Old Time Hockey

Chapter 8: Born Again

2013-06-11T11:27:00.000-07:00

I met my wife-to-be in early 1986 after a couple of near misses. I was 31. I'd lived all my adult life without hockey. My accident occurred just two months after I arrived in California in 1978. I had just turned 23. Over the next 8 years I did lots of soul searching, had two serious relationships that nearly ended in marriage. They would have been disasters, thus the near misses. I had a handful of jobs that evolved into my ultimate career. Then I met a beautiful young woman with a boy's name. It was love at first sight.

Her name was Kyle. We both knew immediately we would marry. But we waited. My sister had been going with her college beau for 7 years and had plans to have their wedding that coming fall. We scheduled ours for the following July.

We recently found out from my parents that they took one look at the two of us and figured we were a couple of bubble heads and they would be surprised if we lasted five years. That was 26 years ago.

Having a wife named Kyle has caused confusion along the way. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Again, no hockey. Kyle didn't know me as a hockey player. She knew me as a stock broker. I played a little softball. We road bikes. We did a little skiing. But there was no hockey. I did still own my CCM Tacks that I was wearing the last time I played.

Those skates' days were numbered though. One day Kyle was at our townhouse in Tierrasanta when she spotted a fluffy Old English Sheep Dog wandering down the street. She brought the dog in the house and we tried to find her owner. No one ever claimed her so we adopted her and named her Bo.

Bo was a great dog. Well, she became a great dog. She was still a puppy when we found her. We figured she was around eight months old. She was pupzilla. We knew nothing about training a dog. If we had a clue we would have crate trained her but that wasn't known to us at the time.

What we did was left her in the garage during the day so she wouldn't tear our house to pieces. She was quite the chewer. She did manage to rip up just about everything in the garage including Kyle's convertible MG. she tore up the rag top and the upholstery. She destroyed the headpiece from Kyle's wedding dress. She also ate my CCM's. I didn't need them anyway.

Bo outgrew her puppy chewing days and went on to be a great pet. Four years later on the day the U. S. began its ground invasion into Iraq for Desert Storm, our son Max was born. It was February 24, 1991. We would soon find out that Max was also the most popular name for male dogs.

By August we'd moved into a large loft space in San Diego's Gaslamp district. I heard that there was a new minor league hockey team that had recently started playing in San Diego in the International Hockey League, the IHL. There had been a contest in the newspaper to name the team and it was decided to call them the San Diego Gulls after an earlier Western Hockey League franchise...not the same as the Canadian major junior WHL.

We got tickets and took our eight month old baby to watch the home opener at the Sports Arena. We had a great time. Max was fixated on all the movement on the ice. I remember watching and, for the first time in over a decade, really missing the game.

After the game Kyle, who saw the look in my eye asked me...or actually told me I should start playing hockey again.

I thought about it. It was a scary thought. I didn't know if my back could handle it. It had been a couple of years since my back pain had been exorcised by my client's pain doctor son, Dr. Amundson.

A few days later we were walking into our loft building when I ran into someone I knew. It turns out he lived in our building. His name was Doug Munson. He was on my senior league team when I got hurt and I hadn't seen him since that night in March of 1978.

It was great to see him. We spent a few minutes catching up then he told me he was on a team and he invited me to come out and play with them.

I said "what the hell, why not?". But I owned no gear. Doug told me to go to Barry's Sporting Goods in Lemon Grove. So I did. The problem was I'd forgotten just about everything I knew about hockey equipment. Most importantly, hockey skates run smaller than your shoe size. I bought a pair of Bauer Supremes, size 10. The same as my shoes. I bought a helmet with a full shield. When I last played we didn't use shields or cages.

I went out to a couple of pick-up sessions to try out my new stuff and see how I felt. It didn't take long to realize my skates were too big. I couldn't stand the shield. I took it off after a couple of shifts. I couldn't see the on the ice puck in front if me. I would go back and forth about whether to wear a half shield. I didn't like it because it would fog up or get scratched and limit my view. One deflected slapshot that hit the bridge of my nose would end that debate.

I was terrible. It did not come right back like I'd hoped. I took my skates back and swapped them for the right size, 8 and a 1/2s.

I was nowhere near ready, but Doug told me to come play in their next game. The team was called the Mustangs. They played in the advanced division. There were ex-USIU players, some ex-minor pros. A pretty good level of competition. Way above my pay-grade for the shape I was in.

I was on the third line. In men's league, that's the bottom of the barrel. At first I couldn't take three strides without falling flat on my face. I did have a rush into the offensive zone where I skated hard to the net. My left wing fed me a pass that I redirected and lifted past the goalie. That felt good and familiar.

I went home and crawled in bed. I was prepared to wake up the next morning and be in so much pain that I wouldn't be able to get out of bed. But alas, I woke up and felt great. I was hooked.

This was the beginning of a long and exciting comeback. I worked hard. I skated two, three sometimes four or five times a week. Most of the ice times were pretty late at night. Kyle was happy to see me having fun. She was able have some quiet time with me out and Max asleep. I worked out. I jogged, cycled and rollerbladed. I was reborn.

We took a family trip back to Connecticut for Thanksgiving. I took my hockey equipment with me so I could play in the annual West Haven High School Alumni game.

The game was alumni versus the varsity. It was not a friendly game. I was still getting my legs back at this point, still not in great shape. Frank Longobardi was there. Dave Depew wasn't. Some idiot was smoking a cigarette in the locker room. I told him to put it out. He told me to go back to California. It was 1991. I think it was the same guy who nicknamed me A-Rab back in high school.

It was full contact hockey. The varsity boys wanted to hurt us. Teenagers! I got nailed into the boards by a little punk. A little later I had the puck in the corner. I walked out and found myself in the slot where I back handed a shot into the top of the net. I have it on video on a VHS tape in a box in storage. I'll never watch it. But I remember it clearly. Snipe!

Over the next couple of years my senior league hockey team became my passion, my exercise and my social life. I started going to adult league tournaments in Vegas and Phoenix.

I was able to start skating with the Thursday night "old pros" group at the San Diego Ice Arena in Mira Mesa. this is the same group I mentioned earlier that has been going for forty years and would not allow a young Chris Chelios a spot before he was then cut from USIU and before he went on to have a hall of fame NHL and Olympic career.

It was a good group of guys. Ex-NHL and WHA players and San Diego hockey icons like Joe Noris, Sandy Fitzpatrick and Brian "Howie" Morenz. Morenz was the grandson of Montreal Canadien legend Howie Morenz. Many of the old USIU guys played. Brian Dobek, who was the top scorer for the 1976 US Olympic team was there. In the summer some of the IHL Gulls, players like Charlie Simmer, Ron Duguay and their coach and future Atlanta Thrashers coach, Don Waddell would show up. Chris and his brother Steve Chelios made appearances. You can look these guys up on www.hockeydb.com if you want to see their hockey histories. By the way, if anyone from the 70's who played at Uconn happens to be reading this, I've been trying to locate Uconn hockey media guides from those years. Hockeydb has stats from my freshman and senior seasons and I would love to get ahold of 74-75 and 75-76.

I know I've mentioned the New Haven Blades previously. I don't think I went into what a big fan I was back then, in the late 1960s. The Eastern Hockey League was the basis for the movie, "Slap Shot". The film was based on the Johnstown Jets, one of the teams the Blades played against. Also both were teams in our table top hockey league. Anyway, I studied the rosters and stats of the Blades and all their rivals. There were some real goons as well as some talented up and coming players. I specifically remember one Blades player who I idolized. His name was Michel Rouleau. A French-Canadian with dashing looks and a gift for scoring. I got his autograph on one of the game programs.

One Thursday night I was on the bench sitting next to a chubby bald guy that everyone was calling Mike. I heard someone refer to him as Rouleau. I had to ask. I told him I grew up in Connecticut and was a big Blades fan and they had a guy I loved to watch play named Michel Rouleau.....He said, "Yep, that's me." Boy did he change. So I asked him where he went after playing for the Blades. He rattled of five or six NHL teams. Cool. I was impressed. Now he owned a hair salon and was cutting hair and playing Thursday night pickup. All roads lead to the beer leagues. I've said it before and I will say it again. By the way, I looked him up on hockeydb.com and he did have a half way decent career in the WHA. He never played in the NHL.

Willie O'Ree, the first black hockey player to play in the NHL had played for the AHL New Haven Nighthawks. The Nighthawks came to New Haven and played in the new Coliseum. O'Ree went on to play in the WHA for the San Diego Mariners with some of the above mentioned guys. I only mention this because I went to buy a car and Willie O'Ree was my salesman. He went on to recover his dignity and now works for the NHL promoting diversity. I'm not sure if he ever made it to the beer leagues. One of the few, if true. Either way he's a great man.

Around this time, Max was rolling around in his little baby walker. He had discovered a little souvenir wooden Koho hockey stick I had gotten when I went to hockey school in Finland. Kyle had given it to him. He grabbed it and started whacking everything he could reach. Kyle set down roller hockey pucks on the concrete floor of our 3rd floor loft. The stick ended up in splinters. It had autographs of all the pros from the hockey school: Garry Unger, Carl Brewr, Pete Stemkowski, etc. We went on to buy many more souvenir sticks.

Next up, more beer league, getting Max on the ice and the beginning of life as a hockey dad, fan, coach and ref.

Chapter 7: All Roads Lead to the Beer Leagues...and Then To Hell

2013-06-09T05:52:00.000-07:00

All Roads Lead to the Beer Leagues

This entry is not so much about hockey. There is some, but it is a more a story of crashing, burning and rising from the ashes. I hope you will bear with me.

So that was that. My college hockey career was over. I wasn't sure what was next. I graduated in May. I ended up moving down to New Canaan, Ct where my girlfriend, Mo, was a school teacher. Mo and I dated for two years, my last two. She was a year older than me and graduated the year before me. But we were together often during my senior year, nearly every weekend. I'm pretty sure she was more serious about our relationship than I was. You may recall Frank married Pat. I did not marry Mo.

After graduation I got a summer job as a live-in counselor/mentor in an at-risk youth home in New Canaan. The ABC House, A Better Chance! I also worked at the hockey school in Darien. While there, I made some extra cash taking photo's of the little tykes posing in their hockey gear. Once their mom's saw their toothless little smiles on the black and white 8 1/2 x 11" mounted poster board, they couldn't buy them fast enough. I took some photography classes during my last year at Uconn. I had a dark-room and a Hasselblad camera.

The way I remember it, Mo had been nudging me to be "more committed" than I was in our relationship. Later that summer she went to Northern California, Mill Valley, for a vacation. When she returned, she was a changed woman. She had fallen madly in love with California. She couldn't quit her job and move there fast enough. What didn't make sense to me was why she moved to Southern California, San Diego to be specific.

It turns out that what she fell in love with wasn't so much California, but the life guard in Mill Valley who happened to attend San Diego State University. This never occurred to me and it took a while to dawn on me that she decided not to wait for me to come around. It was mid autumn when I finally realized I'd been jilted and oddly enough, I suddenly fell madly in love with Mo and I had to have her. Every love song on the radio sounded like it was written just for me. I set out to win her heart back. I started writing letters, poetry, journaling....my heart was in pieces....What an idiot.

I finally accepted my fate and told Mo that I was ending my quest. I told her not to call me unless she was interested in getting back together....she called. I don't think she had any intention of reuniting, but that's not how I saw it. So I hopped on the next flight I could and flew to San Diego. Oddly, I'd never thought much about California. I'd never wanted to visit. I had no interest. I knew it was there, but if not for Mo, I don't know if I would have ever gone there.

So, I got to San Diego. I got to see Mo. I met her boyfriend. It was immediately obvious that we would not get back together...but I was fascinated with San Diego. So what did I do? I went home, packed up and drove my beat up old Peugot cross country and moved there. I secretly kept hope that somehow it would work out with Mo, but I faced reality and started to build my own life.

By the way, my career plans were not as whacky as you may have gathered from my earlier description of how I decided to major in Anthropology. My grandfather was a pioneer in the movie business. He and his family built a theater empire in the Chicago area called Balaban and Katz Theaters. They were bought out by Paramount Studios in 1926. My grandfather was named president of Paramount Studios in 1936 and was there until 1964. He remained as chairman of the board until his death in 1971.

I wasn't interested in "Hollywood", but I did have a interest in film. It was my plan to get my degree in Anthropology, attend graduate school for film and then head off to travel and make documentary films. That was the plan. I was accepted to the University of North Carolina Grad school for film before I made the same mistake I'd made when I decided to follow my high school girlfriend to Uconn.

So I was in San Diego. No job. No School. No girlfriend. Lot's of hope and naivete. I got a job at a TV production company working on making commercials. I was playing senior league hockey in a checking league in Mira Mesa. I was in great shape. I kind of tore it up there.

My room mate at the time was a really nice guy named Jeff. Jeff was a guy I met through a classified ad in the San Diego Reader. We lived together at an apartment in Pacific Beach. Jeff was a bit of a coke-head. He worked as a "bar-back" at Crystal T's Emporium in Fashion Valley. Crystal T's was San Diego's version of Studio 54.

Jef'f dated a really nice gal who was a reporter for a paramedic magazine. I remember her talking to us one day about an article she was working on dealing with how often times accident victims would walk away from a car crash only to wake up paralyzed the next day because they didn't get proper treatment.

That same night I had a senior league game. It was fairly early in the game, I recall skating in one direction at the center red line, then stopping quickly to go the other way. Bam!!! It felt like a hand grenade exploded in the middle of my back. I limped off the ice and got to the bench. A few minutes later, I took my next shift. Ka-pow!!! Again with the excruciating pain. My back was on fire. In a lifetime of pain, it was the most intense agony I'd ever experienced. I was helped off the ice and to the locker room. I couldn't reach my feet to remove my skates. One of my teammates helped me unlace and take my skates off.

My first inclination was to say I was fine. I'd be alright. Then I remembered Jeff's girlfriend's conversation about spinal injuries...You know what, maybe I should go to the hospital. I was driven to Sharp Hospital, still wearing my hockey gear. I walked in and was admitted to the e.r. They got me out of my equipment and laid me on the table. By the time I was examined, I could no longer feel or move my legs. Oh crap.

It was already late at night. Our game was at 10:00 or 11:00 pm. By now it was already the middle of the wee hours of the morning, probably 2 or 3 am. They gave me a mylogram. Nasty procedure. Dye is injected into the spinal canal and you are tilted on a table while they read the results on an x-ray machine. Massive headaches follow.

Dr. John Cleary visited me at about 5:00 am. Well, it wasn't good. He told me there was damage to my spinal cord. There was less than a 50% chance I'd walk after the surgery. My parents were informed and were flying out from Connecticut.

The injury was at a unique level of my spine. It was a massive ruptured disk at t-12. Dr. Cleary informed me he had never seen this type of injury at that level in his career. And he was no spring chicken. Oddly enough while I was in the hospital he ended up having another t-12 laminectomy. This one was from a woman who worked at a casino in Las Vegas. She injured hers picking up a bucket of coins.

It was clear that my "accident" was the result of ten years of not taking care of my original injury when I was a 13 year old bantam. Then playing with the pain for all those years. It was no mystery what had happened..

So the surgery was performed. I recall waking up, pretty groggy from the anesthesia and hearing the nurse tell me that there was good news. They applied "pain stimulus" to my feet. In other words, they stuck my feet with needles and I responded. I would not be paralyzed.

There was no way to know how much damage had been done, nor how permanent it would be. What was clear, according to Dr. Cleary, was that I would never skate, lift cameras, ride horses or jump up and down. I'm not exactly sure what that left, but I did appreciate the fact that I would not be paralyzed. Thank you Jeff's girlfriend.

