"Why We Do This"

(PUBLISHED IN "AM-NEW YORK" - October, 2006)


After missing out on the first Mets’ playoff ticket lottery, I was getting a second crack at it.

Following the Mets.com e-mail instructions I planted myself in front of my computer the next day at precisely 12:00 PM EST. The Mets.com server – overwhelmed – planted me in what they called a “virtual waiting room.”

“60…59…58…” My eyes fixed on the numbers as they counted down.

“43…42…41…” As the clock ticked, I waited … and watched … for over an hour and a half.

I called my brother to relay the bad news.

“Why the hell am I even doing this!? There’s no …”

“Think of it this way,” he said. “You won this lottery so you could be reminded each minute, for 90 straight minutes, that you have absolutely no shot at getting tickets!!”

We laughed hard and, as I hung up the phone and minimized the Mets.com screen, I couldn’t help but think again, “Why am I doing this?”

I leaned back in my chair and smiled.

I thought back to last Spring. After a hot-stove league filled with rumors, trades and then more rumors and trades, Omar Minaya and company had put the finishing touches on the “New Mets”, as Carlos Beltran branded them. Clearly, this team was different. Something had shifted.

So much so, that after 45 years of being a passionate baseball and Mets’ fan and attending some of the franchise’s most memorable games, I decided that April 3, 2006 was going to be my very first opening day. (See The New York Daily News, April 2, 2006 – “It’s Early, & They’re Batting 1.000”). Like many fans, I was sensing something special. It was hard to ignore the buzz.

“We’ve never seen anything like this!!” my brother shouted as we locked hands in a double high five after watching (and hearing) Billy Wagner’s very first 95 mph-plus pitch slam into Paul LoDuca’s mitt on opening day.

For us, that was the moment.
It was confirmed.
This team meant business.

Night after night, day after day, it’s been fun watching this group learn how to win; watching them rebound after crushing defeats and come from behind to pull out seemingly un-winnable games. And, finally, after years of sheer torture, this Mets’ team has learned how to secure one-run leads in the ninth, thanks to that Wagner fellow.

Sure, the essential skills are there. Three guys in the 100-plus RBI club; a leadoff .300 hitter with 60 steals, 17 triples and 310 total bases. My brother was right, Mets’ fans have “never seen anything like this.” And whereas this bunch has maneuvered through those requisite off-field challenges, things like taxi crashes, blood clots, sore toes, calves and Achilles tendons, something else has been revealed as the season’s unfolded. Something less conspicuous but very powerful. You see it every time Jose Reyes and Carlos Delgado do their little cha-cha on the dugout steps. The ear-to-ear smiles, hugs, pats on the back, the joking around. It’s a closeness that simply can’t be faked; an energy that makes us feel terrific as we watch from the sidelines.

And at a time when much of our news is loaded with sadness and tension, feeling terrific is the way to go as far as I’m concerned.

So, okay. Now what?

Well, my guess is it’s time to “fasten your seatbelts,” as Bob Murphy used to say. Something tells me we’re in for some exciting (and tense) moments.

And, oh, by the way – the lottery? After two hours, I was out of the virtual waiting room and on my way to the playoffs. High altitude seats, to be sure. But, I’ll be there with my brother and friends. And we’ll be smiling with Jose and company.

No matter what happens, it’s a great time to be a Mets’ fan.

"What's Going On?"

The orange seat is tattered around its edges, where cool metal meets cloth. Fabric threads hang off the side and Jason develops a clever game where he ties his dad’s tallis strings together with the chair's stringy fragments. The things an eight-year-old conjures up as he sits in a Yom Kippur service, bored out of his little skull cap.

Jason’s mom reaches down and frowns as she taps his hand. He stops, of course, but only until she looks away. He has to find something else to do. Eric, his seven year-old brother, peers out from around his mom’s other arm, grinning while pointing to his open prayer book. “Page 42,” he whispers. “Hank Aaron. 42 home runs next season.”

“Shhhh.” The man in front turns, shaking his head side to side.

Giggling, Jason flips his siddur pages like a roulette wheel, whipping it to a page 238 stop.

“Seaver.” He laughs as he turns to Eric. “Strikeouts next…

A grey shadow glides across the page, followed by a large hand slamming the book shut.

“One day, you two will understand the peace I feel when I come here,” the hand whispers. Jason twiddles tallis strings as he looks up at his father.

“You may not feel it now, but one day…”. His dad leans over and leafs through Jason’s prayer book, stopping at page 89, the proper spot.

“But we’re just …”

Thigh replaces face as his dad’s body glides upward – yet another standing prayer. This leaves a clear view to Eric and they giggle behind their parents. Synagogue is most certainly no place for energetic and inventive little boys. What are they supposed to do? Atone for their sins? What’s a sin, anyway? Still, it’s their solemn duty to behave and look precious in their crisp new navy blue suits, the results of a special trip to Barney’s in NYC just three weeks earlier.

The air is thick with smells of perfumes and after-shaves. The sweet and sour blend spins Jason’s stomach as he stares out through the fifty-foot high wood-paneled windows lining the left side of the Beth El sanctuary. As he watches maple trees sway in the autumn breeze, he wishes for one cool gust to miraculously enter the building and whisk away the nauseating smell. Finally, something to pray for.

“What is that?” Jason’s head turns. The sanctuary goes still as the choir hums softly. Jason’s eyes scan the room.

There it is again.

Someone blowing their nose?

Jason looks up and sees people holding tissues and handkerchiefs up to their faces. Hands brush cheeks. Eyeglasses are adjusted.

“What's going on?” he whispers to no one as he stomps his shoe. He tugs on his dad's suit sleeve as he glances up at his mother’s face.

At first he doesn’t see it. Mr. Fine’s off-key squealing causes Jason to twist away. But then, Jason turns back to face his mom. He squints, blinks, then stretches his neck up, grasping his dad’s sleeve even tighter. Black mesh material droops down from the top of her hat, covering most of her face. It’s tough to see. But something’s definitely there. Something shiny. Jason stares at the shiny spot as it moves down, leaving a wet trail as it rolls slowly to where cheek turns into chin. His mom lifts her hand, swipes her face, then holds the hankie to her nose where it rests. Her head is down and she’s reading, her body swaying gently from side to side.

