In The Cards

In The Cards

 

I grew up surrounded by cards players. My dad played cards, my mom played cards, his mom played cards, her dad played cards. You get it. 

The grown up's played euchre while us kids hearing the ruckus, decided on a more civil game. Enter the game known as, spoons.

The object of the game, to be the first to get four of a kind and then grab a spoon. Usually played with four players and three spoons. This game is very fast paced, it is for this reason that the old folks never played. Cause of death, heart attack brought on by not cholesterol but a utensil.

Playing spoons was like musical chairs but with cutlery. Only the music never stopped, it was replaced with a hand slapping table gouging flurry of activity. This trumped the noise heard from the other table. My mother didn't appreciate us scratching the table up. The adults could slam their fists down on it and yell trump. That was okay. We were banished to a folding card table aka eating area for kids, in keeping with the seen and not heard rule. Only one problem. Well, a couple, we were seen, and we were heard. The folding table served its purpose with one exception, it bounced. Because it bounced, we needed catlike reflexes to grab the dancing spoons. Apparently, our family dog who never barked at the old folks, figured he be doing his owner (my mother) a service by keeping us in line, barked at us until were banished to who knows where. The things a dog will do for milk bone. The game was over. But we had other games to play. The where, was upstairs and the game was called sock hockey. But that dog, now an angry canine Zamboni, hindered our play there as well. Clearly this dog had a doggy treat addiction. Is it any wonder why we played outside. Mom's dog was a bitch

Stat tunned......

 

Lessons from an old man

I remember watching the old man in the sea with my dad. The movie was about an old man and a big fish. The old man (played by Spencer Tracy) set out to prove to himself and to everyone else, that even though he was old, he wasn’t weak, he wasn’t washed up and he could still land the big one. All he needed was one day and this was that day. 

Hook line and splinters

How long the day and how long the fight would last, he had no idea.  The game was tug of war and war it was. The old man skillfully played the fish reeling in the slack but ready with the drag when he could feel the beast burst through the surface of sea.  His calloused hands now bloodied from hours of fighting, were wrapped with shreds of a discarded sweat-stained shirt, meant to be a bandage and did nothing to stop the pain, only to slow the bleeding. How many hours had gone by it didn’t matter.  Neither one surrendered, knowing well that weakness awakens the sharks.  The night came and the fight was over. The old man thanked the fish for fighting so hard and felt sorry for it at the same time. 

Surrender isn't always sweet

Too big and too heavy to put in the boat, it was tied down to the side of it.  He could see the lights shoreline and headed home. But the night wasn’t over neither was his battle. One fin slithered by than two, suddenly the water erupted into a frenzy. I remember feeling exhausted watching the shark’s taring away at his trophy and seeing my dad fighting back the tears saying, "You know son, this story is about life" All I could see (being a kid ) was a skeleton. My father seen much more. He was now the old man. He had lived his life. He had seen dreams come and go but he knew it was all about the journey not about the prize. Sometimes that journey clings to the side of a boat a mere skeleton of what we hoped we could protect, left to the imagination, a big beautiful fish.

What did the old man teach me? 

He wanted his moment. He was seeking justification and appreciation but this was a baited hook. He was both fish and fisherman. Trying not to get fooled and hoping to fool at the same time. There are many fish swimming in the sea of contradiction and many are hooked because of it.  Life is not a be all end all wall mounted trophy, it's an adventure. I am older now but I think I'm beginning to see the hidden truth in the words of the old man.

Climb aboard the ocean awaits and don't rock the boat. 

 

Paper Airplane love note

Paper planes

I didn't know what origami was and the only paper folding skill I had acquired at my young grade school age was making paper airplanes. My father, however, could make a hat out of yesterday's news. 

Flight path

It was meant to be just a little note cleverly written within the paper wingspan. Just a few words "meet me after school" signed with my name. The destination was my childhood want to be sweethearts desk. It wasn't a long flight; she sat right infront of me. It would have been easier to tap her on the shoulder. But this was more romantic. Okay, bullshit. I was shy and scared to death. I wasn't expecting turbulence that day, oh but there was. 

Stormy weather

The plane vered off course and landed at the feet of my teacher. I looked out the window and hoped he wouldn't think it was me but the signed note was more than enough of a confession. I was busted, now the whole class knew I had the hots for a girl named Sue. The good thing is she knew it too. 

Mayday mayday

I got called up to the front of the class and I knew I was in for it. I stood waiting for my punishment, wondering what it might be. I didn't talk in class so I thought that writing lines might be out and I wasn't chewing gum so I didn't have to sandwich it with my nose pushed against the blackboard. It was a catholic grade school and having a few extra bibles around my teacher thought a little improvisation was in order.