Thus began about of decade of discovery and life without hockey. I recovered from the surgery. I was able to shuffle, then walk. I lived near the beach where I spent a lot of time, swimming, stretching, doing yoga and just hanging out. The surgery happened in March. I applied to graduate school at San Diego State University for Telecommunication and Film for the fall. That summer I got about the worst possible job any one recovering from back surgery could imagine...I got a job bussing tables at the Vineyard Wine & Cheese. It was a really cool, gourmet wine and cheese store and deli. Way ahead of its time. We were one of the only places in San Diego where you could get an espresso and a frozen banana dipped in chocolate.

I also started jogging in the sand at the beach. I'd spent my entire hockey based youth exercising "in order to" get in shape for hockey. Our training runs at Uconn were three miles long. I'd never run more than that distance. I worked up to a three mile run on the beach. Of course, when I hit three miles I was done. That was my limit. One day, as I started to approach the end of my run I remember thinking that this was the first time I exercised just to exercise, not to get in shape for hockey. I recall nearing the three mile mark and wondering to myself what would happen if I just kept going. So I got to the end and I took one more step. It felt like I'd stepped through a door. I suppose it was what is known as a runners high, but for the first time ever I experienced effortlessness. It was a dance. Pure joy. Nothing but me, my breath and the wind. I kept going. By the time I was finished I'd gone eight miles.

I was hooked. I ran everyday. By October, I finished my first and only marathon in just over 4 hours. I ran the entire time. I never got tired. I never thought of quitting or even walking. Sorry, Dr. Cleary.

Graduate school was awful. It was academic, theoretical and really boring. I quit and worked my way up from bus boy to deli worker, to manager of the deli and soon I would be offered the position of store manager.

This will get back to hockey soon, I promise....but this was a time in my life of no hockey whatsoever. I do recall having some interest in following the 1980 Olympics. But besides that, I don't think I gave hockey a second thought for nearly 13 years. I went the entire 80's without knowing who Wayne Gretsky was. I couldn't play, I didn't care.

At the time I was offered the job to manage the Vineyard, I had the opportunity to go up to Los Angeles and spend a week on the set of All In The Family. I still have a fun polaroid picture of me sitting in Archie Bunker's easy chair. I have family in the entertainment business in L.A. and I'm sure I could have gotten some kind of gopher job if I wanted. I considered it, but when I got the offer to manage the store I opted for that instead. The Vineyard held weekly wine tastings on Satuday's and once a month we hosted a winemaker from Napa or Sonoma for a big event. I was invited to sit on a tasting panel for a national wine magazine called the Grapevine. It wasn't film or anthro but it was a lot of fun and great business experience.

I did that for a few years then moved on to a few other careers before I finally settled on the financial services business. I was a registered rep, stock broker, bond broker, commodities trader, Certified Financial Planner and Wealth Management Advisor. All fancy ways of saying I was an investment guy. I had a career.

In 1989 I had client whose son was an anesthesiologist. He always bragged about his son's practice which was in the, then newly emerging field of pain management. I could use some of that. Ever since my surgery in 1978, eleven years earlier, I continued to have pain at the site of my injury. I would describe it as having a hot ember constantly poking on my spine in the middle of my back. Every once in a while, it would spasm and flare up into a full on raging immobilizing blaze. In those instances I would be flat on my back until it subsided. It usually lasted the better part of a week.

After my second visit to Dr. Amundson, I was home zenning out(zoning out?) on my couch. The procedure was what is commonly known today as a steroid epidural. This was the early days of this kind of therapy. They injected cortizone and morphine into the area of the pain. There I was on my couch drifting off into la-la land. I felt my body relax and then I could feel the knotted pain in my back actually melt away. It has never returned. I was healed!! Well not really, but at least that pain was gone.

There was one hockey experience I had in the 80's that is worth sharing. Apparently, and this is a little known and long forgotten fact, San Diego was actually home to a Division I college hockey program. It was a school called United States International University or USIU. Other than Alaska it was the farthest west D1 program in the country. It was around for around seven or eight years in the 80s. Chris Chelios was cut from the team and nearly quit hockey. They were an independent team. Uconn came out to play them. I went to the games. Ben Kirtland was coaching Uconn at that time. We lost by scores of 8-1 and 9-1. I watched USIU beat the Minnesota Golden Gophers. They beat that year's national champion North Dakota for their only home loss of the season. The story behind this program is that there was a student, the son of a Saudi prince who was a big hockey fan. So his father funded the program and the rest was history. The kid must have graduated or lost interest and the team folded.

This cleared the way for the next chapter of my life which would see the birth of my children and the return of hockey to my world in a huge way.

Up next. The birth of my son, the return of pro hockey to San Diego and my wife suggesting I start playing hockey. Coolest wife ever!

Chapter 6: More on Uconn

2013-06-08T12:24:00.000-07:00

Those four years flew by. I had no more injuries to deal with, but my back was the source of ongoing pain. I never did do enough stretching. I recall thinking if I ever coached or had a kid who played hockey I would make sure to stress the importance of stretching.

I thoroughly enjoyed my days at Uconn. We were a middle of the road Division 2 program. In those days it wasn't the same D1/DIII split that you see today. Our opponents included some of the current day NESCAC schools: Amherst, Bowdoin, Colby, Wesleyan, Trinity, Williams. We played Army, the Univerity of Vermont, St. Anselms, AIC, Umass(Amherst), Lowell Tech(later Umass/lowell), Babson, Holy Cross, Hamilton and New Haven College. We also faced Nichols, Salem State, New England College and North Adams State. Quinnipiac was merely a local commuter college at the time with no hockey program.

The University of Vermont was the only legit Division 1 team we faced. We played them my freshman and sophomore seasons. The beat us 6-2 and 7-1. In the game during my freshman year I met up with my old buddy John Glynne. I hip checked him into the boards and ended up breaking his leg in the process...Not only could I get hurt, occasionally I dished it out as well. I felt badly, but there was no love lost. (I did a little fact checking to verify this. What I found was that he was drafted 185th in the 1975 NHL amateur draft. It states that he missed most of his freshman season at UVM with a broken ankle. Close enough) One other point, Dave Taylor was drafted 210th in the 15th round. He was considered to be too skinny to play in the NHL. Went on to have his jersey retired by the Los Angeles Kings.

My final college game was at Lowell. We lost 5-4. I had what I thought was 99 total career points going into the game. I scored the last goal of the game on a slap shot from the left point. I took the shot, not expecting much to happen and watched it sail through some traffic and into the top right corner of the net. It's the only goal I remember from all four years. It turns out when the final stats came out I had a point I didn't know about so I ended with 101. My anthropology major had no math requirement.

Our games against Army were never close. It was always the pot smoking liberal hippies versus the battle ready soldiers. They wore crew cuts. We had long hair and beards. They were in tip top shape. We ran the stadium stairs. They played with a level of intensity worthy of storming Iwo Jima. We were hoping to escape with our lives. We joked about their sticks having bayonets. Of the four times we faced them the closet scores were 7-3 and 8-4. The other two games ended with scores of 9-1 and 11-0. They were not fun to face.

Frank and I played on a line with Our centerman, Gene Cufone,(Gene "on-the-phone" Cufone) for our sophomore and junior years. All three of us wore Lange skates and were called "the Lange Gang." Lange was a ski boot company that decided to get into the ice hockey skate business in the 70s. The Lange's were pretty good skates with the outer boot constructed out of the same hard plastic material as their ski boots. They were quite protective for blocking shots. But they tended to crack near the tendon guards. The Lange factory was right down the road in Tolland, Connecticut. We would drive down to the plant and trade in our skates for new ones anytime the shell started to crack. I went back to CCM Tacks for my senior season.

You may know that the Uconn mascot is the Husky. Frank and I lived in a funky old colonial house on Coventry Lake our senior year. We thought it would be a good idea to get a husky puppy. Chick magnet you know. Even though we both had girlfriends. Frank's girlfriend was Pat. They got and are married to this day. Mine was Maureen, Mo. We never got married. That's another story which I will tell in a bit.

We ended up getting the cutest little blue eyed, silver gray and white husky puppy you've ever seen. We called him Keemo. We never should have been allowed to own a dog. You will see why soon.

Keemo was probably only eight or ten weeks old when we got him. Puppy breath, fluffy fur, not housebroken. Frank and I co-parented him. He never was well trained. He did a great job attracting the ladies, but he was a runner. We couldn't take him anywhere with having him on leash or he would take off.

We got him in the summer and by that winter he was nearly full sized. He must have been about eight months old. When we left each morning for class we left him alone to run and roam. Coventry lake was huge and frozen. Keemo would wander all day and greet us when we returned home from hockey practice at dinner time.

One afternoon we got back and Keemo was nowhere to be found. The next morning the sheriff showed up and informed us, "Your dog is killed." Wtf? He told us that Keemo had killed a farmer's sheep and the farmer shot him. We never believed this. We thought at most Keemo may have come upon the dead sheep and helped himself. On the other hand, huskies have wolf in their DNA and we had to admit it was possible. Regardless, it was as if our child had been shot in cold blood.

We were in shock. That was and still is one of the saddest moments of my life. I told you we never should have been dog owners. This is why. We had a game that night and I remember Frank and I looking at each other on the bench doing everything we could not to break down in tears.

The season ended with out much fanfare. We never made the playoffs. Not once in my career. My senior season was the worst of my four years. We went 8-14-2 that year. My first 2 years we had winning records of 15 and 10 and we went .500 my junior year. However, I think that last year was the most enjoyable. All the pot smokers had moved on by then. Coach Chapman coached another four years before retiring and handing over the reins to my teammate Ben Kirtland. Ben went on coach for seven seasons...He's now in federal prison due to involvement in a ticket scam he participated in as associate athletic director at Kansas University. Coach Chapman coached a total of 24 years at Uconn and passed away in 2002 at the age of 76. I never spoke to him after I left Uconn.

Back then, junior hockey was not such a big deal. At least not at the level we played. I, like most players, went straight from high school to college. I did get an offer from the Yale coach when I was a senior at West Haven High to do a post graduate year at Taft prep school. My parents nixed that idea. So I was 21 at the beginning of my senior year. Lucky for us, the drinking age at that time in Connecticut was 18. Of course today, it's the norm for players to be 20 or 21 year old freshmen when they get to college due to the almost mandatory junior hockey route.

I mentioned at the end if my last entry I would talk about something that would change every thing. I'll get to that next time.

Chapter 5: Uconn-College Hockey

2013-06-06T15:13:00.001-07:00

With Bob Blakeslee's support the high school allowed us to throw together a lacrosse team in the spring. It was a gong show. All the hockey players and the football team got together and formed a mess. All we cared about was hitting. It was a big boy version of little kids soccer. Just a mass of bodies around the ball trying to kill each other.

I played summer league hockey again. That summer was kind of cool. It seems like all of the high end players from different schools could be friends. I hung out with kids who had previously been rivals and bitter foes. Now we were playing together, hanging out, becoming friends. It was a great way to transition out of our high school days.

I went back to Finland that summer. I went alone. Just as much fun the second time. We took a ferry across the Baltic and spent a day in Soviet Russia touring Leningrad. Today it is known as St. Petersburg. I didn't go into the museums with the rest of the tour. I hung out in the square, met people and traded away a pair of bell bottom jeans. I forget what I got in exchange. FYI they were a spare pair I'd brought for just this purpose, not the ones I was wearing.

On the ferry ride back to Finland we ate smorgasbord style. I carelessly got gravy on the table cloth. The matron in charge of the buffet read me the riot act in some unknown foreign tongue. While I couldn't tell what she was saying it was obvious she was pissed. It turns out my ugly American ways were being criticized. The table cloth I soiled was "the table cloth". My thoughtlessness was not appreciated.

I made friends with a couple of stoners from Toronto. When I got back home I took a greyhound bus trip up to visit them. This was 1973. I was a borderline hippie. My hair was a little long. I sported what facial hair I could muster. I traveled with a backpack that had an American flag sewn on it. Going through customs at Niagara Falls proved to be challenging. "Purpose of your trip?"

"Visiting buddies, playing hockey", I replied. They looked me up and down, figured I was a trouble maker and pulled me in a little room for some friendly interrogation. They were less impressed that I was going to visit Toronto Leafs All Star defenceman Carl Brewer and more interested in the white powder they found in my dock siders. It was baby powder to fight my foot odor. I was finally on my way.

I met up with my buddies. One of them, while living in Canada had dual citizenship with Austria. He would go on to be the Austrian goalie in the 1980 Olympics. He lost multiple games by double digit scores. No miracle for Austria.

The first thing we did when I got there was party. Later that night I played with them in a summer league junior game. Half of the guys played in the OHL, major junior hockey. At some point in the first period I was forechecking a moose of a defenceman who decided to skate the puck out from behind his own goal. I layed a crushing body check on this guy. Only problem was I was the one crushed. He skated over me and through me. I remember the collision. That's the last thing I remembered.

The next thing I recall was sitting on the bench. It was the last minute of play. A French Canadian forward on my team streaked down the right wing and beat the goalie for the game winner. I looked at the scoreboard. We led 3-2.

I turned to my buddy on the bench and asked him if I had been playing. I had. Although he said I was playing pretty tentatively. Especially in the corners. I didn't remember anything from the moment I got run over by the freight train in the first period. It wasn't the first and definitely not the last time I got my bell rung. We didn't care about concussions back then. You played if you could.

I don't know if you've been keeping track, but in my young life I'd ruptured my spleen, cracked my coccyx, broken my collarbone, had a number of concussions and oh yeah I broke my hand. Later that summer I would pull my groin. That groin injury was the one that hampered me the most. Oh yeah, we didn't play with shields or cages, so I had my share of cuts and stitches. Never lost any teeth though. Oh, and all through college I had terrible back pain that I ignored.

Frank and I arrived at Uconn after Labor Day to start our freshmen year. We dormed together at Belden Hall in the brand new Alumni Quad.

Frank knew from even before he got to college he wanted to be a CPA. I had no clue what I wanted to be or to study. I'll get to the hockey shortly, but first i have to tell you I ended the first semester with an atrocious GPA. Should I say? Ok. I'd never gotten less than a B in my life, except for the D in Algebra that earned me my earlier discussed punishment my freshman year in high school. Ok, so my GPA was 1.6.

I freaked out. I went to my counselor. I realized I never learned to study in high school.

Two things came out of the meeting with my counselor. First, I discussed my lack of direction and my envy of Frank and his focus. His advice: hardly anyone ends up working in their field of study. Study what interests you. Frank become an incredibly successful CPA. I majored in Anthropology.

The other thing that came out of that meeting was that I became a serious student. I spent many a Friday and Saturday night in the library. I made the Dean's list every semester for the next three and a half years. But I majored in Anthropology. I should have studied accounting. But it was interesting.

My girlfriend, Debbie and I lived at opposite ends of campus. Her dorm was called " the Jungle". It was the beginning of our end. We went through a typically painful separation and breakup after going together for 4 years. We are very good friends today.

The hockey team started training in late September. The training, at least at Uconn was definitely not what it is today. All we did was run cross country through the woods and we ran the stairs at the football stadium.

Coach John Chapman, we called him Chipper, was a huge disappointment. He had founded the hockey team about twelve years earlier. He was also the tennis coach. He seemed to be content with his job but had no commitment to excellence. His inspirational pregame speech had the same theme every time: on any given night any team can win(maybe even us if we get lucky).

Uconn Hockey has always suffered from Title 9 and being the red headed step child to the basketball and football teams. The school never really committed to the hockey program. Even when they went D1. That tide seems to have turned. Next year they are joining Hockey East and it appears the university is finally getting behind hockey. I just saw that Uconn's new head coach, Mike Cavanaugh just hired Joe Pereira formerly of BU and from West Haven as one of his assistant coaches. But I'm getting ahead of myself.

Pre-season training came and went. My groin injury continued to hamper me. I made the varsity. Frank did not. He played JV that year. And he honed his accounting skills. It was a bit awkward rooming with him that year. I felt badly but I enjoyed my season. I ended up on the 3rd line. I played a regular shift getting a ton of ice time.