“You okay?” Jason’s other hand now taps his mother’s leg. “You okay?” He presses his arm against his mom’s side.

“Is Mommy crying?” he asks, tugging again at his dad’s sleeve. Like a tennis spectator Jason turns to face his dad’s jacket. More sniffling. He looks up, then tilts his head like a puppy’s. As the choir hums, Jason loosens his grip on his dad’s sleeve. He watches his father touch his finger to his eye then feels his dad’s hand on the back of his head. Both of Jason’s hands slap down to his legs as he plops into his seat. He stares at the wooden bench in front of him as Cantor Shames sings with the choir. Sad melodic sounds fill the temple. No tallis twirling. No prayer book baseball. Jason sits and listens.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Crisp October air is tempered with the smell of multi-colored leaves coating damp ground. A hint of smoke fills the air, the product of leaf piles, burned after a hard day’s rake. Autumn in New England, there’s nothing like it. The experience embeds itself in Jason’s memory banks; it’s not going to budge.

As his family walks slowly home after services, Jason kicks an acorn which bounces off Eric’s leg, prompting a wince. Jason waits for and receives a return, “I’m okay” smile from his brother. Of course, it’s just a matter of seconds before a return acorn finds a Jason body-part. As they walk up the steps to their Trafton Road home, his mom hugs and chats with friends who have come to break the day long fast with their family. La Shonah Tovah’s are exchanged as tallis bags are stacked on the front lobby table.

“You and your brother go wash your hands,” his mom smiles and pats Eric’s behind. Jason looks up but doesn’t move. The black mesh gone, he now clearly sees her face.

“Yes?” she says.

His mom looks at Jason. He stares back.

Jason hasn’t forgotten what happened earlier and he’s quite adept at digging for answers – even at eight.

* * * * * * * * *

His dad’s hand is warm – it’s always warm. Jason leans back on the den couch while his father sips orange juice and reads the paper. People laugh in the kitchen as others arrive to join the family. Then his father sets the paper on the couch, turns to face Jason and takes his fingers in his hand.

“It's a special service,” his father explains. Jason stares down at the large hand as it wraps around his. “We say it four times a year and when we say these prayers,” he continues, “we think about the people we love. The people who have…”

A bang in the kitchen causes Jason to turn away. Then he turns back to his dad.

“Well, I love you dad, But it doesn’t make me wanna cry.”

His father smiles, drops his head, then looks at Jason, stroking his son's hair.

As his father speaks, Jason munches a bagel. A small chunk drops onto the brown carpet and his father reaches over to pick it up. Jason chews and listens, the sound of his dad’s voice caressing him as the explanation unfolds. People are already clinking glasses and scraping forks in the other room, but their racket is no match for his father’s soothing voice. You see, at that moment, on that particular October day in 1963, Jason is learning something important. He’s learning that living things “pass away.” They end. He’s learning that people die.

And at some point during the short den-to-dining-room walk, a cold, sad and terrifying feeling washes over Jason’s body. Thoughts of a very different world. A world without his rocks, his stability. A world without his mom and dad.

Food platters dart from side to side – piles of white fish and nova; huge blocks of cheeses – cream, chive, swiss and muenster; food frantically exchanges hands. Another plate passes in front of Jason’s eyes, loaded with bright red sliced tomatoes and purple onions. The next one is stacked with bagels and bialys. He watches his Nana Esther as she gobbles her food, knocking and reaching for things haphazardly. A little piece of creamed herring systematically finds it’s way to her lower lip and this bothers Jason. It’s his duty to point this “mouth-food” thing out to his grandmother which he does, prompting the traditional shooting of her head back in disgust, followed by a smile. As Jason watches her, he wonders about a world without his Nana. He looks at his sister Wendy, Eric, Emma, Mom, Dad, the Rubins, the Greenbaums, as they laugh and eat.

Later that night, as Jason’s mom tucks him into bed, it’s her turn to explain what happened in temple earlier. She fluffs the soft pillows and kisses Jason on his cheek. She explains how she and daddy were saying prayers for their own fathers, Papa Max and Grandpa Avrum. Jason hears the now familiar words, but few of them make sense. All he sees is his mom’s face. All he feels is her warm hand on his forehead. All her hears is her soft humming. How could it be any other way?

* * * * * * * * *

Jason, now forty eight, travels each year to be with his family for the High Holidays. The city and synagogue are different and the tallis strings he twists are now his own. But each New Year experience serves to reboot his soul, reminding him about what is most dear. And as he takes in the perfume medley, the music, and all that surrounds the annual event, he glances to his left and sees that beautiful mesh-protected smile. Then, he reaches to his right and touches a suit jacket. His father sits in his wheelchair, quietly reading his prayer book.

“Delgado,” Jason smiles, pointing to page 44. “Next year. Home-runs,” he adds.

His dad turns, peers over his bifocals then shakes his finger as he laughs, bouncing in his chair. Jason taps his father’s hand then stops, allowing his hand to rest on top of his dad’s, cherishing its warmth.

Then, as the congregation rises, a quiet moment passes until the Cantor - Jason’s brother-in-law - begins the next service.

Yizkor.

Jason looks at the back of the wooden seat in front of him as he thinks about maple trees, burning leaves and special pickled herring moments. His hand curls around the smooth molding.

He remembers a particular Beth El day. The sniffling day.

The day he first experienced his parent's vulnerability and ... his own.

"Can You Feel It?"

(PUBLISHED IN "THE NEW YORK DAILY NEWS" - April, 2, 2006)

My feet were moving but the rest of me wasn’t.

The route was set. Down the aisle, over the railing, onto the field. A straight, short, easy run. And I would have made it, too, if it hadn’t been for my dad’s hold on my shirt collar. He wasn’t about to lose his 12-year old first born son to the frenzied ball field celebration. I settled for watching the smoky scene from Section 47, which only an hour before provided the perfect view of Donn Clendenon’s home run as it hugged the left field line. I cried when that happened. Shea Stadium, October 16, 1969. I’ll never forget it.

