump. OK, don’t ask. I couldn’t understand why a “cash and carry” business needed an expert consultant – but who was I to question what PMM was doing.

               
Two Phones at Once

As I saw it, Harold’s greatest talent by far, was talking on two phones at once. Honestly, he held  one in each ear, and sometimes, it seemed, talked about two different subjects. I suspected early on that the “cash and carry” business was somehow intertwined with the Harvard Club and the squash court, like business conducted on the golf course. Which was something I’d heard about. 

            Since I wasn't especially busy, I listened a lot to Harold’s phone conversations. One thing I picked up was that he never said “hello.”  When he answered a call, he said, “Harold Young,” and when he placed a call there was still no "hello." His first words when calling someone were invariably, “Is he there?”  I guess he never called a woman. Anyway, that was it. I never managed to fully embrace business phone decorum but I guess it didn’t matter much because I didn’t make or receive that many calls.

               

Hello
            I adopted a call answering style modeled after one of the secretaries who seemed to be bucking the trend by answering her phone with a simple, friendly “hello.”  Honestly it sounded so much more friendly – wasn’t that the aim? - that I was taken by it and thus followed her lead. I was mildly fearful that I would receive a reprimand for this but as I received so few (close to none) legitimate business calls I escaped rebuke. 

               

             Of course “bucking the trend” was not how to succeed in business. 

 

            There were two factors related to my then current view of the business world. First: I had just finished reading “Up the Organization” and was presently half through “The Peter Principle.” These were not on the firm’s suggested reading list.  Each contained numerous examples of office absurdities and I delighted in spotting the many real-life examples at PMM.

             The second factor was that I met a new friend, a young man from the Bronx that shared my perceptions and whom I wanted to impress with my camaraderie and sense of humor. 

                 
 Chargeable

I quickly learned that the aim of all PMM consultants was to be what was called chargeable. Chargeable meant that PMM was not paying your salary, but rather the client was.

            Despite my non-expert status I managed to be chargeable for most of my time at PMM. I functioned entirely as a worker bee. Other people, the real expert consultants, would meet with the executives of companies (clients) that wanted help and then these experts would call on me to do things. Nothing too complicated. The real consultants never told the company execs that I was not an expert. This worked best if the clients never saw me. 

Flowcharting

  My first project was drawing diagrams, flowcharts they called them, that illustrated in pictures (boxes, circles, triangles and arrows), the various office procedures related to manufacturing. For example, I had to go around and ask people – not the execs but the worker bees like myself - in the office or the plant exactly what they did when someone called in an order. They weren’t especially courteous. They would say something like, “I get out an order form and fill it out,” followed by an implied, Duh! Often I felt I was asking stupid question but I had to be sure I documented every step. So I would take out my Official IBM flowcharting template and tracing a small rectangle on the top of the page and inside it write, “Complete the Order Form.”

“What happens next?” I would ask.

          The response was, “It goes to shipping.” Another Duh! I'd draw a line with an arrow on the end, then another rectangle. Inside I'd write “Shipping.” The tone of the office workers often hinting at disdain made me feel  uncomfortable but I plugged along. I knew how to draw boxes and arrows, and how to inquire, “What happens next?” but honestly I didn’t know much else about manufacturing other than it meant, to make things, which I think I learned in the fifth grade. “Bill of Materials,” a term I kept hearing, especially baffled me.

            Eventually I gained some comfort and what I felt was respect. People called the work I was doing, systems analysis.

Working in Midtown

So I survived, taking comfort in the fact that I was only thirty, that I was learning things and every day I dressed up in a suit, boarded the Erie Lackawanna train in Madison and rode to Hoboken where I caught the Path, to 33^rd Street then the F Train to Queens, getting off at Park Avenue. That whole process impressed me immensely. My business address was 345 Park Avenue which I loved telling people, adding that it was in “midtown.” How cool was I?

Speaking of cool, I prided myself on being fashionable too. I got most of my clothes at Bloomingdales and if I went out after work in NYC for a beer or two, maybe to Brew’s on 34^th Street or to the upper east side, I thought I was way more cool. The sound of the words “upper east side” was even better than “midtown” and made me feel as if I had come a long way from childhood. 