I was one of two freshman on the varsity. The other was Tom "Little Duke" Dyroff. His older brother was a senior. He was "Duke". Even though Tom was bigger. They studied pharmacy. Duke was a monster. A freak. He had a thick beard, hair down to his shoulders and the hardest slapshot I'd ever seen. His nephew, Brooks Dyroff, played for Phillips Andover prep and Boston College with Chris Kreider who is now with the Rangers. My son's Prep school Tilton, beat them and Andover 3-2 in overtime a couple of years ago. Just sayin.

By the end of our senior year I had 37 goals, 64 assists for 101 points. Tom had 71 goals, 52 assists and 123 points. Both of us were in the top ten all time scorers when we graduated. 36 years later I'm still 24th and he's 13th. My Facebook friends Bryan Quinn and DJ LeBlanc are 6th and 7th. Bryan and Todd Krieger are 1 and 2 with over 200 points each.

I had a good year as a freshman. My groin injury was an issue. It definitely slowed me down for the first half of the season but I ended up with 7 goals and 16 assists. I hated Chipper. He was no Artie Crouse. It's one thing to hate a coach because he pushes you. This was not that. We didn't respect Chipper. He didn't challenge us.

We ended the year with a record of 15-10. I think it was the best record of my four years. The team never improved. My production never improved. Frank made the varsity the next year and while I stayed at the same production level of approximately 25 points per season, Frank worked harder than me and outs cored me each of the next three seasons. Our senior year Frank had 6 goals, 24 assists and 30 points. Me? 12 goals and 13 assists. Frank was an Assistant Captain that year. Not me. He worked hard and it paid off. I got complacent.

Ours was a strange team. Nearly half of the team, not me of course, would huddle in the back of the bus on long road trips and smoke pot. I sat up near the front. The smell was obvious. The coaches never said a thing. This was a time of open rebellion. The Viet Nam war was bring protested everywhere. Colleges across the nation were dealing with protests and sit-ins. Streaking was in. Disco and the Allman Brothers were everywhere. It was easier for Chipper to ignore what was going on in the back of the bus. On any given night.…

Anyone who remembers Uconn Hockey from those days will know we played in an "outdoor" rink. Actually it had a cover, but like many prep school rinks of the day it was open all sides. It could get damned cold out there too. Often with the wind whipping through from one end. This gave us home ice advantage. Most of us had beards. We practiced in this nasty cold. Visiting teams dreaded coming to our barn. It was miserable for them. Not only did they have to deal with the wind and the cold, but to add insult to injury, their locker room was in "the warming hut". At the end of each period they would have to walk a path from the rink to the warming hut while our shirtless, painted brandy soaked fans would hurl snowballs at them. It was pretty funny. To this day when I run into people who played for teams that visited us, that's their only memory of playing at Uconn.

One of my most appreciated benefits from my days at Uconn have been the handful of lifelong friendships. First and foremost has been my friendship with Frank Longobardi. We've stayed in touch and he's been a great help on numerous occasions. I've visited Frank and his wife, Pat many times. Frank is still the best looking man in Connecticut. I love Longo. Even if he is a Yankees fan. Did I mention Frank is a verrrrryyyy successful CPA.

One of my fondest friends is Glenn Adamo. I graduated and lost contact with Glenn for years. When we reconnected Glenn was VP in charge of Broadcasting Operations for the NHL. He worked his way up the latter starting as a receptionist. He's such a great guy that people couldn't help supporting snf promoting him. He's since moved on and is VP for Media Operations for the NFL. He had a brief stint as head of marketing for the Jersey Devils the last time they won the Stanley Cup, 2003 I think.

My favorite Glenn Adamo story was from a visit I had with him right after Gretzky retired. My wife and I were sitting in his office at the NHL headquarters in New York. I asked Glenn if he was at Gretsky's last game at Madison Square Garden.

He proceeded to tell me how he choreographed the Great One's final curtain call following the end of his last game. Yeah, he told Gretzky exactly what to do after the end of the game. Take a bow, exit into a locker room where Glenn instructed him, back and forth a few times. At one point Gretzky was alone with Glenn in the locker room. He grabbed both of Glenn's hands and staring deeply into his eyes saying ; "Glenny, thank you so much…I couldn't do this without you!"

And I'd asked if he was at the game. Yep. He was there.

I continue to stay in close contact with my team mate, Paul McCormick. Paul lives in Brooklyn. He's in advertising for a company that's makes great commercials. His son Charlie is tearing it up on a lacrosse scholarship at Georgetown.

I was playing senior league hockey at Mira Mesa in San Diego on the mid -90s. There was a scuffle in front of the net. Everyone paired off. I found myself clutching my opponent who turned out to be Tim Bensey. Tim was an outstanding freshman defenseman during my senior year. He was also on the football team. He ended up transferring to San Diego State where he played quarterback. We've played Thursday night pickup together for years. Now that I no longer play, he skates with my son when he's in town. By the way. This Thursday night skate is legendary. It's been going on for nearly 40 years. Chris Chelios skated in it when he was a teenager. My good friend and fellow hockey player, dad, coach and referee, Jaye Park was a little older than Chelios. They were strict about keeping it at ten players a side. Chelios was a punk rink rat. and they never let him play. He was younger than most of the guys. Jaye took Chelios under his wing and let him dress and shared shifts with him. They are best friends to this day. He used to come out and skate with us every now and then.

During my senior year at Uconn, we had another talented freshman defenseman show up. His name was Brad Holt. Brad's father was the legendary hockey coach at the University of New Hampshire, Charlie Holt. Charlie Holt played on the U.S. National Team with my high school coach, Art Crouse in 1948. Also on that team were Army coach Jack Riley and BU Coach Jack Kelley. Brad played one year at Uconn then transferred to UNH for his final three. Brad has been an invaluable friend and guide in helping me navigate junior and college hockey with my son. I've helped Brad out by scouting for him in the Western States Junior Hockey league. Brad is the head coach at the University of New England in Biddeford, Maine. One of my son's teammates from youth hockey, Cassidy April, just finished his freshman year at UNE.

Again, a fun part of my college playing experience was the press. Nearly every game resulted me getting my name and often picture in the paper. We had the Uconn Daily Campus that followed us closely as well as the Hartford Courant and the New Haven Register.

A couple of years ago I was rummaging through an old box of all the articles and pictures and I came across a game program from a WHA Hartford Whalers game. On the front cover was a couple of autographs. One was a Scandinavian looking name that I did not recognize. The other signature was Bobby Hull's. Wow, that was cool. But I had no idea where or when I got it. I had no recollection of ever seeing Bobby Hull much less getting his autograph.

A little deeper in pile of articles and pictures I found a newspaper article from the New Haven Register. It was about Lyman Hall. Lyman Hall was a mid-level high school team in the greater New Haven area. I was wondering why in the world I would have saved this article. I turned it over and it turned out it was a feature article on me. Local boy makes good kind of piece. It focused on my upcoming junior year at Uconn and my experience of coming out of West Haven High and playing college hockey. Again, I vaguely recall being interviewed.

So I proceeded to read the article. It was very cool. At one point in the article the reporter asked me what NHL teams I followed. My response was that I was too busy with my hockey and school to follow pro hockey and besides, Storrs, Connecticut is out in the boonies. We only got 3 channels and it was hard to get any hockey on tv even if I had the time to watch.

I proceeded to tell him that I did however, have a chance to go to Hartford to catch a Whaler's game. They were playing the Winnipeg Jets. I told him that during the warm-ups I recognized one of the Jets players as one of the Finnish National players I'd met at hockey school in Finland. I got his attention and was able to talk to him during warm ups. He invited me back to the locker room after the game where he introduced me to Bobby Hull and I got both of their autographs on my program. Mystery solved. Don't forget it was the 70s. A lot was forgotten from that decade.

I'll always cherish my college hockey days. I graduated from Uconn in May of 1977. I was qualified to do. anthropology. But none of the big anthro firms came knocking. So I had to figure out a new plan.

I'll get to that next. Something would happen within the next year that would change everything.

Chapter 4: Coming of Age

2013-06-05T23:09:00.000-07:00

Well, this was it. This was to be our time. We would be seniors in September. A lot was expected of us. By us, I mean Mumbles, Longo and me. Dave Depew and I hung out and did everything together. Dave didn't speak all that clearly and earned the nickname Mumbles. Dave was the center on our line. Frank Longobardi, the best looking kid in Connecticut was our left winger. One of our teammates who ended up being a cop and pretty much a racist tagged me with AyRab(Arab). Steinberg and I were the only Jews on the team, and he already had the nickname of Bird due to his resemblance to Big Bird from Sesame Street.

Koho, the hockey stick and equipment company, held a three week hockey camp in Finland. Frank, Dave and I went over together and had the time of our lives. Summer time in Finland for a 17 year old was amazing. I'm not able to go into details due to the fact that my kids will be reading this, but let's just say there were a lot of firsts for me over there. Whitey Bensen loaned me the money to pay for the trip and I worked it off by raking a hell of a lot of leaves.

It was an amazing hockey school. The pros included; Garry Unger, Carl Brewer, Pete Stemkowski as well as many of the players from the Finnish National Team. In fact, during "the big game" at the camp I scored on the Finnish team goalie...this would be the same goalie that the 1980 USA Miracle team would need to beat after upsetting the Russians to win the gold that year.

We spent half of the camp in Forssa, Finland. Forssa is the home of the Koho stick factory. Scandinavia in the summer is a trip. It never gets dark...so we would get up, skate, eat, nap, skate, drink, sleep and repeat. It was hard to tell when to sleep and when to wake up since it never got dark. The other half of the time was spent in Davos, Switzerland in the Swiss Alps. Davos was a cool mountain village. It is famous for it's skiing, having hosted a few winter olympics and also hosting the annual global economic forum for gazillionaires. One highlight for me was of taking the tram to the top of the mountain and hiking back down with Garry Unger. We drank wine out of a bota bag. Again, probably not cool and grounds for a law suit in this day and age. But it was a blast.

I was talking to another hockey dad that I coached with in San Diego when my son was a squirt(about 10 years old). His name is Steve Terry. Steve grew up playing hockey in San Diego. He's my age. Our kids are the same age. We were having the buffet breakfast at a hotel during a tournament in Vegas and for some reason the topic of Finland or Koho or something came up. It turns out Steve and I were at the Koho hockey school together 30 years earlier. We had no idea.

Anyway, Frank, Dave and I really bonded and we returned home to Connecticut and played together in a high school summer league. Yeah, I broke my collar bone after an awkard hit into the boards. I was out for four weeks. But I had no football to deal with so I had plenty of time to heal and get ready for the season.

And what an amazing season it was. We steam rolled nearly everyone we played that year. Our biggest rivals were Amity High, New Canaan and Hamden. Hamden was the perennial Connecticut powerhouse. I don't think West Haven had beaten Hamden in years. They won the state title every year. If you recall, Hamden was led by my peewee idol, John Glynne. We beat Amity. We beat New Canaan. We played Hamden at Hamden and we beat them. We lost games to Lawrenceville, which is the prep school at Princeton, as well as Cathedral Catholic from Massechuesetts. And we lost a game 3-2 to a team we hosted from Sweden. The team was called Skuru Ik. They were amazing. Great hockey players and fun guys to hang out with. It was a friendly game that turned pretty serious. It was after playing them that I started cutting my hockey sticks to be pretty short. I was impressed by the puck control they had, much of it due to how short they kept their sticks.

Frank, Dave and I earned the moniker the G-A-G line. It stood for goal a game. Although it was often two or three or more....we all started to amass points over the course of the season. I think our season was only 20 games plus playoffs. After every game we would check out the New Haven Register and the West Haven Town Crier newspapers. The sports sections covered local high school hockey. Articles, pictures, stats.....so after every game we loved to read what was written. One of my favorite things was to see the stats section that kept track of the state's scoring leaders.

All season long it was Me, Frank and Dave...1,2, 3....we took turns leading. I have to admit, while I never "chiselled", I was very good at making sure I got credit for every point, especially every assist. In hockey, if you don't know, you get a point for a goal as well as a point for an assist. So you could be the scoring leader even if you weren't a finisher. Playmakers are equally rewarded. I was a pretty balanced scorer as far as goals and assists went, but I took more pride in setting up my teammates. No one likes a puck hog. (This is not true in California...for some reason everyone here loves a puck hog...go figure. Something to do with roller hockey) There is some skill in in being able to make sure the ref knew you were in on the goal. It was important to be able to get your point across without your coach realizing what you were doing. Coaches hate that. You also never want to cheat a teammate out of an assist. But trust me if I assisted on a goal I was credited on the score sheet.

It was time to think about college. Both of my parents graduated from Brown University. My big brother was in his junior year at Brown. My younger sister would attend in a few years. . I was an above average student, gradewise. I knew how to get by. I tested relatively well. I did my work. But I wasn't the most academically motivated student in high school. My SAT scores were mediocre and I had it in my mind that I couldn't hack it at Brown. I submitted a half-assed application but I put next to no effort into it. I still have recruiting letters from Alan Soares, the head hockey coach at Brown. It wasn't to be.

I took a recruiting trip to Maine with my mom. We visited Bowdoin and Colby Colleges. Beautiful campuses. More snow than I'd ever seen in my life. About a world away from Connecticut. Too far. I didn't mention this, but I had a girlfriend in West Haven. Debbie Richards. Debbie was captain of the cheerleaders. Her dad was the high school principal. We'd been together since my freshman year. Being way out there in Maine was not going to work. Mistake #1-not trying harder to get into Brown. Mistake #2-letting a girl influence my college decision. Debbie was really smart. She was our class salutatorian. 4.0 gpa. Too smart for me. She was heading for a school that, when I first heard of it, I assumed was in Alaska...Uconn. Of course when I moved to Connecticut and heard Uconn for the first time what I heard was "Yukon". Funny enough, this happens all the time, even now when I mention Uconn to people in Cali.

We played the Uconn Freshmen at our Rink in West Haven in December. We beat them 5-2. The G-A-G line tore it up. After the game their coach was in our locker room talking to my coach, Art Crouse. He was talking up Dave and Frank. The Uconn coach asked him, "What about Balaban?". My coach told him I was going to Brown. "Um, I'd be interested in Uconn" I interjected. A week later I had a letter from the Uconn head coach, John Chapman inviting me to come to Uconn. I applied and was quickly accepted.

We easily won our way through the state playoffs and were due to meet Hamden in the final. The game was held at the New Haven Arena. It was a sellout, thousands of screaming fans from both schools and all over the state came to watch us go down in flames to the Green Dragons by a score of 3-0. It was a hard fought game but we failed to score. Such a let down after an incredible year. John Glynne beat us. Damn, I knew he was good. He, and their goalie Peter Reynolds were heading for the University of Vermont. I would play against him four more times in college.

I ended up with the scoring title for Connecticut High School hockey that year...64 points in about 25 or so games. Something like 28 goals and 36 assists. Dave and Frank finished right behind me. It could have gone either way with any of the three of us. Frank also committed to Uconn. We would go on to room together and play for the Huskies or the next four years. Dave went to AIC(American International College) but did not play hockey. He should have and could have but he wasn't recruited. He was determined to study there and attended regardless.

I loved my years in West Haven. The friendships, the hockey, the trouble I got into. It was almost time to move on. My hockey life was really just getting going.

Next up....Uconn.....

Chapter 3: Mamas Don't Let Your Kids Grow Up to Play Hockey

2013-06-04T14:04:00.000-07:00

There were many more days and stories from our time playing hockey on Lake Phipps. It was the souce of much fun, excitement and mischief. I enjoyed a few more winters of this kind of tom foolery until I went off to college and then eventually moved away to California.