Born from a Dodger gene pool – the Brooklyn kind – I’ve certainly gone to my share of Mets’ games over the years. Even after a family move to Western Mass., my folks were careful to keep our NYC baseball heritage intact by organizing frequent road trips to Shea to see the fledgling and often comical Dodger successors. Section 47 belonged to my Aunt Fritzie, the fan of all Mets’ fans and one of their very first season ticket holders. I was there for the clinchers against the Braves and Orioles in 1969. In 1973, I saw the Mets beat the Reds. What I didn’t see was the Bud Harrelson / Pete Rose fight - a Coke and hot dog were more important to me at the time. I saw my first night game on a punishing hot and humid evening. Bob Gibson dueled Tom Seaver into the 9th, Gibson’s drenched uniform coating his menacing body as it flew off the mound repeatedly. Gibson hit a home run that night, but Seaver got the 2-1 win. It was perfect.

Many games, many memories. And yet there’s one glaring hole in my Mets’ resume.
No opening Day.
That’s about to change.

Come on Mets’ fans. You can say it. Nothing to be afraid of, not this time. Of course, I know what you’re thinking. “Armed & Ready” and look where that got us. But, this year, no front-office spin is needed to tell and sell us the obvious. These Mets are special; the best we’ve seen in a long time. This team has a heart – a genuine nucleus. It’s soul, no longer rooted in panic-driven acquisitions a la Vaughn, Alomar, Baerga, Samuel, or Bonilla, this squad is about home-grown talent, raw baseball energy and savvy leadership. Superstars alone rarely, if ever, provide the chemistry needed to win. We’ve certainly learned that lesson the hard way.
Fewer slogans. More action. That’s the way we like it.

One night early last year my brother called me after the Mets pulled out a close one.
“1985,” he said. “Can you feel it?”
I knew exactly what he meant. Gooden, Strawberry, Dykstra, Mitchell, Darling, Fernandez, bolstered with the reassuring skills of Keith Hernandez and Gary Carter – and look what happened. Piece by piece, things slid quietly into place; a slow, methodical and powerful transformation. And isn’t that just like baseball? The slow build. Down by three runs in the bottom of the ninth. A leadoff walk. A botched ground ball. A 2 and 0 count followed by a bloop single. And then … slowly … a few claps, the crowd volume slips up a notch. A move to the seat edge with crossed fingers and legs. Neck hairs perk up as the heart pumps faster. Something’s brewing. And you know it … five steps before it happens.

So when did this “new Mets” rally begin? Was it the first time we watched a grinning Jose Reyes rip around the bases – arms flailing, head wagging, his helmet bouncing in a kicked-up dust trail? Or perhaps it was last April on a 38-degree night when Aaron Heilman pitched a complete game one-hitter against the Marlins (I was there). A six-foot dribbler was the only thing standing between Heilman and Mets’ history that night. David Wright’s quiet consistent power? His diving barehanded grab? Victor Diaz? Lastings Milledge? Mix in a little Pedro, Glavine, Beltran, Delgado and Wagner and what do you have?

The crowd is stirring.
The neck hairs make their move.
Can you feel it?

April 3. Here I come.

“Who Needs Cable TV?”

It was loud. It was dirty. It was fun. And the cost? Just 2 bucks.

I went to the Mets – Marlins’ game this past Friday night because it was the only way I could see the game live. Like so many other Mets fans in the city – caught in the middle of a turf war between Time Warner Cable, Fox Sports and MSG Networks – I’ve been searching for a reliable visual alternative. The web’s MLB-TV was working just fine until last Thursday night when I was greeted with this disturbing sign-on message: “You are prevented from watching this game LIVE due to the nyn local or national live broadcast restrictions.” Blacked out. Again.

Out of options for Friday’s game, it was time to head to Flushing.

* * * * * * * * * * *

My friend Noah and I arrived early to watch batting practice at Field Level. “That’s where we sat in ’69,” my hand brushed along the orange box-seat railing, fifteen rows up from the Mets’ dugout. I told Noah how my dad took me and my sister out of school to see the Mets clinch the World Series against the Orioles. “My father’s hand grabbed my shirt collar before I could scoot onto the field that day.” I laughed as I reminisced. For a moment, I thought I heard Lindsey Nelson’s voice in the background.


Noah and I moved closer to the first-base railing to check out a small commotion. Willie Randolph stood six feet away, squinting into the camera lights during an interview with Matt Laughlin. Then we noticed Aaron Heilman walking slowly past the TV crew on his way to the bullpen for his final warm-up. He stared straight ahead, never acknowledging the sparse pre-game crowd.

“The ‘New’ Mets,” I laughed. “And look who we get to see pitch tonight.”

Heilman’s face was solid, hard. No hint of a smile. All business.

“Wound too tight,” I added.

Boy, was I in for a surprise.


Section 4, Upper Deck. Directly behind home plate. The high panoramic view from our seats looked like an “MLB Gameday” screen shot as dot-like players moved, lights flashed and scoreboard numbers changed. It was cold. A biting wind slammed into the center of the Shea horseshoe – right smack into where we were sitting. The hat, gloves and scarf I remembered to toss into my bag did little to warm me up. But I, along with my fellow upper deck comrades, toughed it out. After all, we were watching something unusual. A freshly energized Mets’ team playing an exciting baseball game at Shea. A little shivering? No problem.

It felt great to be a part of the 49,000 plus crowd – but even better, an upper deck participant. This is where real fans gathered to watch a game. At one point, a player tried to lay down a bunt and the ball hit his leg as he ran to first.

“He’s out!! He’s out!!” someone shouted from a few rows back. I conferred with the guy sitting next to me and a speedy Section 4 debate followed.

“He was still in the batter’s box, moron,” one guy yelled as an older woman confirmed the rule.

“That’s not an out,” she shouted.