Did I ever actually go out for cocktails after work? 

            Maybe twice – or once.   

It's My Number

It's My Number

 

I am talking, by phone, with old friend from high school. We're both septuagenarians (that's Seven-Oh plus), so high school is what we'd call "way back."

I want to send him an email so I ask, "What's your email?"

"Bainie12@aol.com," he informs me, then adds, "It was my number."

I understand immediately. He was a quarterback. He played football. Twelve was his jersey number.

I correspond with several of my former football teammates. Please know that we were decidedly small time - but never mind - more than a few of us have put our numbers into our email address. As for me, my number is sprinkled throughout my many computer passwords. A lot of passwords require numbers and I get mine from old football jerseys.

Sometimes - more often than not - I make up passwords from ancient football plays. I think of this as quite clever. No joke.

For example: 108Lateral, 211Reverse, and LinePlunge17 (17 was my HS number when the "line plunge" was in fashion). Cool huh?

My personal favorite is: 17FB29IB19HB, which represents my three numbers, 17 as a fullback in high school, 29 as an "I" formation back in prep school and 19 when I was a halfback in college. So far, in the three or so years that I have used this password, it has never failed to bring a warm feeling to my chest each time I type it.

I'm not making this up. Yes, I know. Nuts.

Regardless, here's what happened the other day.

I was at the gym, post workout. I walked into the locker room and noticed a young man was using the locker right next to mine. As was the protocol, he apologized for choosing a locker so close.

"No problem," I offered.

"It was my number," he says, "twenty-two." He gave me a sheepish grin, then went on to describe his most recent athletic endeavor. "I just got back from Finland," he said.

"Really?" I said.

"I was playing professional hockey there. But they couldn't give me my number."

Hmmmm.

Of course I recognized the story, a thinly disguised variation of my own I played football story collection. I gave him my full attention.   

"They couldn't give me 22 in Finland. They said they only went up to 20. I could have either 2 or 20." 

"So which did you choose?" I asked.

As one who has told many a tall football tale, I obliged him with all due courtesy, plus I nodded and asked questions so he didn't have to resort to speed-talking in run-on sentences, a common necessity, with seniors speaking to disinterested parties.

Needless to say, I got an ear full, which brought on a feeling not unlike - my good deed for today.

FYI: He chose 20.

Walking out from the gym I chuckled to myself about the encounter and then got a bright idea. Next time I book a flight I'll reserve a seat in aisle 19. Then when I board, I'll stash my bags overhead, squeeze in, arrange the seat-belt, fiddle with my stuff (laptop, newspaper, neck cushion), settle in, get comfortable and exhale.  I'll look to my right (or left). I'll make eye contact.

"Ah ... aisle 19," I'll say. Eye to eye now. "It was my number." Blank stare. "Football number," I'll offer with a half smile, slightly apologetic.

Actually, I wouldn't expect any real interest.  

But hey … I think the point is not that others hear the story. The point is that I hear it, again

World Famous Turkey Burgers

World Famous Turkey Burgers

Do you remember the day, years ago, early in our time together, we were driving around looking for a spot to have lunch? We saw a sign, something like Bob’s Diner or Kathy’s Kitchen. Another mile was another sign, then further on another, each more bold than before, and all bragging about “Famous Turkey Burgers.”

We finally came to the restaurant itself – “Home of the Turkey Burger,” it said, over the door.

We both ordered the turkey burgers.

You spit yours into the napkin. I forced down a few bites. 

Now what? we thought.

Fortunately my sport coat had large side pockets. Discretely we cut up the burgers, moved small chunks around on our plates, picked at the rolls, and intermittently, carefully slipped the small burger parts into the pocket.

Full disclosure: I believe we were unfair taste-test subjects. We doubtless anticipated a beef burger taste sensation and thus were turned off, Today (2019) I'm actually a fan of "Turkey Burgers, or even better, "Veggie Burgers."