My friends and I continued to play on the lake in the winters and then on the high school and summer league teams at the rink and around Connecticut. We all improved, getting pretty good, pretty quickly. We played JV hockey our freshman year, then 3rd line my sophomore season for the varsity.

While hockey was my life and my passion, being "the man with the golden hands" I continued to play football for the high school team. I also played baseball until I got to the Babe Ruth League. I was an excellent fielder with a so-so arm and an above average bat. That all changed when the pitchers starting hurling curve balls. I was sure that ball was coming straight at my face and then whoosh....it would drop and go right over the plate. Or it would be coming right down the middle and I'd find myself swinging at a ball three feed outside the stike zone. I was rendered helpless and looking like a fool. Thus ended my competitive baseball career.

Football was another matter. It was in my DNA....and it helped my hockey game. I was more physical and a better hitter thanks to football. I was also stronger and in better condition because of it. The other thing that helped me with hockey was the fact that before I got my drivers license, my friends and I rode our bicycles everywhere. I developed a massive hockey butt and thighs from all the leg work.

For football, we had spring training, weight lifting and what we called triple sessions in the muggy sweltering August heat the week before we started back to school. The biggest drawback to me for football was that it went until Thanksgiving day and the hockey team started practicing the first week in November. We weren't allowed to overlap, so those of us on both the football and hockey teams had to wait until after the final game in late November before we could start practicing with the hockey team.

My friends and linemates Dave Depew and Frank Longobardi and I were expected to be a big part of the hockey team for the upcoming season, my junior year of high school.

I was the starting tight end for the football team. Tom Hunt was the head coach. He was an old school mean SOB. I think he had a cup of coffee with the Denver Bronco's but he had bad knees. There's a good chance he would make headlines were he to be coaching in today's more sensitive atmosphere where beating and berating players is frowned upon. But that was a different time. So we were beaten and berated on a regular basis. And we didn't complain.

It was Thanksgiving day, 1971. We were playing Hillhouse High School, a New Haven inner city school. Always a tough opponent. It was a cold, drizzly miserable Saturday morning.

I was on the kick receiving team for the opening kick off. My assignment was to go across the width of the field from the left side and block a kid who happened to be a 230 lb all-state tackle. I weighed about 170. He was bigger. My advantage is he had no idea where I was coming from. His advantage was 60 pounds of muscle.

The kick off ensued. I sprinted across the field and dove, stretching my body out in front of said large tackle as he made a beeline for the ball carrier. I nailed him. He never saw it coming. He went flying ass over tea kettle over me. I noticed the effect of his unsuspecting knee which sunk deep into the middle of my gut. I rolled on the cold hard ground and got up clutching my left side, making my way back to the offensive huddle for the first play call of the game. I could not catch my breath, much less a football. The pain in my gut was immense. I had to keep my left arm tucked into my stomach to try to contain the pain.

The first play was called. Great. Thanks. It was a pass play. A crossing pattern about ten yards deep, to me. I ran, if you want to call it that, the route. I made it across the middle. Pete Riccio, my quarterback from midget football (no midgets played) fired a bullet in my direction, slightly above and away from my reach. I could not lift my left arm away from my stomach. I couldn't reach it. The ball was catchable. But not for me. I got my other hand on it, but to no avail. Incomplete pass. Second and ten.

I limped back to the huddle. That was the last pass ever thrown my way. Mercifully the half ended. During the break I went to Coach Hunt. "Coach" I stammered, "I don't think I can go anymore".

Coach Hunt turned and barked, "Herzog-you're in. Balaban is a pussy."

I never played another play. I sat on the bench huddled up, clutching my side. I was covered with the Blue Devils poncho in the drizzling rain for the second half of the game. I don't remember if we won or lost.

I rode the yellow team school bus for the twenty minute ride back to West Haven High School. Bouncing and bumping, feeling every little vibration, I continued squeezing my arm to my side all the way back to the school.

I got myself changed out of my football uniform and into my street clothes. I don't remember how I got home, but the next thing I recall is sitting in the dark downstairs on the couch. My sister got home. She had been at the game. I doubt she had a clue about what I was going through, but she recognized my pain when she came downstairs and saw me sitting there. This was another moment in a life long string of instances of me not acknowledging pain. I told her I was fine. Thank goodness she didn't buy it. "You arent' fine! You are as white as a ghost". My parents weren't around. She got Mr. Steinberg to come over. He drove me to the hospital.

Next thing I know I'm waking up with my mom telling me at least I won't have to go to Viet Nam. "Say what?".

As it turns out that knee in my gut on the opening kickoff ruptured my spleen. A spleen I no longer possessed. All I had left was a large scar on my belly and the realization that I was done for the year. No hockey. I needed about six months to recover. Damn it.

As for Viet Nam, it turns out my lack of spleen meant I was susceptible to Berry Berry or some tropical disease and I would not be eligble for the draft as a result. I think I would have rather gone to war if it meant not missing my hockey season.

So that was that. I didn't play that year. I don't even remember one thing from that hockey season. I did show up for spring training for football but I quickly realized I wasn't willing to risk my senior hockey season. So I gave up football. There were a lot of people disappointed in me, but I stuck to my guns. Quitting football was a big deal. I probably could have handled it with more maturity. I honestly don't recall much that went down then but I still have the letter from my big brother, who was away at Brown University by then. He expressed his disappointment at me being a quitter.

By the way, Herzog.....Donny Herzog, the tight end who replaced me the day I got hurt, grew over a foot and went on to be named all-state defensive end and went on to play college ball at Northwestern. The team, the West Haven Blue Devils or the Westies went on to go undefeated and win the state championship.....without me!

At least I could now prepare for my upcoming senior hockey season.

more to come......

Chapter 2: Those Were the Days My Friend

2013-06-02T17:55:00.000-07:00

Besides Mike McDermott, two adult mentors came into my life at that time. First was Vern Gesner. Mr. Gesner was the ice czar of Lake Phipps. He was the one who everyone relied on to determine when the ice was thick enough to skate on. And he had played for the Blades. The New Haven Blades were the local semi-pro team. They played in the old Eastern Hockey League at the New Haven Arena. ( I did some checking and Mr. Gesner actually played for the New Haven Bears, a predecessor to the Blades). The hockeydb.com website in accurately spells it Gessner with two S's.

Mr. Gesner was a wizard on the ice. My instant hero. Everyone's actually. For a living, my hero was a plumber. He could stick handle through everybody and make the goalie look like a fool. Two boots were the make-shift hockey goal. There was no "lifting" the puck so you had to be able to either shoot it past the poor sap who was playing goalie or you had to be able to deke him and shovel the puck past him.

The Gesners lived directly across the lake from us. They had lights on their dock. Mr. Gesner would shovel an area in front of his property to form a hockey rink/figure skating area and then flood it to keep the surface smooth. His wife had skated in the Ice Capades and his daughter, Gail, was a figure skater. We hated her.

That winter of 1967-68 hockey became my life. I was in the 7th grade at Gianotti Junior High. (Proudly in our hearts you lie) Everything I did was centered around playing hockey. I couldn't wait to get home from school. I would do everything in my power to avoid trips to my grandparents. That was just time I couldn't skate. We would get home from school and play until dinner then come back out and skate the length of the lake in the moonlight. All you could hear was the scraping sound of the steel blades cutting the ice, wooden sticks banging pucks and the occasional freezing cracks that would scare the uninitiated but was comforting to us.

My other mentor was Whitey Bensen. Whitey was our supplier. Our dealer. He was the source of us getting our stuff. He sold hockey sticks and equipment out of the trunk of his car. As soon as I could I saved enough to buy a pair of Riddell kangaroo leather skates. They were green. They were awesome! But I think I would have probably used the word groovy or cool.

I was so happy. Whitey took me and my friends under his wing, kept us outfitted and out of trouble for years to come. Whitey, and his son Kyle, went on to become the largest hockey and lacrosse retailer in Connecticut. I still stop in and say hi and buy sticks for my son when I'm in Connecticut. They supply many of the Connecticut high school, prep school and colleges, including NCAA Natty Champs, Yale.

Weekends were always the best. All of the local high school team players and some college kids would show up and we would have these large games that would last all day long. The legendary local high school hockey coach, Art Crouse was always there. He lived at the other end of the lake with his family. His son's Arty and Marty would be there. Arty was the robust backup goalie on the team. Marty was a diminutive but fast little skater. Other high school players included; starting goalie, Richard Goldsmith, Defensemen Tony Amendola and Mark "Duck" Williams, forwards Arty Friend and Kerry Bertrand. Kerry could lean and turn on a dime making the tightest turns I'd ever seen. He would almost be parallel to the ice. I always tried to copy that. There were the Degennaro brothers and many more, but it was always a great, fun community event.

We were there too. The next generation. Me, Steiny, Mike McD, Frank Longobardi, Frank Vingiano, Bob Blakeslee, Dave Depew, Paul Sikorsky, Dave Hansen and our goalie, Scott Dufresne. Italians, Polish, French, Jewish and Irish....but mostly Italian.

As the winter turned to spring, the lake melted and we fished. We also scoured the lake bottom along the shore line for pucks that were lost during the winter. Hockey gave way to baseball. For a bit.

That spring held the greatest surprise. The city of West Haven completed construction of the rink at the high school. We lived about a mile from the school and the new rink. Instead of having to wait until the next winter, we got to keep playing starting in the early summer. Whitey Bensen held a hockey camp. I still have my "report card". I would get better! But it did say I had talent and great potential. I'm sure they said that to all the kids.

In the fall, during my eighth grade I joined the West Shore Youth Hockey League. I can't remember the name of my team. We played in the Bantam level. Hockey always did have strange names for the different age levels....there's mites, and squirts, peewee's and bantams, then you get to midgets and juniors....you either sound like a noise one makes while peeing or you are a politically incorrect slur....

Once in the midst of my son's youth hockey days I was telling someone I worked with he plays "midget" hockey. This level goes from 15 to 18 years old, right before you graduate all the up to "Junior" hockey. Whoa, you are finally a Junior. Anyway this co-worker found it kind of interesting that there is a hockey level for midgets. He didn't say it, but he was thinking how odd that my son was a midget. I straightened him out but I think it was he who had it right. It is a bit odd.

Whatever our team was called we wore Boston Bruins colors and we lost our first game by score of 13-0. So much for talent and potential.

Things picked up and we did much better. I made the all-star team. I also got hurt. I took a nasty spill on a hit from behind in the corner. I came down hard, flat on my seat. This was significant. I'm still paying for it. I'd injured my back but I also learned how to hide my pain. They said I broke my coccyx. All I know is it hurt like hell and I was not allowed to play for a month.

As soon as possible, I was back on the ice. In addition to the Bantam league, the lake was now frozen again and we continued to spend every available free moment skating.

We would also sneak out late at night and go to the New Haven Arena to play after midnight. Someone must have known someone. I was getting to be pretty good, along with my buddies. We would go and skate with the older high school kids. Somehow we convinced my brother who had his driver's license to take us to New Haven. We would play until 3:00 am. I'm fuzzy on the details. I don't recall how we got around my parents. I don't remember if we snuck in or if someone let us in. I do have vague and slightly disturbing memories of us all playing hockey wearing only our jock straps at 3 in the morning.

If memory serves me, it was the following winter that I had my near death experience. I had gotten a very bad grade in my freshman algebra class. I was threatened by my mother with having hockey taken away until my grade picked up. It was during one of those late night skating sessions that I shared my woes with senior defenseman Tony Amendola. Tony was a bad ass. He took shit from no one. His advice to me was to tell my mom to go "f-herself" if she followed through with her threat to punish me. I was inspired. Great talk. Thanks Tony!

So then that happened. Sure enough my mom brought the hammer down and I came back with a poorly timed and ill-conceived retort. All hell broke loose. I will spare you the ugly details but suffice to say that I "ran away" for a few days. I stayed with another buddy, who was not the best influence...his name was Blakeslee. Bob Blakeslee. Bob lived on the other side of the tracks. His older brother was a drug dealer and I can't even fathom what his mother might have been involved with.

Bob was my age. A talented defenseman with a blistering slap shot. He ended up going away to a prep school, Trinity Pawling or TP for our junior year. I think Whitey Bensen helped him get a full scholarship....today those go for close to $50,000. Probably about $5000 back then.

I'm not sure why he returned to West Haven for our senior year. Something about drinking and weed most likely. Oh, the prep school life. But he was was back on the high school team for our senior season and helped us get to the state championship finals that year. He also brought Lacrosse back with him so we had a club Lacrosse team that spring.

I returned home after a few days in exile to serve my month long stint in the penalty box. When you live on a lake and your life is consumed with hockey you end up learning all kinds of terms and distinctions for weather and different types of ice conditions. I imagine it is similar to some degree to how Eskimos have so many words for snow or the way surfers have so many terms for waves and wind. Same with skiers. Also true for pond hockey players.

There was a day during my prohibition when my parents were out of town. When a lake freezes for the first time of the season it creates a beautiful sheet of mirror like "black ice". It's called black ice because it is clear and with the dark water visible beneath the frozen surface it appears to be black.

There is nothing better for skating than black ice. After a day or so of a cold snap the ice continues to freeze, getting thicker but it also expands. Like ice cubes in a glass of water, the ice surface develops cracks. They happen constantly. The ice splits and cracks making all kinds of cracking and pinging sounds. Sometimes a fissure will fire up right between your own two feet. Others will come from an angle and intersect with an existing crack. There is really no risk of falling through the ice. It's too thick by now. The risk is potentially catching your blade in one of these cracks, getting your foot stuck and possibly twisting an ankle or a knee. Mostly the worst that happens is it causes a skater to lose their footing and wipe out.

Over a few days the ice forms many cracks and lots of snow from all the stopping and starting. We simply move to new virgin areas for fresh ice. It was always good to know which property owners were finicky about us playing in front of their homes. A winter version of "get off my lawn".

As the days passed the ice would get thrashed and we would adapt. When it snowed it would cover the ice and hide the cracks. There was no use trying to play until the snow stopped. But we would skate.

When the snow stopped falling we would get our shovels and clear away a rink sized patch. This area would now be surrounded by banks of snow on all sides. Plenty of pucks got lost in these snow banks.

The ice was never great after a snow storm. We had to take breaks throughout the day to shovel all the snow that came from blades stopping and starting during each game. The worst conditions came after a snowstorm if it would rain and then freeze up right away. In these instances a hideous crust formed. There was no way to skate on this. We know because we tried anyway.

Hopefully and usually, after this crust formed we were lucky enough to get a warm spell and maybe even some rain. This served to completely melt the surface area of the ice. The shoreline and under the docks would melt entirely.

When the next cold snap arrived the watery surface would refreeze, as would most of the shoreline. The last to freeze was the water under the docks.

This freshly refrozen melted surface and rainwater was the next best thing to play on besides the initial black ice. It was this type of condition that we had one fine cold sunny Sunday morning while I was still on suspension with my parents out of town. Hmmm.

So I did what any self respecting kid would do. I got my hockey bag, I bundled up and I snuck out down to the other end of the lake to spend the day doing what I loved best. And what a day it was. Perfect weather, temperature in the teens. Perfect Ice. All my friends were out. The entire local hockey community was there for this glorious day. Vern Gesner, Art Crouse, the high school team, my pals...it couldn't have been more perfect. Uh oh.

The ice was milky white. There were no freezing cracks other than the one's happening during this day. It was freezing cold, but sunny with clear skies. The shoreline had refrozen for the most part but you did need to pay attention as there were weak spots. Not hard to spot or avoid though.

The area underneath the docks remained open water. Occasionally a puck would be lost to one of these holes. But they also had a plus side. You could drink ice cold lake water from them when you got thirsty. This is something we all did many times throughout the day. There was little that could quench your thirst better than this.

Here's what you had to do. You would skate up to the dock, lay your stick and gloves on the dock or behind you away from the water then you would get on your hands and knees and shuffle up to the waters edge. Then you lay flat on your belly on the ice. Carefully you reach your head over the edge and you literally suck the water right out of the lake.