A consensus was reached. These people knew the game. None of that celebrity, prim and proper stuff at this altitude. These people were there to watch and feel baseball. And watch we did as Aaron Heilman worked a kind of magic we hadn’t yet seen from him. A soft fifteen foot dribbler was all that stood between us and Mets’ history on Friday night. Who knew? Add to that – clutch two-out RBI’s, pegs to the plate, errorless baseball… Something good was happening and we all knew it.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The game ended. The seats cleared. Empty Pepsi bottles, mustard smears and mounds of moist peanut shells coated the cold concrete floor. I headed for the men’s room to prepare for the train ride back to the city.

“Tough night for Delgado,” one guy chuckled.

“Heilman.” Another guy shook his head. “Unreal.”

Male bonding at its very best. You want to find out what fans are thinking and feeling? Interview them in the men’s room after a ball game. Win or loss – that’s where you’ll get the real story.

The night’s work done, it was time to go home.

And as the subway rumbled through Queens and the lights blurred past the window, I sipped cold water to soothe my freshly swollen throat; my voice level down a good two or three notches and fading fast.

It felt good to lose my voice at Shea again.

"You're Gonna Love It!"

“Push, Harry, Push.” I heard the voice, but the sweat droplets had burrowed their way into my ear canal - everything sounded muffled. Already painfully exhausted, I didn’t want to let it show. Even more sweat streamed down my chest, back and legs.

“Another inch, pull down a bit. Oh yeah, that’s it,” Jenny whispered. “How's it feel?”

Jenny stroked my back, gently steering my aching body to a place where it had never been before. But how could she ask such questions while my throat was tangled in my thighs?

“A little more now, Harry. Push a bit more. yes ... that's good.”

My heartbeat pounded against my leg as Jenny’s hand guided my head lower – everything was upside down. Gasping for air, I muttered something like, “C’mon, I’m doing the best I can here.” But I was definitely thinking, “Get your fuckin’ hands off me!!”

* * * * * * * * * *

My buddy Bill told me all about Bikram “hot yoga” months before, knowing I was struggling through the pain of a failing marriage. For years, Bill had been my pseudo personal trainer; he was always enrolling me into something.

“Well, the way I see it,” Bill advised, “as long as you’re getting your ass kicked, you may as well get it kicked in there." He was referring to a steamy room and Bikram Choudhury’s 26-position yoga system. “One-stop shopping, I’m telling you. Yoga, aerobics, meditation – all rolled into one. “C’mon. It’ll get your mind off your Robin. You’re gonna love it!” he added.

I had tried yoga classes here and there and usually liked it, although not enough to make it a steady practice. One time in a class years earlier, while lying on my back in “Sivasana,” the relaxed position, I became so relaxed I fell asleep and started to snore. The woman to my right nudged me. I was embarrassed, but very refreshed. Actually, I thought that was the point. The woman later explained how sleeping in class was a big no-no. That was about ten years ago; maybe it was time for another run at it.

“Not to get too earthy crunchy,” Bill continued, “but you may even experience some clarity when you do it, a detox kind of thing,” he added. I heard Bill’s words – he knew I was at a point where I was willing to try anything to calm my head and body.

“Bring a mat, towel and make sure you get yourself a bottle of Poland Spring… And wear bathing trunks – that’ll be the best thing,” Bill instructed as we chatted the night before my Bikram debut. “And listen, the class starts at 9 so you wanna drink another bottle of water about an hour before ... you know, so you’re nice and hydrated.
”
“So, that’s two liters of water then?” I asked, scribbling notes.

Bill laughed. “You’re gonna love it, Harry!”

The way he kept repeating that line.

* * * * * * * * * *

“SHHH. PLEASE RESPECT THE ROOM.”

Now, I’m a New Englander, born and raised in Massachusetts. And while trips to Florida and the Caribbean are nice for vacations, I am simply not a heat person. Having said that, the yoga room was hot. Really hot.

“An hour and a half in here!?” I thought. “Then again, how hard can it be? I mean, c’mon – it’s just yoga.” Yeah, right.

“Since it’s your first time…” a tall, pretty curly-haired blond woman came up from behind and touched my arm, “… you may want to set up in the back so you can watch others. You know, see the routine.” She guided me to my spot. “Also, you’ll want to be able to see yourself in the mirror,” the woman pointed toward the front. Something about the way she carried herself – I liked this pre Attila-the-Hun version of Jenny, the instructor.

After unrolling and laying out my towel and foam mat, I checked the clock and calculated whether I had enough time to get to the bathroom … again. Two liters of water in two hours? The stuff had to go somewhere.

“OK. Come to the center of your mats ...” Jenny called the meeting to order. “We start with ‘Pranayama’ deep breathing.”

The sweat poured off my body like someone was running a hose on my back – and I hadn’t even lifted so much as a pinky yet. As people took their positions in the overly-packed room, I glanced at some wall photos of handsome people in various yoga positions. All of them had nice, lean and clean looking bodies. And they were all smiling, too. “Something to shoot for,” I thought as I checked the clock again, figuring I’d simply perspire away my pit stop.

“Ardha-Chandrasana with Pada-Hastasana” (Half-Moon Pose with Hands-To-Feet Pose). Only minutes into class, I heard some loud huffs, puffs and moans and caught a glimpse of a large orange object in my peripheral vision. I turned slightly to my right and saw a heavy woman in a bright leotard standing, bent in two with her head hanging down between her legs. I marveled at how her chubby fingers scooped up under her heels from the back, just the way Jenny instructed. “A little more now… Come on now, pull on those heels… A little more …and…release.” The woman grunted loudly as her body heaved upward, sweat droplets raining down onto her powder blue towel. The guy in front of me glanced back, searching for the source of the strange sounds.

“OK. Next position, people.” Jenny clapped her hands. “C’mon now. No water yet. I don’t want you using it as a crutch. Let’s go now,” she ordered as she worked the room. The woman two rows ahead of me had curly reddish hair, reminding me of how Robin’s …

“… keep going – keep that leg raised … higher … one inch more. Straighten the toes,” Jenny coached us during “Tuladandasana” (Balancing Stick Pose). “Now listen to your breathing – connect with your breathing.” I did my best to follow Jenny’s suggestion, but instead found myself concentrating on the grunter’s breath tempo, not mine. And when the man in back of me started his coughing thing – that’s when the high school biology flashbacks kicked in. With each cough and sweat droplet, I pictured all kinds of bacteria thriving in that moist environment. Flocks of happy little germs leaping from petrie dishes, gliding around the room, ricocheting off the walls and ceiling and then swan-diving into my heat expanded pores. “So much for the great toxin-wash,” I thought.