 
After a tenable number of minutes while we diligently pretended to chew our lunch – rolls and water - we got up and walked to the register to pay. A young man/boy in a flannel shirt and pin-striped suit pants ambled over from behind the counter. He was carrying two cups of coffee, obviously intended for the [only] other customers, a young couple in a booth a few tables behind us.

It was obvious to me that those customers were somehow connected to the diner. The woman had papers spread on the table before her like she might be paying bills or doing night school homework. The dad, sitting sideways in the booth watched his two children playing a modified version of hopscotch on the floor tiles. Had to be diner family, I thought.

 

The cashier/waiter guy set the coffee on top of the case next to the register.

“Take the coffee to your customers,” I said, “We’re in no hurry.”

  “You don’t mind?” the young man said.  

“Not at all.” 

As we waited, I noticed that on the top of the case, next to the cash register, there was a miniature roulette wheel. I speculated that perhaps the diner sold these, a side business of sorts, but looking below, inside the glass case, I saw only a half dozen loose packs of Juicy Fruit Gum, otherwise the selves were bare. No roulette wheels in stock.
     

My pity gene kicked in: pity for the owners of the diner, for the boy waiter / cashier (no customers = meager tip money), for the young mother doing her homework, for the instigator of the Turkey Burger idea (they were probably good, just ahead of their time) and anyone else that I thought was dependent on the diner’s success.

The cashier lad returned. He stepped behind the register and looked up at us. He seemed to pause as if he had forgotten something – perhaps cream for the coffee he’d just delivered – but he would now take care of us, he said.

“Spin the wheel,” he said pointing to the roulette wheel, “Land on ‘Jackpot’ and your dinner is on the house.”

No way was all I could think. I placed my hand on the roulette wheel, tempted, before spinning, to warn the young man about bad business practices – i.e. giving away the store, but I held back, figuring that landing on Jackpot was far-fetched. Me, who had never won anything.

You guessed it, I hit the jackpot.

I looked up at the cashier. He looked at me. “Your meal is free,” he said.  There was sadness in his eyes, doubtless in our eyes as well.

“No, we’re paying for the meal,” I said in an I-won’t-take-no-for-an-answer tone, “Plus could you give me some singles for the tip?’ Then I added, “But that is a nice game, thanks for letting us play it, but I wouldn’t think of not paying. Oh ... and the turkey burgers were really great.”

I over tipped, leaving five singles on the table. “You tip like a gangster,” you said.
  

“They need the money,” I said and you agreed. On the trip home we talked about the diner, speculating who the owners were (had to be the family doing homework and playing hop-scotch), who thought up the “Turkey Burger” idea, who’s recipe it was and various other scenarios about the diner’s family, and mostly the sad eyes of the cashier when we won at roulette.

“Do you think anyone ever won the free meal before?” you asked. We both decided that we were the first.

Then I said, “And you know that cashier guy went right into the kitchen immediately after we left and told the cook, "Another customer loved the Turkey Burgers."

“Yeah.”

“A shame.”

“Sad.”

“Yeah, but we were good Samaritans.”

“We were."

Throwing high pops - May 1982

                                        Throwing High Pops - May 1982

 It’s after school on a Monday, a bright afternoon in early May. Of course for me, age 42 now, it is no longer “after school”. For me it is “after work” though I presume for many of my contemporaries it is just beyond mid-day. As I have done on occasion in the work world, today I have found a way to leave work early - one of my learned skills as a corporate worker-bee. 

             The time of year is now well into the baseball season for the two junior high school teams gathered before me. My daughter’s school, the Falcons, is pitted against the Cougars, who now occupy the field, ostensibly warming up. 


              The Falcons are loosely gathered about their team bench, three twelve-foot board planks along the first baseline. Their coach, a youngish PE-type peers out at the field, toward the opposition, squinting into the afternoon sun. The collection of twelve to thirteen year old boys in his charge squirm on the bench behind him, emitting familiar adolescent banter. Much of their talk is for the benefit of a thin strand of their contemporaries, six in number, standing in a line approximately three paces from the bench. This string of six is of female gender and my daughter is among them.