We all did this many times. This time as I was gulping this magnificent refreshment, with my body stretched on the ice and my mouth in the water the entire shelf of ice I was laying on collapsed. Suddenly I'm submerged in the ice cold lake water kicking my feet realizing that trying to swim with steel blades on my feet was not going to work. I can't say my life flashed before my eyes. I was, however, wet, shockingly cold and before I needed a breath, I reached out and grabbed the wooden post of the dock. I was able to quickly pull myself to the ladder and climb out of the water.

Did I almost die? Probably not. Would my parents kill me if they found out? Definitely!

Once on the dock and out of the water I was relieved. But now I'm realizing how wet and cold I was in my soaking clothes and hockey gear. Being in the water was shocking but surprisingly it was not a sensation of coldness as you might imagine. Being underwater, unable to breathe, sinking from the weight of my skates, everything was a reaction. Being on the dock, out of danger, but cold and wet was just plain miserable. Immediately everything began to freeze while underneath everything remained wet.

I went over to Blakeslee's house to thaw out, warm up and laugh about the ordeal. As evidenced by the fact that I'm here to tell this tale, my parents never found out and so did not need to kill me. Yep, I just called my mom to verify...she never knew of this. Someday my kids may tell me things.

More to follow.....

Chapter 1: I'm A Hockey Guy

2013-06-01T22:15:00.001-07:00

I'm a hockey guy. I played, I coached, I reffed but most of all and to this day I'm a hockey dad. I fear those days are numbered. For as long as I can remember, I've had as one of my favorite jobs and purposes to drive, support, fund and cheer as my son worked and played his way through the youth, prep school, junior and now college ranks. I'm his biggest fan. This role has been the target of much of my energy over the past eighteen years, ever since his mini-mite days at the age of four. Occasionally there is pain, frustration, disappointment and heartbreak. I'm talking about for me. Lord only knows how it's been for him. I'll let him tell that side of the story.

I'd never heard of hockey. I was twelve years old. I grew up on a farm in the Florida panhandle. We played football in the fall. Basketball in the winter and baseball in the spring and summer. We hunted, fished and played army. I was pretty sure I would play football at FSU or the University of Florida some day.

That is until my dad ruined my life and moved us to Connecticut in the summer of '67. I'd just finished the 6th grade. I thought my life was over. I left all my friends behind, including my girlfriend, Becky Messer. Becky was a dream. I was shy. It took me since the 1st grade to finally get the nerve to be her boyfriend. I was in love with her from the first day I set eyes on her on my very first day of the 1st grade. I specifically remember my mother saying goodbye as she left me at Mrs. Kates' 1st grade class room. I had a lump in my throat and was on the verge of tears....then I saw Becky and all was good. Bye Mommy!

But alas, poof. Off to Connecticut. I told myself it was only temporary, but it soon became evident it was over.

That first summer in Connecticut was spent in a rented beach house at Gulf Beach in Milford. I made a few friends. We swam in Long Island Sound. We played baseball every chance we got. I spoke to Becky every Wednesday night at 7pm. Soon the calls ended and I've never heard from her since. Every so often I check on Facebook, but nothing. I'm sure that young beauty that I lost is a big fat momma living in a trailer park somewhere. My curiousity remains.

At the end of the summer my parents bought a house in West Haven, the next town up the coast. It was a cool house, made of slate rocks and redwood. It was split level and sat on the shore of Lake Phipps. We had a row boat. We bought a canoe. Plenty of time was spent fishing, swimming and rowing around the lake.

There was no shortage of kids in the new neighborhood. My first friend was Michael McDermott. His family lived on the other side of the empty lot that separated our two homes. Mike and his chubby, younger, red-headed brother, Timmy were adopted by Ed and Barbara. Mr. McDermott worked at a funeral home. I suppose he was an undertaker, but I really have no idea what he actually did there.

My other friend in the neighborhhod was Mark Steinberg. We called him Steiny and later, Bird. We, along with other kids in the neighborhood played a lot of touch football on the small "green" nearby. This patch of land was on a slope and had a huge cedar pine right in the middle. It's a miracle no one got hurt. But isn't that the case with much of what we did as kids.

Continuing my promising football career, I went out for midget football that fall. I played for the team sponsored by the Armstrong Rubber factory. I earned the moniker "the man with the golden hands". Once I caught a long bomb from Pete Riccio and scored a touchdown. They announced someone else's name over the PA system. My mom straightened that out immediately.

As the weather turned cold, my first winter approached. Mike McDermott was at my house and he noticed I had a table top hockey game still in the unopened box that it came in. It turns out Mike played hockey and from that moment on my life would never be the same. He immediately began to pull me into his world.

Keep in mind, I'd never seen anything related to hockey in my life other than this hockey game. For some unknown reason the Christmas before we left Florida, my parents(or Santa?) got me this game as a gift. I have to ask them if they recall and what were they thinking that would have them get this game for me. I was confused when I saw my first hockey puck. As far as I knew it should have been large enough to come up to knee height. That's how big it was in the table top game. What was this little bitty thing?

So we opened the game. We carted it back and forth between houses depending on who's parents minded less. We played games. We held tournaments. We kept stats. We developed plays...my favorite was where you push the right wing down his lane with the puck then from the corner he makes a pass to his centerman who is being pushed down the middle at the same time. If you time it right, he jams it past the goalie with a one timer at the perfect moment. The other play was to have that same right winger rip a spin-a-rama slap shot from the blue line. The men were made of metal, probably tin. It was the Montreal Canadiens and the Toronto Maple Leafs, two of the six teams that comprised the National Hockey League at the time. The players were flat with the face and uniform painted on each side. We curved and angled the blade of their sticks so that when they took their slap shots the puck would angle up off the surface and often would find its way into the goal. Top cheddar!

And we fought. Mostly Michael and I. We were developing somewhat of a rivalry that would last through high school. There were numerous disputes, arguments and allegations of cheating that erupted into the two of us going after each other.....we never threw punches, but we fought. Funny enough with one exception, in all the years that I would go on to play ice hockey I never fought. Never had to. Except once in Thursday night men's pickup, but that's another story.

This new and growing interest in the game that Michael McDermott played eventually spilled out onto the driveway where we played ball hockey. Our equipment was tennis balls, welded goals, old worn down wooden, straight bladed hockey sticks which, if the nail had already fallen out, was worn down to a dangerous spear. More tournaments, playoffs, scrapes and fights. It's amazing no one lost an eye.

Soon enough the hockey season was upon us. Mike played peewee hockey in New Haven. Mike and his dad invited me to go with them to the games at the New Haven Arena. We would stay up late watching the Rangers on black and white TV, then wake up at 4:30 in the morning to get to his game. This was my introduction to cold weather. Nasty cold weather. Too cold.

Mike was a bit of an enigma. He was introducing me to this new world...for that I will be forever grateful. But he was a goofy kid. So it was not easy to look up to him. He had a chipped tooth. A hockey badge of honor. His team was Schiavone's. Schiavone's was a wrecking company. Bodies went missing from time to time. You tell me!

Mike was ten or eleven at the time. I was twelve. He loved hockey, but he wasn't all that good of a player. John Glynne! Now he as a good player. He was the best hockey player in the league, absolutely amazing to watch. I was in awe. He skated and carried the puck with grace..and boy could grace skate. But I kid. I would meet John Glynne again years later, first in our high school rivalry with Hamden High(Jonathan Quick's hometown) and again later in college where I would break his leg at the University of Vermont with a hip check. He went on to have a minor pro career in the AHL and in Europe. I hear it was derailed by drugs.

So I went to the games every weekend with Mike and his Dad. Once I had a chance to go ice skating at Ingall's Rink at Yale. I'd never skated in my life and it was not much fun. I couldn't get going. It made no sense to my brain. I had no control of my feet. Thank goodness for the boards.

There was nothing about that experience that made me want to do it again. I'm not sure where I got them, but I ended up with a cheapo pair of ice skates. Winter was coming and the lake would soon be frozen. Big deal though. I couldn't skate. I'm not even sure I wanted to.

Our house was a split level redwood and slate rock structure with an upstairs in the back overlooking the lake. There was an open terrace upstairs above the kitchen and living area. We've since had it enclosed and is now what we call, even forty years later, the "new room".

One day late that autumn the terrace, which was covered in pebbles was submerged in a puddle from the rain. It had no railing, just a flat top roof with nothing to protect you from walking or falling right over the edge to the ground below. A cold snap turned the entire pool of rainwater into a solid sheet of ice....yay! A second story skating rink with no boards.

I got my skates and put them on. No one was home. Just me, the skates, the ice and a fifteen foot drop.

I shuffled onto the ice and waddled out to the middle. I pointed one foot, turned the other and pushed. I slid a few feet and tried it back the other way, making sure all the while to stay as far away from the edge as possible. Well, just like that, I learned to skate. It clicked. The mechanics made perfect sense. I would never be the same.

Soon thereafter the lake froze and we went out. I had it down in no time. I learned to stop, both ways. I learned to turn, to skate backwards. And I was hooked.

I bought a stick. A Northland Pro, a heavy piece of lumber with a straight blade and as was soon to be discovered, it was held together at the toe with a nail. Next I bought gloves, then shin pads, a helmet and a jersey. I sent away to the Gerry Cosby Company at Madison Square Gardens and got a #7, Rod Gilbert Rangers jersey. I had to iron on the letters and numbers. I spent many hours pouring through hockey equipment catalogs dreaming about getting new gear.

To be continued.....

Oy Vey

2013-05-11T22:19:00.000-07:00

I grew up on a farm in the South. The farm was an eight hundred acre cattle ranch, black angus primarily. The South was the Florida Panhandle. Flora-bama to some.

We were the only Jewish family in the county. Mr. Sheinberg owned the shoe store in town. Apparently he was a single gentleman. I have no idea how he ended up in Bonifay, Florida. What ever you imagine a redneck southern hick town to be, that was Bonifay and then some. We had a "colored" section of town. There was a rodeo every October. The parade for the rodeo winded through the one main street of town. We had something called an "all-night sing" which was a gospel marathon that went all night long. I remember being in homes where old grandmothers were quilting. We fished and hunted. We spent time in the colored section at the home of our "help". We referred to Anna as our maid. But she was much more than that. Anna was family, very much a parent in many ways. I remember the smell of fried chicken and cornbread. Grits and turnip greens. Foods I enjoy to this day.

My siblings and I are all three years apart. My older brother is three years my senior and my sister is three years younger. We were shipped off to temple, or what we called Sunday school with Anna or one of the other babysitters who took care of us. I have no idea why we went to temple on Sunday's. More often than not we went to Baptist or Methodist churches with my friends in Bonifay. As I understand it, most activities in the Jewish religion occur on Friday nights and Saturday. This was early and mid-sixties. Our parents were busy with their friends. We had our own lives. Anyway, we would head off to Sunday school about an hour away every Sunday. I remember very little of the experience. I remember none of the religious aspect of it. I went until I was twelve when we ended up moving to Connecticut.

My father had been a cattle farmer since moving to Florida fifteen years earlier. Ivy league educated, he had the option of going into the film and entertainment business where his father, my grandfather was the president of a large movie studio. My parents were married and moved to Florida where my dad wanted to try his hand at farming. His wedding gift from my grandfather was the farm. In addition he was a lover of jazz, specifically dixieland. He had lots of friends from "up north"(the New York area) who would come down and visit for weeks at a time. They would jam out in the barn until the wee morning hours. Banjos and Basses. Trumpets and Trombones. Drums and washboards. Oh and kazoos.

So, after fifteen years of farming my father decided he wanted to move back north and become a full time musician. He moved in the late spring/early summer of 1967 while we were still in school. Once school let out we followed suit. We moved to Gulf Beach in Milford, Connecticut for the summer until my parents found and bought a house on Lake Phipps in West Haven at the end of the summer. I was heartbroken and angry to be torn from the comfort of my life and my friends in Bonifay. I held on to this anger for years until I had a chance to go back as an adult. What was I thinking? Getting out of there was the best thing that ever happened to me.

Anyway, back to the temple thing. I never felt "Jewish". If anything I was more "Jew-ISH". I had Jewish roots and a heritage. But it was not a part of my upbringing or my culture. My folks had no commitment to religion. Anything we did was as a token for my grandfather who was both an Orthodox Jew and......well, let's be honest....wealthy.

And so it was. I was 12, going on 13. I would be bar mitzvahed. This was not up for debate. My entire understanding of the Jewish experience stemmed from a little movie grandfather's company made called "The Ten Commandments". So it was off to Rabbi Mirsky in West Haven for bar mitzvah lessons...Hebrew lessons? I don't know. Whatever, it was as foreign to me then as it is now.

I don't recall going to the Rabbi for that long. I do remember, not understanding anything. Not a word. But before I knew it, I was planning my bar mitzvah. My mom tells me that the Rabbi had to search Jewish law high and low to find a loophole that allowed me to be bar mizvahed on a Sunday. There we go again. For some reason, probably because I had no idea what the hell I was doing, I wasn't able to have my bar mitzvah on a Friday or Saturday.

The day of my bar mitzvah was the single most humiliating day of my life. All I recall is stammering through the Hebrew words, written in English on the page in front of me. I had to wear a suit. It was awkward and I was embarrassed by the entire affair. I can still see the look of horror on the faces of my family and friends as I bumbled my way through the text. To top it off, I, who had already been told many times how awful my singing voice was had to chant the entire service. It was cruel and unusual punishment. Not just for me, but for my parents, my siblings, my friends. I can only imagine what Rabbi Mirsky was thinking.

I recently had the opportunity to visit my parents in West Haven. They live in the same house on the lake where I grew up. I was talking to my dad and I asked him, "Hey Dad, no details...please, but was my bar mitzvah as painful for you as it was for me.

My father is going to turn 84 this year. His simple answer, with a chuckle was, "No fucking way!".

Thanks Dad. That's pretty much what I thought.

So What's Not To Love?

2013-04-29T03:08:00.001-07:00

A number of years ago I had a client who was a lawyer with the City Attorney's office. I'll call him David C.

David and I got along very well. He was a commodities trader. We spoke numerous times throughout the trading day and we would meet nearly every afternoon after the market closed for a five mile run through Balboa park.

We would speak right at the close of the market, then I would hustle over to the San Diego Athletic Club to change into my running gear. I'd then jog up to our meeting spot and we would set off on our run.

We shared many stories and conversations during those hour long runs. The topics of our chats ranged from Seinfeld to Sisyphus. One day we were sharing war stories about our fathers. Mine was getting on in age at the time. His had passed away a few years ago.

Both of us had what you might call temperamental Jewish fathers. My dad, for example, had on a number of occasions lost patience with waiters in restaurants. I shared with David that I had many memories of following my dad as he lost his temper and stormed out of any number of eateries. The issue was always the same. My father would request his beer be served at the same time as the main course. Any time the waiter would bring the beer early my dad would get pissed and we would all follow in tow as he stormed out. It was his contention that this was the establishment's way of trying to sell him more liquor.

Now David told me his own story of his father's crotchety ways.

His father was a short stout man. Retired from owning and running parking lots in Los Angeles. In his later years of retirement he'd purchased a meal card at a local restaurant, also in LA. He paid $100 for ten meals. Half way through the allotted number of meals the restaurant owner, who was also an attorney informed the elder Mr. C that due to his rude and abusive behavior he was no longer welcome to eat there. The owner refunded the balance of the unused meal card, $50.

Mr. C demanded not only the amount offered, but the entire $100. The owner refused. Offended by this action Mr. C called his son, my friend and client, David in San Diego. Remember, David too, is an attorney.

David, knowing all to well his father's ornery ways curtly dismissed his father's claims and told him to drop it, he didn't have a case.

A few years later Mr. C passed away. The matter was all but forgotten.