“Hold it. C’mon now, feel the warrior inside you …” Jenny brushed past me. I was really hurting now, breathing hard, my stomach tightening. I wasn’t sure I could make it but kept pushing, mimicking people’s poses, doing my best to keep up. I had to finish – I couldn’t fail. Not this time.

“OK. Five, four, three … Hold it. Come on people, you’re doing great. Three … just a bit longer now. Two … and … and … release.” Whew. My leg dropped heavily to the floor. I did it. Position number, what was it? Seven? “OK, now let’s see … Twenty-six positions minus seven equals … sixteen more?!? It’s 9:30. Another hour in this heat?!” I sighed, leaned over and slid my hands down my thighs, slippery with perspiration. I stared at the small puddle forming on the edge of my mat. “And what’s the deal with those silly little countdowns? Jenny hits “two,” and then counts off another seven or eight seconds. They must teach that crafty strategy at the little yoga college. And they think nobody notices. Ha!”

“What the hell was that? Condensation from the ceiling? A leaky pipe?” I quickly glanced to my right during “Poorna-Salabhasana” (Full Locust Pose), and was mesmerized as I watched a bead of sweat drop from the orange grunter’s arm, spashing onto my outstretched hand. Interestingly, the fatigue and nausea sapped my ability to get grossed out. Things like dripping arms bothered me more after the class, not during it.

As I struggled to hold my arm above my head during “Trikanasana” (Triangle Pose), I looked ahead and saw Bill and his girlfriend, Molly, near the front mirror. They reminded me of the people in the wall photos; their two bodies put together added up to the width of mine. “Is that healthy?” I wondered. Bill smiled and gave me a thumbs up as he stood up straight and released his posture in perfect form. I tried to thumb him back but it utilized too many muscles – I needed to save my strength.

Only 53 minutes until …

... the Finish Line – “Final Savasana” (Dead Body Pose) - the one where I napped and snored a decade earlier. As I laid on my back, I felt my hot tingling body as it pressed into the cool sweat-soaked towel. Jenny lowered the lights and heat, increased the speed of the fans and spoke gentle meditative thoughts in a soft caring voice. The B-side of Hall & Oate’s “Abandoned Luncheonette” popped into my head – the “good” side. Then I started to count ceiling tiles. “I wonder if they know there’s a missing bulb up there. I’ll tell them on the way out,” I decided. The tile pattern looked like a crossword puzzle. At one point I was pretty sure I saw the face of my 9th grade Spanish teacher, Mr. McCarthy.

I closed my eyes.
I listened to the whirling fans.
I didn’t fall asleep.

* * * * * * * * * *

“Man, your face is red. You should see it,” Bill chuckled as he undressed in the locker room. “Don’t worry, though,” he paused, tossing a towel into a basket. “You know, I’m actually surprised you made it through class. Most people sit down or walk out. But you really hung in there; I’m proud of you.” I smiled at my friend.

As I peeled the bathing suit off my still boiling body, I glanced at the vertical wall mirror. Ten pounds? Fifteen? I grabbed some stomach, my hand sliding over the hot skin.

“All that schmutz – it’s going to drain right out. I’m telling you,” Bill assured me as he stepped into the shower stall.

I looked at more wall photos of sculpted smiling yogi's, then glanced in the mirror. A classic ‘before and after’ moment.

“Coming back’s the hard part. That’s why they give you the rest of the week for free. But you’ll come back, I’m sure of it.” I heard Bill’s voice echoing in the shower.

“Well … of course I need a few days to recover,” I laughed as I tossed a towel into the basket across the room. “So how many times is it good to come? Once a week? Twice?"

I listened to the running water as another man stepped into the room to get on the shower line.
“Four or five times a week should do it. Minimum,” the guy answered. “Anything less – a complete waste of time.”

“He’s right,” Bill chimed in.

I shook my head and finished the last few drops of my bottled water. “Five times a week? Are they nuts?!” I thought.

“9:00 tomorrow morning?” Bill smiled and patted me on the back as he dried himself off.

My head dropped. While every cell, pore and muscle fiber in my body seemed to be lobbying my brain to run for my life, another voice whispered, “Do the opposite, Harry. Just do the opposite of whatever it is you’re thinking. Then see what happens.”

I wiped drops of sweat still soaking through my skin and glanced at the photos one last time.

It was time to do some hard work.

It was time to make some difficult choices.

It was time…

… for more swim trunks.

* * * * * * * * * *

"This Is Called Snow"

The other day my niece and nephew, (3 year-old twins), asked me about snow while I was visiting with them in South Florida. Thinking NYC was going to get hit with a winter blast yesterday, I promised to snap off a few pictures when I arrived back north and shoot them off via email. This way the two of them could enjoy their first pictures of actual snow. I like being their their conduit to new things. Photos will have to do until they're old enough to come visit.

Unfortunately, the snow never developed, at least not here in the city. So, not wanting to disappoint Yosi and Adina, I scanned in some pics I took a few years back. One particular blizzard that season cried out for photos. The snow actually stayed bright white for more than an hour before doing it's urban transformation to beige, brown or, even worse,

to yellow. I borrowed my friend's Minolta and set out for the park to capture the moment.

The forest was like a fairyland. Sure, while growing up in Western Mass. I enjoyed this kind of scenery all the time. But here? The quiet whiteness blanketed everything. I had never seen anything like it. I needed to get out more.

Here's what I came up with. Enjoy.

So Much It Hurts

Yosi (Joseph) and Adina - my niece and nephew. They're twins.

Yes, they're as cute as they look hiding there under the table. A friend of mine who has kids often tells me he loves his children so much it sometimes hurts.

And you know, whenever I'm with these two charmers, I understand exactly what he means.

"Back In The Game”

“Your first time?” In one swift move the blonde woman serves up a toothy smile, checks off my name and hands me a numbered scorecard and name tag.