I catch parts of the girl talk that seem like repeated versions of “No way - Call me tonight,” then “What time?” then “I don’t care.”

As for the Falcons, uniformed in away-gray (they're playing at home) polyester with green script F-A-L-C-O-N-S on their chests, they are, at the moment, neither studying the opposition, nor collecting themselves into a game face mentality. Nor do they mimic big leaguers. Instead they mimic themselves at recess, except for the fact that they are now confined to the bench area by apparent invisible fencing. Their noises seem not so much related to verbs or nouns. Predominate is a sound that I think would be spelled like “Shuuump.” It is often paired with a feigned punch to the eye or a karate-like chop to the neck. The “Shuuump” mixes with bewildering word formations (sometimes) and spasmodic gestures (always). 

        For example, apparently imitating an opponent during batting practice, one Falcon assumes a batting stance, then suddenly throws up both hands and yells, “Whoa!” Next is a backwards stagger (spasmodic) which prompts sharp laughter from teammates. The demonstrator then recovers from his stagger, pokes jab-like at a nearby mate’s eye and says, “Shuuump!” The mate winces, then breaks into an adolescent strut. And so it goes.

 
         I watch and listen, pretending indifference, which come to think of it is what the Falcons and the string of six are doing as well. The Cougars, in the field, provide background music - timeless sandlot chatter.

 

Soon the game begins and the string of six immediately executes, if I remember my military experience, a quite precise right face maneuver followed by a forward march parallel to the foul line. They pass first base and shift to a flank formation and walk six a breast in foul territory, toward the school building, shedding self-consciousness with each step removed from the playing area. Finally they disappear into a school doorway. 

 

Apparently, the actual game did not interest them.

Next to the doorway I notice a familiar sight, what I would call an incarnation of myself. It is a small boy pitching a rubber ball against the school wall. I watch, remembering days when I found joy and the best of dreams while throwing a ball against a wall. For the moment I forget about the official game before me and heed a pull to the boy at the wall.

“Let me throw you a high one,” I say, remembering the thrill of chasing a ball that moved against the sky, settling beneath it and then letting it sink into my glove.

“Throw it here,” I say.

The kid flips the ball to me and quickly drops into fielder’s stance - a dog ready to fetch.

“All set?" I say.

He just looks at me, his eyes wide. 

Just then the string of six re-emerges from the school. “Dad!” Brett shouts at me.

“What,” I say, ball in hand.

“What are you doing?”

“Playing catch,” I say.

“Dad, that’s Tom’s brother.” That would be Tom, the Falcon.

“Oh yeah,” I say remembering now the last name of my incarnation. “Roger, right?” I say. Roger doesn’t answer. He stays in the wide eye ready stance.

“You’re crazy Dad.” I take it as a compliment, but I know that interacting with "Tom's brother" is a no-no. 

Regardless, I turn toward Roger, “O.K.!” I say and take one hop and then arching myself backward fling the ball straight up into the air, aiming it as best I can so that it might descend in the general proximity of my ready fielder. I remember my father here - him throwing, and me watching the shrinking ball against the sky delighted and amazed at the same time, at the height of the throw. Then camping under the ball, and aware of the uneven slope of our Cottage Street yard under my feet, and then catching it.

 Somewhere along the line of time in a boy’s life is a point at which catching a ball in the air becomes easy for one accustomed to such games. As I watch this ball sail skyward I wonder if I have correctly gauged Roger’s place in this baseball skill spectrum. I do not want the ball to hit on his forehead instead of his glove. For that reason I didn’t throw this first ball too high. But Roger catches the ball with ease and so I throw another and another, each higher than before until my arm, at age 42, grows weak.

The fielder however was shows no sign of tiring. On the contrary, he appears even more enthusiastic. Just as I remember it – so well. 

I remember too, something else about playing baseball with my father. The game we played was that I would pitch the ball to him and he would tap out flies and grounders in my direction. Always brother John would be in the outfield a few paces behind me. My mother would sit on the back porch steps, a box seat, watching it all and from time to time exclaiming how amazing it was that dad never missed hitting a pitch. 