That is until one night David was home watching TV. He happened to be watching The People's Court. You know…Judge Wapner and Doug Llewellen.

Dave sat there casually watching this cheesy show when all of a sudden his jaw dropped and his eyes bulged. To his horror and disbelief, like watching a slow motion train wreck out comes the now deceased Mr. C and the attorney/restauranteur for the next case.

David could not believe what he was seeing.

Judge Wapner proceeds to hear the case, first from Mr. C's side then from the proprietor's. if you've ever seen The People's Court you may recall Jydge Wapner always held a soft spot in his heart for the elderly. And so it went. The judge heard out Mr. C's side of things patiently then he turned to the younger defendant for his side. This guy starts going on about how rude and abusive his customer was and why he booted him from his place. The judge became irritated saying this had no bearing on the case and quickly awarded the case to Mr. C.

Upon exiting the court room Mr. C was met, as was the custom by the ever friendly Doug Llewellen. "So, Mr. C, congratulations. What would you like to say about this case and the verdict?"

My friend is sitting with his mouth wide open there in the darkness of his den as his now deceased father looks at the camera and says, "my son is a big shot lawyer in San Diego. He told me I didn't have a case and I should forget it."

I'd say David easily had me beat with this one.

I'm Going In

2013-04-18T16:29:00.000-07:00

I'm Going In

My folks are getting along in age. They both turn 84 this year. Both are fiercely independent. My family, like most, is strange. At least from my perspective.

My dad recently tripped and fell on the walkway coming or going to get some leftovers my mom left in the car. Nothing broken. Banged his knee up a bit. He spent the next few weeks dealing with the aftermath. Water on the knee. Some fever and chills. Possible infection. There were multiple doctor and urgent care visits. Crutches were needed to get around the house including going up down the stairs.

I think this incident frightened my mom. She called me to discuss having me fly back to Connecticut. I think she was scared this may be the start of a decline from which there might be no recovery.

Fortunately he seems to have healed up pretty well. But the wheels were set on motion for me to come back to spend some time helping them out with other issues. One being providing home care tech support. The other dealing with some estate planning issues.

Yesterday I caught a flight to Boston, rented a car and drive down to stay at my sister's in Rhode Island. I got up this morning, walked on the beach with my sister, Rachel and her husband, John and NAIA. I took a Yin Yoga class and then headed down to West Haven, CT. I pulled over at a funky little seafood place and grabbed a lobster roll and a birch beer.

I'm heading to my parents house on Lake Phipps now. I'm going in. I'm not sure what to expect other than that this should be interesting. I'm here to help them with what ever they need help with.

As my brother-in-law said, "this is the beginning of a process".

These updates will be about family, aging, coping and eating.

I'll keep you appraised.

Its A Small World

2013-03-06T10:30:00.001-08:00

It's a Small World After All

Driving home last night I found myself listening to a show on NPR about "coincidences". They had asked listeners to submit their stories of coincidences and after receiving thousands of submissions they were telling the more interesting ones.

The bigger question was; Do coincidences have any larger meaning or are they just happenstance?

There was a story of a guy who asked his friend, a girl, to text him a picture he could use as a sample screensaver for his new phone. She sent him a picture of herself as a 4 year old child from 18 years earlier. In the background of the picture was this guys grandmother. The photo was taken on the other side of the country where the girl was vacationing as was the guys grandma. Small world.

Another story involved a guy who was interested in asking a girl out. He randomly noticed a dollar bill he found with her name, Esther, written on it. He framed the bill and gave it to her on their first date. She looked shocked but said Nothing. Turns out Esther had previously, a few years earlier, been frustrated in love and decided to write her name on about a dozen bills with the thought that one day her soul mate would find one of the bills and return it to her. They've been married for 14 years. She only told him the story after they were married.

Finally there was a young couple planning their wedding. The groom to be was showing his future mother in law his old family photos. The mother in law said nothing but had realized she had once been engaged to the boys late father but turned him down because her father had arranged her marriage to another man. This happened to be an immigrant family where this wasn't that unusual.

There were other stories, but this report got me thinking about coincidences of my own.

I recalled a particular evening I once spent in New York City. I experienced a pair of rare coincidences that night. The thing about "the city" is that its huge and there are gazillions of people, pretty much all of who are strangers. Years ago I once ran into an acquaintance at a New York deli. Also, one time we were heading to a hockey tournament in the San Fernando Valley and as we pulled into our hotel parking lot we ran into friends who were visiting the Guggenheim Museum. Then there was the time last summer we were driving back from a hockey tournament in Phoenix and I bumped into an old friend at a gas station in the middle of the desert.

But New York City?

About seven years ago my business partner, Scott and I went to New York. We were being recruited by one of the major wirehouse brokerages firms. First class accommodations. They put us up at the W Hotel in Times Square.

The first evening we had drinks at the bar in the W. Scott, befriended the doorman. Pretty quiet night.

We had our meetings the next day and decided to head downtown for dinner. We caught a cab and took the forty block ride. I forget the name of the restaurant, but it was a fun place, buzzing with energy, good food and I recall it was noisy. I got a phone call from my wife early in the meal. In order to hear her over the din I took it outside to the sidewalk. (I just recalled the restaurant. It is Balthalzar on Spring St. In lower manhattan. http://yelp.com/biz/KgpOYAG-r_eDsQXFXt0nnQ)

A cab pulled up and a woman got out and inadvertently hit me with the car door. It was no big deal. It was really just a nudge but she was so sorry. She got out and profusely apologized. I let her know I was fine and it was no problem. We crossed paths a few times during the remainder of the meal and I would pretend to duck each time we crossed paths.

The meal ends. Scott and I decide to walk back uptown toward Times Square. We walked to Little Italy and had cannolis for dessert. Scott went to a tarot card reader and was given some interesting advice. Something about the letter M being very important to his future. Morgan Stanley was the firm recruiting us at the time. We took this as a sign. We ended up going with UBS.

Eventually we hopped a cab for the remaining twenty some odd blocks back to Times Square. We got to the hotel and went upstairs to the bar for a drink.

Remember, we are forty blocks away from the restaurant and it was three hours later. Near midnight. In New York City.

We get out of the elevator to enter the bar and who do we run into? The lady from the restaurant who hit me with the taxi door.

Small world. We say hello, have a good laugh and go our separate ways. Now I'm married to her. No wait, that's not what happened. I never saw her again. Or if I did I wouldn't recognize her anyway. So that was the first coincidence of the evening.

Scott and I headed downstairs. The W Hotel has a club downstairs. You have to go down to the street then go downstairs from there to enter the club. We get in line and Scott recognizes the doorman from the previous night. The one he'd "befriended" at the bar upstairs. The doorman recognized us and waved us ahead. So now we are in. He says he'll take us to the VIP section. Yay. Never been to one of those. He leads us through the dark club to an area cordoned off by a velvet rope. It was really dark.

It's midnight. In the basement level at a hip club. In the middle of New York. It's very dark. My eyes are still adjusting. The music is pounding. The only thing I recall seeing was the ample cleavage of a lady standing in line in front of us as we were entering the VIP section. As my eyes adjusted to the light I lifted my view to realize that the person attached to the cleavage was the (now ex-) wife of a good friend from San Diego. I looked to the left of her to see standing next to her was my buddy, a hockey pal. He was also my dentist and my son's roller hockey coach.

Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, they walk into mine.

So we all had a good laugh at the coincidence. Turns out they had a cruise scheduled with their teenaged kids but none of them wanted to go so my friends decided on a quick getaway to Manhattan…to come see me I guess.

So, there it is. It's a small world after all. Two coinkydinks in the big apple on the same night. I don't see any larger meaning in any of this other than having this story to tell. Cue the music. "It's a small world blah dee blah". Have fun getting that tune out of your head.

Piper's Tail-Can A Good Deed Go Unpunished?

2013-01-13T14:45:00.001-08:00

It's Sunday afternoon. We've been through a lot in the past week or so.

My wife and I were having dinner in Hillcrest last Friday. We went into the dessert restaurant where our daughter works after dinner to say hello. When we came out of the place we found ourselves standing on the corner next to a homeless man. He was wearing a camoflauge jacket and a wool hat. Nestled in his arm was the cutest little terrier puppy wrapped in a white towel. I said to him, "cute puppy". He came back with, "you want her?". I told him no thanks and we crossed the street.

About a half of a block away, we looked at each other. Kyle saw the look in my eyes and told me it was my call. So we did an about turn and caught up with the guy. I asked him if he really wanted to get rid of the puppy. "Not for free...." was his response. We have a dog. We love her. We are happy with her. We don't want or need another dog....but we just thought that we really needed to get this dog to a good home and she would have a better chance with us than with the homeless man.

Piper On Kyle's lap

I asked him how much he wanted for her. He said $50. No thank you. I started to walk away. I'm a terrible negotiator. But I wasn't negotiating. I didn't want this puppy. I was walking away. He shot back with, "ok, you can have her for $30". I gave him two $20 bills and took the little cutie in the white blanket he had her wrapped in. I know, I'm a sucker...I was feeling charitable and did not yet realize this was a scam.

First picture in the car on the way home from rescuing her

So we had a puppy....cute little thing. Not a lot of energy, shaking like a leaf. But a little love. We took her home and introduced her to our Golden Retriever, Roo. Roo is six years old. She was curious but not all that interested. Puppy was "listless". We have a neighbor who is a veterinarian. She took a look at her and said she had worms but appeared in ok health.

We started thinking about what to name her. The first name Kyle came up with was Addie, then Piper. We went back and forth. My family had a Siamese cat named Addie, when I was a kid. I liked the name and argued for that. We named her Piper.

We put Piper in Roo's crate and she slept through the night without a peep. The next morning, Saturday, I took her to the vet's at noon. They examined her, determined that she had worms. Gave her a shot and a pill for it. She got her 1st set of vaccines. I was now out $200.

For the rest of the day, I told everyone I saw about Piper. It was time to find her a home. I posted pictures on Facebook. When I ran into people with little terrier type dogs at the dog park, I told them the story and showed Piper's pictures.

Roo showing some interest in this little thing

All afternoon and Saturday evening, Piper showed energy, playfullness, appetite. She had a couple of healthy poops. That was a great sign. It looked like the worm medicine was working just fine. Again, she slept in Roo's crate through the night.

Sunday morning we got up and decided to head to one of our favorite breakfast spots in town, Village 631 in the East Village area of San Diego. They are dog friendly and have great coffee. We packed up Piper in a little basket with a blanket. Roo hopped in the car and off we went. When we got to the restaurant, people went gaga over Piper. Everyone came and oohed and ahhed at what an adorable puppy she was. We told everyone the story of how we rescued(bought) her from a homeless man on the corner of 5th and University in Hillcrest.

Anastasia & Scott meet Piper

One of the couples showed more than casual interest in Piper. A cute couple fell head and heals in immediate love with her. Just like that Piper had huge fans...more than fans..owners, parents, a forever home. They had been talking about getting a puppy for a year and we thinking, mission accomplished. We did our intended good deed. We rescued this little puppy from an uncertain life on the streets and got her into a loving forever home. Their names are Anastasia and Scott. They are saints. They even paid me back for some of the cash I'd paid for the vet's visit.

Later on Sunday evening we were settling in for some fresh Downton Abbey. I texted Anastasia to see how the little pup was doing. I received a reply that changed everything. What had been up to this moment a happily ever after puppy tail, in an instant turned into a nightmare.

The text said that Piper had been throwing up constantly and she was struggling. It asked if I had gotten her tested for Parvo. Parvo, the deadliest, most frightening word any pet owner or pet lover will ever hear other than perhaps missing or hit by a car.

Parvo, instant death. Parvo, hundreds if not thousands of dollars down the drain. Parvo, oh crap.

I immediately felt grief for the puppy and just terribly that this nice couple we'd just met and was so happy to have Piper were now having to deal with this awful situation. I know what they were feeling and worse, I knew what they would be going through. We've lost two wonderful

Pets to parvo. One of the pets was a four month old kitten who contracted the feline version of the disease. Three days and $3000 later with no relief but plenty of expense in sight we decided to have her put to sleep.

I was certain this was Pipers and her owners fate, a quick painful death along with a pile of bills and an unbearable amount of heartache.

Sharing germs?

Suddenly my sadness shifted to pure dread. This disease riddled puppy, who we 'd rescued from this horrible man had spent two full days in our home. Roo's home. The Parvo virus is not only deadly, and extremely contagious, it is also amazingly resilient. The only way to get rid of it is to either throw away or bleach everything Piper came in contact with. She was nestled on our laps and on our chests. She slept for two nights in Roo's crate on her bedding.

Roo is six years old and fully vaccinated. She has been since we got her as a puppy. But my fear took over and I was consumed with visions of her getting the disease and us having to deal with it. I was petrified. Downton Abbey was on tv but I was frantically googling to find out the chances of my vaccinated, adult dog contracting parvo from a puppy.

So there were two simultaneous worst case scenarios racing through my imagination. I went online and scheduled appointments for both Piper and Roo at my vets for 9am.

I took Roo in at 9 o'clock but Piper's mom couldn't make it at that time. She, herself was sick and couldn't get there. She was going to see how Piper was doing and bring her in later.

So $271 later Roo was all tested and up to date with her shots. It was only three days since she came in contact with Piper and we didn't even know for sure if the puppy even had Parvo. It's possible this was all due to the worms. It was all conjecture based on her behavior and symptoms at this point. The vet assured me Roo was at very low risk of getting sick.

Vet's Estimate for one night's treatment

I felt a bit better about Roo and I was hoping I'd hear from Piper's owners that she was doing better. I was at Costco later that day shopping for new bedding for Roo's crate when I received this text.

It was an estimate from the vet. They took Piper to my vet where she'd gotten her shots on Saturday. The vet tested her for parvo and determined she did have it. The estimate, for the first night of treatment was nearly $1100. It would be about $500-$800 for each subsequent night of treatment.

I immediately called Anastasia. She was so sad. She had fallen so deeply in love with Piper and now this. They didn't know what to do. They were quite amazing. They had every right to be angry with me. To put all of this back on me. But they didn't. They took complete ownership of this entire mess. Piper was their baby and they were going to deal with it.

All I could see was the bills piling up into the thousands to be followed by a not quick enough death. There would be heart ache, anger and debt.

Piper, now Named Pumpkin resting at her new home

It's bad enough the disease is so horrible. But to be compounded by the expense is just tragic. I called the humane society and found out about an organization that will help out with the medical costs of pets. But it would take time to complete the forms. Time we didn't have. I immediately drove back to the vets office hoping to catch Anastasia or Scott. I had offered to help with the expense. And the first thing I could do was to return the money they had given me to help cover Piper's original vaccines.

When I got to the pet clinic they weren't there. The clerk at the desk thought they had skipped town. Great! But this wasn't even close to the case. Piper's new parents would never abandon her. Scott had simply left to go get Anastasia at work. I put the cash in an envelope and left it at the desk for them.

They returned to the vets still not knowing what to do. They took Piper home. We were in touch all night by phone and text.

Parvo home care kit: $200. Mispelled Pumpkin

The next morning, Tuesday I got a text telling me they took her in to their vet last night and got an estimate that was about half of what mine had presented. But later they took Piper to the most expensive animal treatment option on the planet, the 24 hour emergency animal hospital.

Lo and behold, the vet there asked them if they would consider treating her with a parvo home care kit. $200. Wait, what? That exists? Hell yeah!

Anastasia treating and loving Pumpkin

So they got her hooked up and have been treating her at home all week and she's been responding like a champ. Suddenly this shifted back to hope and joy and love and caring. It's now Sunday morning, a full week since the nightmare started and we are full of joy that this little critter is making it. I've been getting texts and pictures since Wednesday that have each been happier and more optimistic than the previous.

Healthy Puppy! Happy Parents!!

By the way they renamed her Pumpkin Waffles, Pumpkin for short. That's what they had for breakfast the day they met her. Pumpkin. Cute.