“Yes, and I…”

“Well, you’re gonna love it…uh…” she quickly glances down at the registration list… “is it Harry? You can go in now, Harry.”

And then, turning her attention to the next registrant before I step away, she starts her next and most genuine “Hi and welcome to HurryDate” schpeil.

The main lounge area is dimly lit and I squint to get my bearings. How the hell will I know if I have chemistry with my dates if I can’t even see them? Shaking my head, I wander into the dark room filled with strange faces and clinking glasses as I clumsily peel the backing off my name tag. Flashing a bright smile from the far end of a long wooden bar I see my friend, Kevin, waving at me. Thank God. Now I have some place to go.

For months, Kevin had lobbied me to attend a speed-dating event with him but I declined all invitations. “It’s the microwave approach to dating,” I’d explain. “I’m more of a crock pot kinda guy,” He’d laugh at my creative rebuffs but always managed to squeeze me again. And, when he finally blurted out an “I’m scared to go alone” confession, I caved in and agreed to go “to one event only, just to see what it’s like.” Now, as I see him laughing, drinking and surrounded by a ten-woman harem, you know what? He doesn’t look all that scared to me.

As I walk toward him, I spot a line of small tables and seats behind the bar area. Each table contains a large numbered card and a single votive which provides much needed light. Slowly, I’m getting a feel for how the process works.

“You wanna enter a raffle?”

Something warm and pleasantly soft nuzzles against my left elbow and I turn to see a cute, brown haired and eyed young lady smiling up at me. A quick look down reveals the delightful nuzzle’s source: the raffler’s exposed upper bosom, nicely nestled in her scanty yellow halter top.
I buy a ticket.

When I reach Kevin, he immediately shoves a cocktail in my hand.

“I can’t believe you roped me into this thing,” I whisper as I guy-hug him, slapping his back.

“I don’t think it’s for me, either,” he confides, maintaining his happy-smile.

I pull back, take a swig of the watered-down drink and continue my reconnaissance.
Across from the bar, six or seven men lean against the wall, each looking uncomfortable and alone. One guy talks on his cell phone while reading The Daily News. He periodically glances up but then quickly lowers his eyes before anyone sees him checking out the goods. I feel queasy. I hated this kind of thing back in my twenties, but to be at such a place now? In my forties? An empty feeling washes over me as I think about my ex-wife, Robin. Is she dating again? Would she ever come to one of these things?

When I first met Robin, it was like two old friends had found their way back to one another. And when we exchanged vows at Montauk Point, I was absolutely sure I was home. Gone were the days of set-ups and blind dates; the search was over. For me, marriage was a great emancipator. And then, nine months ago a letter from New York State unceremoniously informed me of a truth I had been afraid to face much earlier: my marriage was over. A confusing and painful five-year union had finally reached its official end and, according to the government, I was a single man. But the thought of dating again? It didn’t feel quite right to me. And yet, over the past months it seemed like everywhere I looked, couples were holding hands, sharing jokes and laughing with one another. I missed having company at meals, movies and museums. At some point I knew my heart would make another run at it if only because the alternative was unacceptable. The question was – when would I be ready?

“Over here,” a man motions to me with his finger, his eyes closed as he mouths his words. He is short, muscular and sports a black velvet smoking jacket – right out of “Playboy After Dark.” “What a cool cat,” I think. The man continues to summon both Kevin and me from his dark corner station. Apparently this guy has somehow sized us up as two fellow cool cats and feels it’s his duty to teach us the ropes.

“OK, now, here’s the thing,” the man glances over each of his shoulders as though he’s supplying me and Kevin with precious nuclear secrets. “Now listen to me,” he looks over his shoulders again. “Try and get em’ to stand up at some point, you know what I’m sayin’? They’re always sittin’ – so you never ever get to check ‘em out. You understand?” he jabs me in the stomach. “By the way, the name’s Ronnie,” he smiles and extends his thick hand. “What’s your name again? Harold, is it? Now listen…” Ronnie leans in closer to me and lowers his voice. His scotch breath drifts into my nostrils and I back away slightly. “If you think there’s a spark there, fuck the system, you understandin’ me? Get her number, give her a card, do somethin,” he laughs as he swipes beads of forehead sweat with a napkin. “Out here, it’s every man for himself, Harold. Pow. Bing,” he play-punches me in the gut again.

“His name’s, Harry,” Kevin makes sure, of course, to clarify this, pointing to my tag.

“Hey there. Harry. Harold. Horatio…it’s all the same thing, you know what I’m sayin’?” Ronnie’s stomach jiggles as he laughs hard and raises his glass to toast his newest protégés. “Okay - now go get ‘em!”

Fifty numbered men and women and twenty-five tables for two. The women remain in their assigned seats as each guy moves from table to table when prompted by a whistle. Every three minutes, each stationary woman meets a new traveling man. Twenty five whistles. Twenty five dates. All of them hurried. That’s the plan.

Gentlemen, start your engines.

Whistle number one.

Marilyn, (#9), has brown hair, lives in Hoboken, is originally from Forest Hills and works as a financial advisor on Wall Street. Just as we’re about to enter our second minute together someone taps my shoulder. I glance up and see Kevin, his index finger moving across his throat from right to left, in a head-cutting motion.

“I’m outta here. Not for me,” he grins.

Following an awkward lull, I smile, pat Kevin’s arm and then return my attention to Marilyn from Hoboken. As agreed, Kevin and I will wait until the end of the night before we compare notes.

Whistle two. I stand up, shake Marilyn’s hand and start my move to the next table where Carol, (#20, red, West Village, Albany, doctor), sits and marks her scorecard. Unfortunately, it takes my male predecessor about forty seconds to say goodbye to Carol. You know, when you’re dealing with a three minute limit, less this lag-man deduction, it isn’t exactly enough time for dinner and dancing. Come to think of it, it’s hardly enough time for a decent conversation.

By the time I reach my tenth table, graced by #5 – Vickie (dirty blonde, Upper East Side, Boston, lawyer), I’m using a system where I make a quick read, scribble notes and start the speed visit as soon as possible. Curiously, however, I notice how each new date is greeting me with the same opening line: “Didn’t you come here with the guy who left?”