Unusual punishment

Now playing the part of Jesus, Dennis. I was literally crucified. With literature. My arms were stretched out palms up and in each palm a huge bible. I'm not talking new testement only. I'm talking new, old, revelations and all the pages inbetween. I was instructed to not let my arms or the bibles drop. I can't remember how long I was up there for but I did meet Sue after school. I even walked her home and we sat on swing in the park. All because of a paper plane crash.

Childhood Improv

Setting the stage

The spackled countertop made the gray and black sponge brick backsplash stand out. Well, not really. The attached island didn't help much either. But this area was just the ticket for my childhood bartender comedy routines. I had dual roles: the bartender and the drunk. Having seen one of my uncles in action, I improvised much to my niece’s enjoyment. I had his smoky throat Detroit dialect down pat.

 Kill or be killed

I would make her giggle so hard until my mother woke up. "You kids quiet down, down there" became just background noise in a crowded make-believe bar room. I killed and was almost killed because of it. I'd set up the bar with shot glasses and orange juice or Kool-Aid. My niece would pull up a stool and I'd lean over and say, "What'll you have" "A shot of Tang, no rocks, straight up" Let's just assumed she said that I can't remember everything. I was too young to know what a screwdriver was, but I pretended I knew what drinking a screwdriver could lead to. I started walking into walls and slurring words until the background noise got closer. "Hi mom, want a drink?"

 A boy of the cloth

When I wasn't a bartender, I played Father Dennis. I wore a buttoned up long sleeve shirt with piece of toilet paper sticking out under my chin. A long dish towel draped around my neck became makeshift vestments. Regular towels were reserved and tied around our necks when my brothers and I played the Batman and Robin. 

 Wonder wafers

The sermons I can't remember. Pressed down wonder bread cut in circles via an upside down shot glass become the host. The neighborhood kids would stop by, walk single file with their hands out. I would wait for the "amen" and give them their wonder wafer. I performed one marriage. I can't recall who it was or if they are still together. I don't know why but the kids just stopped going to my church. So, I decided to threw in the towel. Dish towel that is. 

 

"To the Bat-cave" "Okay, to the bathroom"

 

Summer of 68

The summer of Sixty Eight

Tiger stadium  

There are only three occasions to wear a little league uniform: Parade Day, playing ball or sitting in the bleachers at Tiger stadium. Every year they had a little league team day. This day included kids from Canada too. My hometown was just across the border. Windsor Ontario. Windsor Ontario was once called Sandwich. Now Sandwich is a road running east and west along the river. Back in the day our city was divided by a few of these sandwiches. They were three sandwiches and no, hero was not one of them: East, west and south. We represented Sandwich East. I don't remember the bus ride over, but I do remember our seats.

Our seats were in the nosebleed section of right field. My father and his brother were our chaperones watching over my brother and I.  Looking around the place was enormous. It was sunny day. The sounds of the vendors filled the air. "Get your red hots here" and "peanuts roasted peanuts" I remember peanuts flying in the air and money changing hands like a dollar bill conga line. It was a time when people helped people out. That's just what fans did. I never seen hot dogs being thrown, that could have been messy. But the hot dog hand off and money exchange probably happened. 

There are two lines a kids never want to be part of: the concession line and the line to the washroom. But ever kid for some reason had to see the difference between the home and away can. They called them washrooms, but this washroom didn't have urinals, just a long sink with a bunch of guys peeing in it. Nobody wants to see that. I didn't and I'm still recovering. Back to the seat. 

My brother had new blue glove, a gift from his Godparents. I had an over sized old glove or maybe it felt over sized wearing it on my undersized little kid hand. Catching a game ball would have been awesome. Speaking of over sized. I think the pitcher that day way Mickey Lolich. Mickey had a big gut, and I could clearly see his big gut from my vantage point. I think red hots and beer were to blame. Just below in right field stood Al Kaline, another great.   I don't remember much more. 

 Radio

I was nine years old and glued to the radio. Ernie Harwell's voice echoed off the paneled walls of my youth and our den. I was a nervous wreck. It was the world series and like the tigers our backs were against the wall. The only way to soothe myself was standing on the couch bouncing nervously. My dad raced home after work to hear the play by play. When he entered the house he'd say, referring to Willie Horton "My name is Willie not Billy" This occurred every time he saw me in my perplexed state. Willie was one of my heroes. There is nothing like sound of the crack of the bat, the crowd cheering and Ernie announcing another home run. "That one is long gone" 

 Television 

My friend lived across the street. He had a colored TV. But that wasn't the reason why I stood on the front porch with my nose pushed against the screen door. His mom was like a second mother to me, and she was the best cookie baker in the neighborhood. I would often go over knowing well that my friends were out, just to get cookies and milk. Watching the tigers in living color was just a bonus. 