So for now this has returned to being a happy story. We aren't completely out of the woods, but Pumpkin is getting better, stronger and healthier each day.

I heard a number of times when this turned south, that no good deed goes unpunished. I refuse to accept that.

My 76 Year Old Friend Running Around The World

2012-12-22T17:25:00.000-08:00

Bob Rebello’s Worldwide Marathons For Kidney Cancer Newsletter –December 2012

In memory of John Rebello

If you knew John you would have liked him

“He was a good son, a good brother, a good husband, a good father – and a good friend”

American Cancer Society’s kidney cancer statistics for the year 2012

About 64,770 new cases of kidney cancer [40,250 men and 24,520 women] will occur in the U.S.

Worldwide over 100,000 will die of kidney cancer and over 200,000 will be living with kidney cancer

The window of opportunity for me to meet my 1999 commitment to raise $100k for kidney cancer research by 12/31/012 is rapidly closing. With only 14 days remaining I must raise $9,274.00 for me to meet the $100k commitment that I made to the team of doctors at the Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center who have dedicated themselves to finding a cure for kidney cancer.

As I was, when I started my charity in 1999, I am very confident that I will meet my commitment to raise $100k by 12/31/012. I am confident because of the fact that in just the last 2 years my charity has brought worldwide awareness about kidney cancer to over 9,500 people from over 100 countries and all of the 50 U.S. States. Over the last 2 years my website has had 7,000 visits from over 100 countries and all 50 US States; I have 2,400 followers on Twitter, and 190 followers on Facebook. I believe that within the 9,500 worldwide followers there are 188 generous and caring people who will donate $50.00 each over the next 14 days to get me to the $100k by 12/31/012. If you have already donated – thank you – If you have not donated yet I would appreciate it if you would consider joining the 1,149 people who have donated to this worthy cause over the last 14 years.

To Donate By Check:

Make the check payable to Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center and mail to:

Bob Rebello
1399 9th Avenue #918
San Diego, CA 92101

To Donate By Credit Card:

If you’d like to make a donation by credit card go to my website www.bobrebello and click on Donate

Beth Israel Deaconess Medical Center’s Tax ID # is 042-103-881.

You can follow the donation status by going to my website [www.bobrebello.com], Twitter [http://twitter.com/bobrebello] and Facebook [http://facebook.com/worldwidemarathons].

The only other 1999 commitment that I have not met– but I will meet – is to run more training and race miles then the circumference of the earth [24,901.5] by 12/31/012. As of this date I have run 24,718 miles and I only need to run 183.5 miles over the next 14 days [13 miles/day] to meet my commitment. It is going to be very difficult for me to meet the commitment as my right knee that I injured in my May 2012 Copenhagen marathon has not healed yet. You can follow my daily miles run and how many miles remaining before I reach the 24,901.5 miles run on Facebook [http://facebook.com/Worldwidemarathons] and Twitter [http://twitter.com/bobrebello].

December 2, 2012 “Surprise Marathon” - St. Croix Virgin Islands Marathon

On December 2^nd I finished my December “surprise’ marathon, my 19^th and final marathon for my charity, which was held on the beautiful Island of St. Croix, Virgin Islands. It was a very difficult marathon for me to finish due to my knee that I injured in the Copenhagen marathon in May. While I was in St. Croix I had the pleasure of staying with my good friends Larry and Louise Williams. I plan on finishing my St. Croix marathon story by the end of next week and when it is finished I will put it on my Blog and my website.

Listed below are my corporate sponsors who have generously donated their “Best in Class” products and services to help me meet my commitments. I greatly appreciate their continued support over the years – thanks to each of you - I could not meet my commitments without your support.

Corporate Sponsors: Asics, Riggs Creative Group, Road Runner Sports, National Franchise Services, Wigwam Mills, Medicept,

Napolitano Real Estate, BluRose Media, Phase [n], Sole Luna Café, Enjoy,

Bob Rebello

On The East Coast

2012-11-29T21:32:00.000-08:00

My journey continues. During my trip to Mexico I was the recipient of lots of recommendations for ways to improve my back pain. My sister, Rachel sent me a link that resonated. This link takes you to an article, a review of the book, The Anatomy of Hope by Jerome Groopman. Dr. Groopman takes you on his journey to learn and teach how to use hope in the treatment of pain and illness. His own quest led him to Dr. James Rainville , a physician in Boston who runs a spine treatment program.

After my trip to visit the shaman ended abruptly with his untimely demise, I read up on Dr. Rainville. He seems to be doing some interesting work that is somewhat counter intuitive. From what I understood, rather than doing anything to reduce or eliminate the pain surgically or with meds, Dr. Rainville recommends going right at the pain using aggressive physically therapy. If you read the articles you will see that his approach is based on research and data, not faith or magic. His approach is to strengthen the spine, while realizing that the pain is a reality but not an obstacle. We all have various levels of pain thresholds, where we perceive pain, and pain tolerance, our ability to cope with the pain. I happen to have a very low pain threshold. I experience the pain at levels were others may not feel it. And I have a high tolerance for pain. I've been able to function despite chronic and sometimes severe pain.

Many of you may not know that three years ago after my sixth spinal surgery, I went on a medical leave from work and then onto long term disability. The surgeries were the result of a life time of wear and tear from my sports, football and ice hockey, as a younger man. My first spinal surgery happened when I was just out of college at the age of 23. The last five have occurred since 2001.

This trip to Boston has been quite a bit of work. Big difference between this one and my trip to see the shaman a few months back. If I think about it, that trip was fun and interesting, but really had me putting all my faith in another. This trip is hard and grueling but has me taking all of the responsibility for my own healing.

The schedule has been as follows: My daughter and I flew into Buffalo to watch my son play hockey over the weekend before Thanksgiving. The following Monday I had my appointment with Dr. Rainville. He was pretty amazing. The appointment took the better part of an hour. He asked me for my history, then he reviewed my recent MRIs. He showed me what he was looking at on the films. He constantly referred to research while debunking numerous myths about back pain. He tested my strength and movement and shared his approach. He, and the visiting doctor who was observing, were pretty amazed and amused at my surgical history. He's not a big believer in surgery.

The bottom line to the appointment was this: I have back pain. I should get myself in the best possible condition with exercise and I need to make my life about something bigger than pain. Pretty simple. The time spent with him was very much like a mini Landmark Forum, if you know what that is.

With that he prescribed me to go to his physical therapy facility 2x a week for the next 3 weeks where I will be taught to stretch and strengthen my spine. His back boot camp is normally a six week program. I'm traveling and can only stay for 3 weeks. Lisa Childs is the senior physical therapist. She and Dr. Rainville founded the Spine Center at the New England Baptist Hospital in 1997. I met with Lisa the day after my appointment with Dr. Rainville. She spent an hour and a half with me. As she walked me through my stretching exercises and some of the exercise equipment I am working out on, she also debunked many back pain myths citing research. For instance, one of the exercises they have me doing is to lift milk cartons off of a shelf, but using my back rather than bending my knees. The research shows no difference in pain by lifting while bending your knees or not...and using your back contributes to strengthening it.

After my first session with Lisa, I headed to NYC for Thanksgiving with my family then up to Vermont to watch my son's hockey tournament. I was stiff and sore from the exercise, but where I would normally just hole up and stay in bed, I didn't let the pain stop me. I was not very good at doing my stretches during the holiday. A lot of eating and traveling got in the way, but Lisa said something that stuck and made me do more than I would have otherwise. She said to consider my home stretching like brushing my teeth. I always make time to brush my teeth. Just make it a priority and stay focused on it. So I did. I give myself a C+ for the weekend, but that was better than I would have done.

I've had two more session this week and I'll go twice more next week before heading home. Lisa is training me so that I can go to the gym when I get home and continue on with the program. She's pretty amazing. She called me on Saturday during Thanksgiving weekend to see how I was doing. I'm to be in contact with her when I'm on my own in San Diego. She is encouraging me to come back to Boston to check my progress when I get a chance.

My experience of my pain is shifting. It's still there, but I don't give it the power I did a week and a half ago. I have visions of this approach actually working for me. I can envision sticking with the program, and getting back to a more normal existence. I can picture going back to work, exercising, reffing ice hockey, maybe even playing. How cool would it be if I could swing a golf club and play a round of golf with my buddy David. This guy has nothing to do with Dr. Rainville, but everything to do with inspiration and imagining what is possible if I don't stop.

Walking the Dog

2012-09-25T14:21:00.003-07:00

Whenever I walk my golden retriever, Roo, at the park, beach, woods or canyons, when she gets far away and doesn't see me she seems very concerned until she looks up and doesn't see me. Then she spots me and all is well. I'm not sure if she's nervous about losing me or concerned for me that I've lost sight of her. It's kind of endearing either way.

When she pees I give her an enthusiastic "good girl!" She's nearly six. I think she thinks I'm an idiot.

I take Roo to a nursing home on Monday afternoons to visit patients. We had her tested a year to become a therapy dog. She's very calm and people just love to love on her. Every time We visit, when we step out of the elevator onto the second floor the same lady is always there, in her wheelchair, in her house robe in the doorway to her room. Every time I see her she pets Roo and tells me the same thing; "They know! They know who likes them". I always smile and agree with her. "They sure do".

It's such a sad place. The nursing home. It's amazing what a few minutes with a silly dog can do for a person.

Brandon! Well we did it. It only took a week. I put the word out on Saturday night that Brandon was not going to be able to play hockey at SDSU this season due to his family's finances stemming from his dad's stroke. See previous two blog posts for the full story.

The response was inspiring. From the closest friends to the kindest strangers. Hockey people and not. Friends of friends, friends of strangers, hockey coaches, players, teams, rinks, parents and fans.

I went to the Aztecs season opener last Friday night. They won. Brandon played. His parents and twin brothers were there. I met the coach prior to the game and turned over the $1000 plus that I'd collected. I will be delivering most of the balance at the game this Friday night. They play a tough Colorado State team this weekend. Come watch!

It looks like we should come in slightly above our target. If so, any excess will be given to Brandon's parents to help with their bills.

To see the look of appreciation on Brandon's face when he spotted me during warmups made me aware of the miraculous immediate offer to step up by all of you. Pretty cool again. We made a lot of people happy.

Well On Our Way

2012-09-18T09:25:00.001-07:00

Great response to my last post putting out a call to the San Diego hockey community and beyond. As you may recall, our friend Brandon Nevarez, a junior at San Diego State University, was planning to not play hockey for the Aztec's club team this year, after playing hockey every season for most of his life since probably the age of six. Again, this was due to the hardship that has befallen his family due to a massive stroke suffered by his dad a couple of years ago.

I was at a preseason exhibition game last Friday night for the Aztecs. Brandon was playing. I saw his parents and went to say hi. They then told me Brandon was only playing tonight, but would not be able to play this season due to their financial situation stemming from Robert's stroke. By the way, not to embarrass, Robert, but I'm pretty sure he was visited by an angel during his hospital stay. He went in for surgery, experienced a blood clot, which went to his brain. He then fell into a coma, only to then suffer a massive stroke. Robert's life was over. The doctors were saying, if he survived he would surely be brain dead. I was talking to Robert's wife, Barb and she was telling me that they were preparing to have him moved because the facility where he was staying was not authorized to "pull the plug". That's how far gone he was.

And then he woke up! So that was good.

It's been a couple of years and Robert is a living, walking miracle. Things are still difficult for him, but he's an amazing human being, as are his wife and kids.

Anyway, back to the task at hand. I started this fund raising effort the next day after the exhibition game. That was Saturday night. I wasn't sure what to expect, but then Keli, an online Scrabble partner from Canada sent me a message that she would like to donate. Cool. Then a few minutes later I got a message from Phyliss in Bonifay who offered to send a check. Then Paul, whose son plays defense for SDSU with Brandon pledged $100. Then Greg, a dentist from Scripps Ranch and hockey player/dad/coach made a pledge. Next Brian, one of Brandon's youth hockey coaches who now lives in NY State offered to contribute $500. Paula, Karen and Mike, all hockey parents from San Diego contributed. Dan, another Canadian Scrabble friend and Montreal Habs fan donated. Marty, Greg and Tim, all San Diego adult league players chipped in. Larry, Jamie, Skyler and Debi...all friends and hockey families who grew up with Brandon were next. I've heard from the professional San Diego Gulls All-time scoring leader. Dave, who's daughter plays D1 hockey for Union College and son is also the goaltender for the Aztecs is making a meaningful donation. (just got back from my mail box-Checks from Frances, Danny & Monica, Mike and Paula!!! Thanks you guys!)

Last night I contacted Brandon to let him know what was happening. I asked him how would he like to play this year. He responded that unfortunately he was not going to be able to. I broke the news to him about the generosity of you all and he was speechless. The first thing he said was how could he thank everyone. So we've made a young man, his family, his teammates and his coach very happy.

The season and home opener is this Friday at the Kroc Center at 9pm vs. Long Beach. Come out and support the Aztecs and Brandon(#18) and please keep sending money!!!! Still need about $1000.

Update: Tuesday morning, 9 am. I just called Brandon's parents. I wanted to make sure it was ok with them that I disclosed the above story about Robert. They hadn't heard yet about what we are doing here, so I got to break the news to them. They were stunned. I asked them what they were doing Friday night. Nothing. How about going to the hockey game. Well, since Brandon isn't playing they aren't going...What if I was to tell you Brandon is playing.....ta da!! So we'll see the whole family at the game.

Hope to see you too.

A Bit Out of the Ordinary

2012-09-15T23:20:00.001-07:00

So, I posted this on facebook earlier and we've gotten a great response. Some of my friends were asking if I could post it so they could share this with some of their friends to help out with this cause....so please excuse the break in my normal blogging while I share this with my friends and friends of my friends:

To the San Diego hockey community and anyone else who might be interested. Your help would be greatly appreciated. We have a friend, a kid who that our son grew up playing hockey with on the San Diego Junior Gulls. His name is Brandon Nevarez. Brandon and his family have no idea I am making this request.

Brandon's dad, Robert, had a massive stroke a couple of years ago. Robert fell into a coma and was days away from having the plug pulled. He made a miraculous recovery and is up and about. But the family is strapped. Brandon plays hockey for San Diego State University. This is his junior year. SDSU is a club team playing ACHA DII hockey. Brandon is unable to play this year due to family finances. I wanted to do my part and see if I could help raise the $2200 needed to allow him to play this season.

I've asked if anyone might know of a fundraising website I might use to help collect the funds. But in the meantime, people are sending checks to my address at: 3625 India St #301, San Diego, CA 92103 and making them out to SDSU Hockey and writing Brandon Nevarez in the memo field. Some people are comfortable sending the money directly to my paypal account. If you wish to use paypal, send me your email address and let me know how much you'd like to contribute and I will have an invoice emailed to you so you can handle it that way. Pretty simple.

Thanks a ton. I would love to help Brandon out. At this point he and his family are unaware I'm making this request, but they will know soon. Hard to keep this quiet.

I put this on facebook earlier this evening and we are already at over $800. If I end up with more than we need, I will give the funds directly to the Nevarez family to help out with their finances.

Thanks for your generosity.

Steve Balaban
(cosmo)

Don't Talk To Strangers

2012-09-15T10:39:00.004-07:00

It's 102 degrees in San Diego today. Nice relief from yesterday's 106. There were three little kids, brothers I'm sure, waiting for their parents who were in line at the coffee bar. All three had in the same San Diego Padres caps and Oceanside t-shirts. I said something to them but none responded. Ah, their parents taught them well, don't talk to strangers. How's that gonna work out for them? Assuming they are never kidnapped and survive childhood, how are they going to succeed in life where most people you meet are strangers? Oh well, their problem.