* * * * * * * * * *

As I walk to the exit, a woman smiles at me while she waits near the door. It was hard to keep names, numbers and faces straight after hearing the same “I like long walks on the beach” stories over and over again, twenty-five times. Still, I remember Kim, (#17, brown, Upper West Side, Hartford, teacher), as being fairly calm and collected; my 2½ minutes with her were the most serene of the night. We peeked at one another a few times during the evening, so her doorway smile prompts me to head toward her. Why not? The flicker of desire feels good.

“So, did you have a nice…”

Someone cuts in front of me.

“What the f…?”

Three feet to go and – a perfect interception – expertly executed. Only a professional could have orchestrated such a play. It’s like the guy was in my head and knew my precise route to Kim. I catch a glimpse of his profile, then – the velvet jacket.

Ronnie helps Kim with her coat, his back to me now, a text-book box-out. “What a guy,” I think. For a second I am actually pissed off, but then quickly snap out of it, understanding that the sum total of my interaction with this woman was what? A couple of minutes and a few intermittent glances? How can I be disappointed that Ronnie “beat” me to her? I mean, c’mon. I am, after all, only the young grasshopper. He is…Ronnie. Still, there should be some kind of house rule against HurryDate veterans scooping newcomers that way.

* * * * * * * * * *

“What the hell happened?” I ask Kevin as I squeeze the phone between my chin and shoulder while I pay for a Snapple. I need something to wash the sour taste of vodka from my mouth.

“You’re really mad, aren’t you?” he asks.

“Not really. I actually had a good time,” I admit. “It’s funny, I think you fueled my mojo tonight. I was known as ‘the guy who hung in there.”

Kevin laughs and quickly slips a little “I’m sorry” into the conversation. Something must have freaked him out, but he doesn’t say anything about it. If he wants to talk, he knows I’ll listen.

As I approach the subway entrance, I finish my Kevin call and notice the small donut shop on the corner of 23rd and 8th. Robin and I used to stop at this place for coffee all the time. My stomach tightens as cool raindrops splatter my face. It seems like everywhere I turn, I am faced with yet another spot, each with it’s own memory – good, bad, often both. I miss her… well… I miss the happier moments. I certainly don’t miss the rage and sadness. I shake my head and chuckle as I reminisce about my HurryDate debut and the fun I ended up having, despite the many distractions. And that’s when I see them scurrying into the donut shop, Ronnie’s arm wrapped around Kim’s waist as they share an umbrella.

Wow, a real HurryDate hookup. They can use that shot for a commercial.

So how do you think I’d look in a velvet smoking jacket?

"A Good Afternoon"

The 80’ish woman stands in front of the food court deli counter. An army of frantic Macy’s shoppers and lunch-breakers swirl in, around, above and below the short, thin woman as she struggles to make contact with the sandwich-makers. The servers can’t see her because of the way the glass and metal platform is built. It’s high and she’s short – a bad mix. I sip my coffee while I watch customers bump the woman as they swoop in to order and then dash away with their food.

As the crowd churns around her, the woman chooses a different strategy, first shuffling to her right, then a bit to her left, like a slow-motion prize fighter. She tries to find a way “in” by using a kind of bob n’ weave technique. Sandwiches, salads and money frantically exchange hands above her as she continues to be boxed out of the action.

When the latest approach fails, the woman drops her bags, one of them falling over – its contents spilling out onto the dark tile floor. Slowly, she stoops over, bends down to repack the bag and then straightens back up in front of the counter, hands on hips, shaking her head from side to side. The woman lowers her head and puffs out a deep hard breath. She’s out of moves.

Lifting her head again, the woman glances over to her right and notices me at the table with my coffee and paper. She re-positions her paisley scarf on her shoulder and smiles.

“Need help?” I ask, returning the smile.

“Well, apparently I do,” she chuckles as she raises her arms in a “what’s-a-person-to-do?” kind of way.

I push my cup to the side, stand and move forward, gently taking hold of the woman’s arm as I lead her closer to the counter. The two of us clear a pathway together as we ask a few people to please move aside. At first, the customers seem flustered, as though someone’s startled them out from a deep sleep or dream. But once the crowd sees what we’re up to, their warm smiles and good manners blossom as they create a small opening in front of the counter.

“This pretty lady wants to order lunch, too,” I tell the young sandwich maker as I point down to the woman. Something tugs at my shirt sleeve.

“By the way,” the woman smiles. “The name’s Muriel.”

I smile back, then rephrase the request.

“Excuse me, please. Muriel wants to order her lunch now.” I turn and wink at Muriel as she gives me a big thumbs up.

The young server stands on his toes and leans forward to glance over the counter’s edge; his hands press down on the glass top to help his lift. “I’m sorry, Ma’am. Didn’t see you. It’s just that this thing’s so damn high,” he taps on the glass as he shrugs his shoulders and wipes his hands on his white apron. “Happens all the time.”

“Lean, with not too much mustard,” Muriel orders her roast beef sandwich just the way she likes it, pointing her finger toward the young man like a veteran director. “And some pickles on the side, too, please. That would be nice. Half sours, thank you.”

Muriel turns and this time winks at me.

Two minutes later, as the sandwich man finishes her order, Muriel reaches up and corrals the brown lunch sack in both hands. Then, she scoops up her other bags and slowly reaches out for my hand, which she holds warmly for a moment just before she smiles, turns and walks away with the newest addition to her day’s bounty.

And in that moment two people were feeling happy, I’m pretty sure about that. Muriel – armed with her lean roast beef sandwich and the recent memory of a stranger’s help. And me – aware that I had just played a role in connecting Muriel with that day’s lunch, simply because I slowed myself down long enough to notice her.

It was a good afternoon.