Officially this game had a name. It was called Pepper and big-leaguers played it to warm up before games. But what I remember most about our baseball games was that I never wanted them to end which was the thought that came to mind as I looked at Roger after pitching approximately a dozen high ones for him to field. I could easily have called it quits here, but for the look in Roger’s eye. Let’s just say, I’ve been there. That was the thing I could never understand as a child. Why didn’t my dad want to play baseball every single night - forever? Now of course I know, but back then, no clue.   

                Anyway, having had enough of throwing high pops, I walk toward Roger and say, “So what’s the game you play against the wall?” Sure as you bet there is a game that Roger plays with the ball and the wall. I’m guessing that it’s his own version of what might be labeled dream-ball, with special rules and all; no doubt. I wonder what it is exactly but I know I’ll never get it out of him.

                “I dunno,” he says.

                I look at the wall, a large patch of flat brick with no windows. Ideal, I think. Two stories in height, and set down onto a flat blacktop lot. Even at age forty I see the possibilities for many dream-ball-like games.

“Here, lemme show you something,” I say walking toward the wall. Another nice feature of this wall I now see is that it has a decorative like ledge about six feet from the ground. The concrete shelf of this ledge slants up about forty-five degrees from the front edge. Perfect I think.  

                “Here’s the deal,” I say. Roger is silent. “O.K. you throw the ball against the wall, I mean, I’ll throw it. If you catch it and it’s a grounder you’ve got to throw it to me to get the out at first. If it’s a fly, you got to catch it or it’s extra bases. Now see this ledge? If I hit the edge of the ledge, the corner, the ball will sail over your head. Then it’s a home run if it goes past the blacktop.”

                “Yeah,” Roger says. I don’t think he’s got it all but I’ll explain as I go.

                “All right, you ready?” I look at Roger and come to a pitcher’s stretch position. Roger is ready. “Shift over a little,” I say.  Roger slides, three hops to the left. In my stretch position I see from the corner of my eye that the Falcon game is in full swing. I hear loud shrieks, shouting, cheering, and notice fans jumping up and down, players running around the bases.

Back to dream-ball.  “O.K here comes the pitch.” I am both pitcher and announcer for this game of dream-ball. All dream-ball games require an announcer, someone that calls the game and shouts with utter amazement at the wondrous and sparkling play of the star player – in this case – Roger. *

I fire the ball at an upward angle so the rebound is an arching fly ball. Then I announce, “There’s a high fly to left, Roger moves back, he’s under it, makes the grab.” All of this actually happens. “Alright, one down, O.K., Roger, what’s your last name?” I figure that announcers can’t be calling the center fielder by first name over the radio.

“Benson,” Roger says.

So I put Benson into the game and just as I played for the Cardinals in my dreamball games. Roger Benson plays centerfield for the Yankees. He follows Winfield in the order, batting fourth. As fielder, I give Roger an assortment of grounders, flies, and line drives, and pop-ups. Roger manages pretty well for a ten-year old. I see that he doesn’t want the game to end. But I grow tired, as adults do, and after ten or fifteen minutes of firing the tennis ball at the wall I announce that this is now the last inning and the bases are loaded and Benson steps up to the plate. Roger, in the field, takes the identity of the Red Sox outfielder.

“Alright, here’s Benson, he already has three hits on the day and at the plate now he has a chance to win this game for the Yankees if he can get a hold of one here.” I try to bounce the ball off the edge of the ledge but I miss so the ball comes back to me. “Ball one,” I announce. Roger understands what’s happening here. Anything that doesn’t result in a direct hit on the edge I call a ball, or called strike or foul ball. Finally I get one that strikes the sharp edge and it sails high into the air and over the Red Sox fielder’s head and I launch into my game-ending announcement. “Oh my gosh, Benson has done it again, that ball is gone! What a shot! It’s far, far over the center fielder’s head! All runner’s are going to score and Benson has again won the game for the Yankees.”   