It seems I inspired a friend if mine who has back pain to do something about it. I stopped by my friend, Susan's house the other day. She read my blog and followed me on my journey to Mexico. She was very excited to share with me a new back treatment she discovered. It's called "the M.E.L.T method". Here is a link:

http://www.meltmethod.com/about

I'm not sure what MELT stands for, but it involves rolling on a foam roll to achieve spinal decompression and strengthen your core There's a good YouTube video on the website. I've tried it and it seems to provide some relief. I found a place called Blossom Pilates in Hillcrest that has classes in it. Also, there is an instructor at the Scripps Ranch swim club who gives classes.

I stopped by Blossom Pilates yesterday and scheduled a MELT session for Monday. Hopefully Debbie, the instructor, stays out of harms way until then. I'll let you know how it turns out.

Off topic but, I'm not a big fan of Tupperware. Sure it does its job just fine. It's when it's off the clock that it bugs me. I don't know about your house, but we've never had a good way to store our Tupperware. It's always a pain to try to match up the tub with the right sized lid. I hate fishing it out of the pantry closet. I hate pulling it out of the dishwasher and putting it away. I try to let others deal with it when possible. Sorry Kyle.

Finally, I spend a lot of time following the political discourse in this country. I don't want to make this blog political, so I'll refrain(for as long as I can) from pissing some of you off with my views. They are well known among my Facebook friends. At any rate, I get so frustrated, angry and bemused at "the other side" that I occasionally attempt to elevate the discussion beyond partisan, identity based opinions to the larger picture. It doesn't usually work. This morning I determined to try to see my opponents as their highest and best truth/self. Sadly, for a few that appears to be hateful whackos.

Hope and Change!

2012-09-06T10:31:00.001-07:00

I've never had much faith in hope. It occurs to me a simplistic, positive thinking, mind over matter that somehow excuses one of not taking action or responsibility.

I didn't particularly intend for this blog to be about my back pain. However, it is almost always on my mind. I've been through just about all the standard therapies and then some. I started with a major surgery soon after graduating from college. That was followed with my early adulthood spiritual quest. Among other spiritual disciplines I explored Rolfing, acupuncture, chiropractic, yoga, tai chi, certain let's say-medicines, long distance running and cycling.

Fast forward to the last dozen years and you can add five additional spinal surgeries, spinal decompression, traction and steroid epidural injections, ACT(active release therapy) etc.

I'd pretty much given up and resigned myself to living out my days with this deteriorating spine. That is until recently with my trip to see the shaman.

So, looking back on my trip to Mexico I am starting to see that the theme was unacknowledged hope. Hoping for a miracle. Hoping for a magical cure. No real action or responsibility. Rather a suspension of skepticism, an openness. It was a fun adventure and I'm glad I went but I can see a hole in the logic. Just saying.

I mentioned getting plenty of generous suggestions and recommendations from friends. Earlier this year my sister, Rachel, emailed me the link to a review of a book called, Anatomy of Hope. I skimmed it but it didn't make much of an impact at the time.

She sent me the link again this week in light of my quest and for whatever reason I was much more open to it his time. You can read the book review here.

This review led me to Dr. James Rainville who has a spine clinic in Boston. Here is an interesting (if you are dealing with back pain) article and youtube video here and here. Dr. Rainville's approach is counter-intuitive. Rather than resting and protecting your back from pain, he runs a "Back Boot Camp" where you aggresively strengthen the muscles of the back with out regard to the pain. Look at the youtube clip for a better explanation.

I think I found my next journey. I'm planning a trip back east this fall to visit family and catch a few of my son's college hockey games. I think I'll include a visit to Dr. Rainville to look into this hope thing.

Update. I called and scheduled an appointment with the good doctor. Should I warn him about my recent history with healers?

Oh yeah, I was visiting a friend the other day and after telling her about my recent near miss with the shaman she offered me a few drops of healing water from Lourdes. So I have that going for me.

Saturday Afternoon

2012-09-01T14:55:00.003-07:00

Lying on the couch Kyle's at work. Roo is wiped out. Every so often I think maybe riding a bike might be good for my back. I give it a try and usually end up paying for it for weeks.

I tried it today. We'll see how it turns out. I took Roo. She was a champ. She ran along side me without a hitch. Meaning without a problem. Of course she was "hitched" with her leash. Anyway, she was very impressive. It was about mile and a half each way. Flat in both directions. We sat and had coffee with friends at Cafe Italia listening to a band play Average White Band, Tower of Power and various other 70s funk and soul.

Anyway we are crashed out, me on the couch and Roo in her crate, watching TV. I just saw one of the most meaningful TV shows in my life. I watched Louis CK's show on demand from this weeks show on FX.

I've been a fan of his for a few years but only just recently discovered his show. It a little bit Seinfeld/Curb-like. Only not Jewish and more realistic, less silly. Sometimes funny, often awkwardly painful.

On this week's episode Louis gets a break, a shot at the big time. The show is shot in a semi, quasi (is there a difference?) reality style format. It follows him in his life and on stage doing his stand up routines. His humor is very personal, occasionally a bit too crude for my liking, but it's very honest.

In this show he is presented with the opportunity of a life time. His reaction and how he deals with it, the way the chairman of CBS makes the offer is one of the most genuine authentic moments I've seen on TV in a long time if not forever.

Here is a link to the main scene: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WPsjN2qQGvE

I have a fascination with stand up comedy. I have a secret fantasy that I might be able to actually be a stand up comedian. I have no real "talent". I can't act and I certainty can't sing. I'm actually banned from singing in my house. I have been for a long time. I even shutter myself when I try.

You may or may not know this, but I have been on a medical leave from my work for over two years due to my back condition. I want to go back to work and if Enrique had lived or my next surgery is successful or if I connect to god directly and heal myself I hope to return to work.

I don't honestly think I could have a successful career doing stand up. For me, standing up might even be a challenge but I think I could have fun and I think I could make people laugh. I did many presentations for my work as a financial advisor over the years and people always laughed at me. And I wasn't trying to be funny.

At any rate, I was thoroughly engaged in the way Louis CK deals with the opportunity to change his life forever. I feel like I'm at that point, albeit without the offer from a major network. But I am at a point where I can choose to continue heading in the direction I'm going or take a chance and deal with the uncertainty of A new challenge. Stay tuned.

Next up, a nap and a quick cleanup so my wife is happy when she returns from a long day of making women happy and beautiful.

Home, the Aftermath

2012-08-30T12:40:00.000-07:00

Home. The aftermath.

Funny going into Bread &Cie, a local bakery, this morning. I was relieved when the cashier spoke to me in English.

There's this Asian lady who must live or work across the street from our loft. I think I see her more than any other human being on the planet besides my immediate family. I've never met her. But I see her all the time. She drives a little green convertible Mazda Miata. I am pretty sure she's never seen me.

I was sitting in the parking lot in my car with Roo, waiting for a space to open up so I could go get a pastry and a coffee. I was at one entrance to the small lot. From the opposite entrance in pulls my neighbor in her green Miata. Next a car's back lights go on, then the white reverse lights. Aha. Someone is leaving. The Miata lady notices, slams her car in reverse and claims the space. Not very neighborly. I toot my horn politely, throw her a WTF shoulder shrug. She notices my agitation and offers to back out, but by then another car was leaving and I politely waved her back into the stolen spot.

I parked and waited in the car listening to a fascinating debate on NPR where Condi Rice's convention speech was being discussed. Just then I felt the presence of a being approaching. Nope, not Hermanito, although I did invite him into my dreams again last night. It was my stranger neighbor apologizing for taking the spot. She approached from behind so we never made eye contact. I was going to introduce myself and tell her we are neighbors but she disappeared. Not magically like a spirit. I just lost sight of her. America is strong on defense. We don't need to attack Iran to prove it.

Next I took Roo, my golden retriever and constant companion to the outside seating area of the bakery/ cafe, hooked her up to a chair at an empty table and went inside to order. When I returned a man was sitting at my table with my dog. He took my table. I guess leaving my 80 lb pup at the table meant nothing.

Without saying a word, I unhooked her leash and moved to another table.

I don't usually get pissed at this kind of stuff. There's always another parking space or table.

I have fantasies of getting pissed and reading stupid people the riot act. But I'm not very good on my feet like that. Give me a few minutes and I always come up with the perfect response for the situation. Never in real time though.

Next time I see my neighbor I'm going to introduce myself.

I've spoken to quite a few people today who followed my adventure in Mexico. Lots of good advice, feedback, offers of other options, names of good doctors etc.

My mom spoke to a spiritual healer and he said the lesson for me was to connect with god directly and I didn't need a medium. Great advice and a conclusion I even came to myself. Problem is I don't think I have quite enough faith for that. Not yet anyway. Well see how that goes. I don't want to offend anyone but I'm not entirely sure of the whole god thing anyway.

What I was enjoying about my journey to see Hermanito was that it didn't require my faith. I was free to be skeptical. It would either work or it wouldn't.

I imagine a large portion of people who followed my experience thought it was pretty dumb. I know I would. But given the serendipitous way that the opportunity unfolded, believing or not, I knew I couldn't pass up the chance. Too bad serendipity didn't call a week earlier.

Day 3 Part 1

2012-08-29T21:09:00.000-07:00

6:30 pm. Wednesday. Heading home. At the aeropuerto in the aeroplane ready to fly nonstop to Tijuana.

Seems like I've been in Mexico for a week. I can't believe it's only been three days.

Unfortunately the opposite of what I had been hoping for is happening. I'm going home with more pain than when I arrived. Too much tourista stuff. I get a nasty burn down my back, hip and leg when I walk or stand for any length of time. We did too much walking and standing.

Darn you Enrique. Why'd you have to go and die. You couldn't have waited a week? Are you even aware of the inconvenience your untimely death has caused me? Probably not I suppose.

I kid. Everything happens for a purpose and in its own time. This may or may not be true but it's a handy interpretation for times like this.

I enjoyed my time in this city. Sofia and Marco were the most gracious hosts. I'm going to refer to them as "the kids" for the remainder of this post. Easier than typing their names over and over. Im sure Jose would have been the perfect spirit guide.

The kids really wanted me to stay longer but once my plans changed I felt all of my other commitments calling me. Paying bills, helping Kyle get off to work, transferring money into my kids bank accounts, walking Roo, finding a good back surgeon?

I did recite the prayer Domingo gave me. Both last night and this morning. In awful Spanish. Hermanito did not appear in my dreams last night. But if he heard my prayers I'm sure he had a good laugh.

By the way, let me thank all the people in Mexico who speak English and apologize to those who don't. So, I didn't get what I came for. What did I get? Jose repeated an old quote I've heard many times. He said "if you want to make God laugh, tell her/him your plans."

I did get the generosity of friends. I got the support of friends and family. I discovered I can entertain people and make them laugh with my writing. I got that there may or may not be unbelievable miracles in store whether one is a "true believer" or not. I got that my quest continues; to be a good person, to be generous to others, to take better care of myself. I'm not searching for an elusive moment of enlightenment or happiness. I learned a long time ago that "this is it". But to not shut the door to possibilities beyond my current awareness.

I also got what a big ass megalopolis Mexico City is. I couldn't really see that from driving around the city with the kids. I was expecting it to be crowded, dangerous and polluted. I found none of that to be true. However, flying out of the city I saw how enormous it really is. That's a big town.

I'm still not buying the stuff they show on that Ghost Hunter reality show. I'm sorry but that's pure, let's call it, entertainment. Sorry kids.

On the ground in Tijuana.

Day 2 Part 3

2012-08-28T22:38:00.001-07:00

Well boys and girls. Not quite sure how to tell you this but the shaman is on the roof. *

It's all fun and games till somebody dies.

I spent my day enjoying Mexico City, Mexican food and Mexican friends. We drove to the house where Hermanito through Enrique gives the initial consultation to 20 or 30 faithful followers. We arrived at about 5 minutes till 8pm. We were to meet Jose who would stay with me and translate everything.

We stood at a large wooden door at an old stone house. A couple, an older woman and a younger man joined us at the door awaiting someone to answer our knock.

Word were exchanged in Spanish among the couple and Marco and Sofia. While my Spanish is lacking, I thought I picked up something about no consultations tonight. Say what!

A large older gentleman opened the door and greeted us. His name was Domingo. I'm pretty sure he asked if I was there for a consultation. Something that has gone on every Tuesday night for the past 25 years.

I was led over with my friends to a small table and was asked to sit down. It looked like I was about to be asked to fill out some paperwork.

A conversation ensued in Spanish among the 3 of them with Domingo doing most of the talking. After 2 or 3 minutes Marco looks at me and says, "something very bad has happened".

I thought I heard the word El Salvador spoken during the conversation and I thought Marco was about to tell me Hermanito had gone out of town. Great! I come all this way and this is what I get!

Then Marco tells me, "Enrique died on Saturday night". Say what!!

Well that was deflating news. I felt badly. Not just for me. But for Jose and Sofia and Marco and Natalia. I felt bad for Domingo and the volunteers who were gathered. And I felt bad for you. Because like me we will never know what would have happened. Was this the real thing or a scam? Could I have actually healed or even improved my shitty back condition. Could this have helped you or someone you care about.

I can't say we'll never know. The door is open. But we won't know by the end of my week here.

I have so many mixed feelings about the whole thing. I was hoping to continue writing about my adventure through the entire process.

After a while Jose and his girlfriend, Aleana arrived. They were met and informed of the news by Domingo. They were also shocked.

After it sunk in, the 5 of us walked several blocks to a cantina where we talked, drank some beer, tried putting it all in context and moved on. We joked, laughed, I texted my family to fill them in. It was an impromptu Mexican wake.

They all felt so badly for me. I felt badly for them. They lost their spiritual leader and friend. While it may appear a wasted trip for me I've had and am having the time of my life.

Jose had asked Domingo what can be done for me. I was given a card and a sheet of paper with two prayers. One for the morning and one for the evening. I am to read them in Spanish each day. While Enrique's body has passed on, Hermanito is still with us. So maybe he visits me in my dreams.

I was told that when Pachita, Enrique's mother died it took two years for Hermanito to start using Enrique as a medium. Maybe Hermanito Cuauhtemoc, the last Aztec emperor will reappear in a town near you.

So I suppose this part of the journey is over. I'm having to much fun writing about it so I will search for excuses to keep the blog going. I'm planning on changing my flight to return either tomorrow or Thursday.

I'll be back soon. Hopefully Hermanito will be as well.

*this refers to the old joke where the sister leaves her cat with her brother while she goes out of town. She calls to see how the cat is doing but the brother abruptly blurts out the cat died. After getting over the initial shock the sister tells the brother he could have broken the news more delicately. For example you could have said the cat is fine but he's in the roof and I can't get him down. Next time I call you say something like the cat fell off the roof and he's stuck in the tree. Keep it going like that and after a few more calls I would be better prepared for the sad news. Then the sister says, so…how's dad doing. Brother answers, uh…dad's on the roof.

Day 2 Part 2

2012-08-28T12:57:00.001-07:00

Haven't done much yet today. Slept till 11. Hanging out with Marco and Sofia. I shared my blog link with them and Jose. I hope this won't get awkward. Marco assured me to feel free to not restrain my comments. So I guess I can tell you. Marco is really ugly! Just kidding.

There's no tv in the apartment. But it does shake and roll a bit from time to time. I was sure we were having small earth quakes, which by the way, are the best kind to have in Mexico City. But when I asked Sofia told me they were just big semi trucks driving by on the street below.

There is a school, I think it may be a kindergarten down the street. I think it is recess all day long. The kids seem to be having way too much fun for school.

We are going out in a bit to tour the center of the city. My back is really aching so we scheduled a deep tissue massage with a friend of Marco's for 5:45 pm then on to My consultation with Enrique Hermanito Cuauhtemoc the shaman. By the way. Hermanito means little brother. And the street where I am going for my massage is called Cuauhtemoc, also the name of the shaman, the last Aztec emperor and Jose's middle name. Small world.

I think it's time to go find some Mexican food.