The man of the house had one rule. Kids should be seen and not heard. I followed that rule to the letter. I wished no pipe smoking was a rule too. He smoked players and or export tobacco. A Stuffed pipe meant it was time to shut my mouth and or stuff my mouth. I am amazed I could see the screen through the fog of smoke. The seen and not heard rule was easy to follow. Especially, when I was stuffing my face with milk and cookies.

There I was watching my hero on the mound. He was the reason why I was a little league pitcher. His name was Denny McLain. He kicked as high as a New York chorus line girl but he somehow he always found the mark. The phrase " kicks and deals" a Harwell classic was etched in my mind. Now seeing in living color, vivid proof. That summer my name changed from Dennis to Denny. I'd be in the backyard dressed up in my baggy little league uniform imitating his pitching style. I would kick and deal and find the mark but unfortunately that mark often was the etched Louisville Slugger logo on my brother’s bat.

The day they won the nineteen sixty-eight world series; I was standing on the couch again listening to the game. I remember jumping off and running out the door to share in the celebration. This day was the exception to the rule because this kid could be seen, and I could be heard yelling and running across the street. That pipe smoking guy was excited too. What a great day. When dad got home, I couldn't contain myself. Hi fives, handshakes and hugs everywhere. There's nothing like the feeling you get when your team wins. 

There are more baseball stories to tell you but that would have to wait for another time, another team and the invention of the remote control.

Tennis anyone

Tennis Anyone

When I first learned how to play tennis, I must admit I wasn't in love with it. Pun intended. I did love hanging out with my brother from another mother. My sister's husband and my doubles partner. After a few weeks of practice, I had acquired enough skill to hit a pretty good backhand and a decent forehand, but my serving technique wasn't so good.  I could get by, so we figured a challenge was in order. Our first two victims were two old dudes. We thought "surely we could take these guys" They were older and slower than us. My partner was decked out with sweatbands on each wrist and one around his forehead. That was just accessorizing. The ensemble was meant to compliment his tucked in tennis shirt and his knee-high white sports socks. His fashion sense alone should have scared the old guys. The old guys must have gone to the same sports store because they dressed in a similar fashion. I wasn't quite as sporting as the old guys. A black track suit and a backward ball cap. I wasn't there to look pretty I was there to win.  

Old school, new lessons. 

My tennis partner often kids about being able to drink a large coffee while I run my ass off to make a play from the back court. He would ask mid-return if I had it, to which I'd say "yeah I got it" "I wouldn't want you to spill your coffee" I wore out a path in the back court. I wore out the knee of my track suit diving for a shot too. It never occurred to me that road rash could happen on a tennis court. I was making a new fashion statement, and it wasn't a good one.  Surprise, these old farts were pretty darn good. 

I'm no McEnroe. Maybe a little

I am a perfectionist, and I will admit I demand a lot out of myself. Me getting mad at hitting a bad serve seemed to piss off the old Italian guy. I knew he was upset because he kept repeating my name "Dennis, Dennis" which just pissed me off more. Thankfully, his partner just ignored me. We were getting our asses kicked by two old geezers. I tried to compose myself and instead of trying for ace, I tired to just get the darn ball over the net but that just made it easier for them to make us look like a couple of chumps.  These old farts could put that ball anywhere they wanted. I ran my ass off.  Speed didn't help us. Hope didn't help us. Despair was our only option. When the game had finished, we shook hands and parted. It was then that we noticed the license plate on the dynamite duos car. 10S PRO. Tennis Pro.

Fuzzy yellow balls

There is nothing like prying open a can of fresh fuzzy yellow balls. I must admit I have smelt many of these balls, fresh out of the can but never after playing with them, that's just gross. 

Hard cold and not so fuzzy or yellow balls

We were determined to get better no matter what and no matter what included no matter what weather. We used to go every Sunday to Weston Park. I know tennis is usually a three-season sport but not for my bro and I. Luckily, he had connections and had a spare net delivered to the court. Winter tennis. Why not? Most of the court was free of snow and ice. At least my side was. His side was mostly clear with one small exception. A small circular ice patch.  My brother didn't want to exercise too much and asked that I would hit the ball to him. I tired but that ice patch kept getting in the way. It's amazing what a tennis ball will do when it hits ice. Occasionally he would return my serve but when my backhand spinner hit the ice let's just say it was a different outcome. Apparently, he was there for exercise I was there to win. At whatever cost.

My sister and her man moved to Alberta, and I just stopped playing. After many years I am glad to say they are back in town. We are older but I'm looking forward to tennis again. Two guys sipping coffee and watching it on a big screen TV. I wonder if we should try pickleball