"A Visit With Fred"

“What kind of bullshit is this, anyway!?” the voice shouts through my cell ear-piece. “What the hell you want to talk with me for!?”
My friend, Joe, warned me about this guy. When he heard I was creating a project about elders, Joe suggested a few people I could speak with. His former landlord, Mr. Fred Kasica, was number one on his list.
I’m nervous, this the first time I’m speaking with Freddie. But I was briefed about his “way,” so his little post-shouting chuckles clue me in a bit and relax me…somewhat.
“Well, you can come over here. But, I’m tellin’ ya…What’s your name again!?”
“I’m not sure I wanna tell you now,” I joke with him.
“I’m just tellin’ ya that if this is a crock of shit, I’m going to boot you in the ass and have the door hit your ass again on the way out. 7:00 too early for ya?” he asks.
“What’s wrong with 6:30?”
“Oh, so you’re a wise guy, are ya?” he chuckles.
We settle on a 6:45 Saturday morning start time.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The Easthampton neighborhood where Fred lives is stark and dreary. Many of the buildings were constructed in the early 1900’s to house and serve the region’s mill workers. Today, the area looks particularly drab; many of the houses are painted a pale green. Joe calls it “hopeless green.”

“What the hell was that?!” The front door opens and a warm yellow light leaks out into the chilly gray morning. I see a small man with a round face and a head topped with lots of thick white hair. He’s about 5’5”, on the thin side, and sports a red, black and white plaid shirt, a pair blue jeans and work boots. “You call that a knock, Harry?” Freddie flashes a toothless grin and extends his hand to me. His handshake is warm and strong. “By the way, d’you just call me before?” he asks as he pulls me into his home.
I explain that I tried him earlier to see if he wanted coffee from Dunkin’ Donuts, but that no one answered. “I thought I had the wrong number,” I tell him.
“I was in the bathroom for cryin’ out loud. Whadduya guys have cameras or something? It’s funny how people always call me when I go in there,” he laughs. “I think maybe I should just start taking the phone in the toilet with me,” he slaps his thigh, chuckling at his own joke. I’m glad I decided to throw in an extra video tape.

Freddie leads me into a clean and organized, light wood-paneled kitchen. A full Wonder Bread sits on the counter next to the Toastmaster. A dark, wood-paneled den with a large television is off to the side; newspapers and magazines are piled neatly on a brown cloth couch. “It’s not much, but I like it. Been here for, whew, 38 years now. Hard to believe, you know?” He tells me he lives alone on one side of the two apartment house which he owns. His wife, Mary, died 11 years ago and he says he’s not thinking about replacing her.
After setting up, I plant myself on a tall stool in front of a little breakfast counter. Fred sits across from me, two feet of Formica between us, and watches as I fold a paper on my pad and click on the camera over my left shoulder – he taps a pencil nervously. I look at his eyes though his large frame glasses. They’re clear and curious, alternating between staring at me, then at the red camera light.

“So this guy says to me,” Fred breaks the silence, ‘Why don’t you make the bread and I’ll go over and sell it.’ He said, ‘Make as many loaves as you can.’ He said, ‘I’ll sell ‘em all!’ And I ask the guy, ‘How many of ‘em you think I can make? You know what my bread-making machine is?’ After a pause, Fred quietly holds up his hands and flashes a big grin, waiting for me to answer his question. I shrug.
“My hands, Harry!”

Joe told me about the famous “FredBread,” which, apparently, is the best bread known to mankind. For the next ten minutes Fred tells me how he makes his special bread with lots of eggs and sugar. “It’s pretty good warm with a pat of that fresh butter meltin’ on top. Ooo-wee.” He pauses, smiles and leans forward, whispering. “You know, Harry. If you’re good, I might just offer you a slice,” he laughs. I hope he does.

As we sip some freshly brewed coffee, I blend in my questions and ask Fred to talk with me about his proudest accomplishments.
“What do you mean, proud of?” Fred looks at me. “I’m proud of the way I lived. Everything. There’s not anything that I’m proud of the most. I just figure I take things as they go, as they roll along and, to me, I just appreciate even gettin’ to live 'til 77, you know? I mean, for all the things I did…the way I lived. Whoa!” he laughs hard and slaps one hand on the counter while using the other to slide his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. “The sunnovabitchin’ things I did when I was younger. Christ, I could float a battleship back then. I drank with boat hands. Got into a lot of trouble, I’m tellin’ ya.”
“Were you in the Navy? The Marines?” I ask.
Fred tilts his head and stops moving – an unusual state for him.
“The Navy!! Of course, the Navy!” he snaps back.
“I mean, you just said something about drinking with boat hands, and I…”
Fred stares at me then leans forward, almost tipping his stool.
“With both hands, Harry!! What the fuck are you talkin’ about!?”
I need to quickly soak in Fred’s unique dialect if the next hour is to come close to making any sense.
“You had to get the elbows up,” Fred demonstrates by raising his arms. “You didn’t get calluses on one elbow only, you got ‘em on both. You had to keep lifting both hands up. Oh my, I got into a lot of mischief back then,” he smiles. “Still, I did a lot of things I’m proud of doing though, everything that I did, you know. Like I was really an outdoorsman. I used to fish. I still like to hunt. Back in them Depression days or, you know, back in the 30’s and 40’s and all that, I used to trap. I did everything. I mean, well…to me I take things as they come. I love to do things. I love to be outside.
“What did you do for work?” I ask.
“Well, all kinds of things,” he leans back and sips some coffee. “I was a machine operator, most of the time. But, I loved to paint houses or anything like that. I did a lot. I’m a jack-of-all-trades, but not a master of any of ‘em. I did a little bit of electrical work, a little bit of plumbing. I did everything. Like even when I was a lot younger there, of course, I did a lot of things for my mother, like even putting tiles down on the floor, or any of that.
Fred spills a bit of coffee on the counter and wipes it quickly with a paper towel as he continues.
“When I used to paint houses, you know these old panes that they used to have em’ here like that, in the windows? Well, I used to put the ladder right in the middle. And I’d paint with one hand, finish that side. And then I’d use my other hand, paint this side,” he explains as he turns his body. “Never had to move the ladder – not one time, Harry. You know, a lot of guys can paint, but can paint with only one hand. And I could paint with either hand.”

* * * * * * * * * * * *

“Freddie, I’m going ask you to imagine something for a second.” I pause and smile. “Some of these questions… You’re going to give me that boot in the ass, I think.”
“Well, maybe. You never know, you never know,” he laughs hard.