Roger high-tails-it after the ball, scoops it into his glove and walks back across the blacktop. I say “Nice game, Benson, you did it again. You won the game.” He looks at me with still wide eyes. “You hit the game winning home run,” I say.

“I know,” Roger says.

“Dad!” It's someone calling me. It’s the string of six again, heading back toward the school.

“Where are you going?” I say.

“For a drink.” But I knew that.

“Who’s winning?” I say.

“What are you doing?” Brett says.

“We’re playing a game. Who’s winning?” I say again.

  They all look at each other, without talking. As if passing the question on down the line, does anyone know the score?                

“Don’t know,” comes the reply. 

 

* When playing alone, as is most common, dream-ball players function in both roles, as announcer and player, which, for obvious reasons is often, both necessary better. 

 

 

Time to hang it up - circa 2009

Time to hang it up - circa 2009

 

How many of us still own a jock? Or to put it another way - You’re seventy; do you know where your jock strap is?

Jock-strapping, that’s what they called it (playing sports) in the army, and all real killers, like our drill sergeants, frowned upon it, as I recall.

Regardless, I grew up thinking that athletic excellence was synonymous with honor. Didn’t everyone agree with that? It sure seemed like the truth. College was no different; jocks garnered envy as well as reverence, or so I thought. The jock-house was an esteemed fraternity - or so I thought - and I lived in one while an undergrad. In those days if you called me a jock it pleased me. Call me that today and it would still please me. Or better yet, give me an excuse to talk about my former jock life and then you’ve made my day. Was I a tough guy? Far from it – period. But let me spin a yarn about the old days and one might think, “I bet he was tough. He’s just being modest.”

 Alas, for me, playing sports was a pursuit of the highest order.

 Thus, my memory is vivid about a conversation some years back, when my friend Doug Yano and I were talking about how we had slowed our workouts and generally abandoned other athletic activity and he said, “I don’t even own a jock,” which shocked me because it occurred to me that, come to think of it, neither did I.

 Was this what life had come to?

 I thought about it some more and then remembered that actually I did have one jock, or so I thought, but exactly where it was, I was uncertain, which was beside the point because I had not actually worn my one jock in years, maybe decades.

So, where was my jock? I thought I recalled seeing it recently, in the basement, somewhere around the tool bench. What was it doing there? Anyway, I went to look and after darting my eyes in every direction, when suddenly, I spied it above the workbench, hanging on a nail. Huh???? 

I can’t remember the last time it was in my gym bag, much less used – worn. Obviously, it had been saved through a half-dozen house moves over the years.  Why? Who knows? And why now hanging on the nail? Oh well.

It was not that I thought that I might need it someday. Like there was ever going to be another tackle football game.  Nor was it that a jock was something to save, to pass on to the grandkids, like an old baseball mitt. And it wasn’t at all like my old football practice jersey, now somehow full of holes (again, why? how?) that I hoped after my demise, my surviving heirs would come across the jersey and pause briefly to reflect kindly upon my athleticism first, and my life, second. I believe that I saved the jock because – well - what else could I have done with it? A jock is not something one gives to the goodwill.

Of course, I could have thrown it out, but think of this: “Tossing it,” into the bottom of this week’s garbage pail, or on the top for that matter. That didn’t seem right, because there it would sit, or lay, until 7:30 AM Monday when the truck comes around, the cans are emptied and the contents head for the landfill for a million years. Not right, not at all. 

For kids in the fifties and sixties there was the phrase, “Hang it up,” as in “It’s time to hang it up,” which we muttered from time to time as gentle ridicule. What we were hanging up was a jock. I don’t hear that much - at all - these days, but then why would I? It’s not a popular phrase in senior circles.

But from my youth I recall a college teammate, Al Richmond, (I include his name because if anyone ever reads this I’m certain that Al would appreciate the citation) who tried to invoke a ceremony in the locker room after our football season’s last game, his last, when he shouted to all, “I’m hanging up my jock,” and with that he draped it on a hook in the visitor’s locker at Lafayette College. I think a few heads turned and that it got a laugh, or two. 

Oh, did I mention that I was on the college football team? OK, not important, but I was.