Home Stretch

As we approach the all important trading deadline, I’m looking at my roster to determine needs and possible bargaining chips. Let’s look at my current roster…

Jessica – A one time rising-star who some believe may have burned out, but the club still believes a strong career can be resurrected. Currently toiling in the minors working her way back up to the big club, she’s taking it one day at a time and the good Lord willing, she’ll win more than she loses.

Megan – Incredibly smart, beautiful, empathetic, witty and boundlessly creative. A true five-tool player. Unfortunately, in spite of her youth and limitless potential, her salary demands may be too rich for most other teams… She’s staying put.

Kyle – Displaying equal talent for humor and singing, this kid is the real deal. He’d be a great addition to any team and would improve the chemistry of even the sourest of clubhouses. Forget it, though. He’s untouchable.

Leo – Sure, on some days, teammates wish he’d get dealt for a bag of old baseballs, but they keep him around, probably because he picks up a lot of tabs. Most of the time they roll their eyes and pass it off as “just Leo being Leo.”

So, there it is. It doesn’t look like we’ll make any moves, but we’ll keep looking for more of what every team is looking for. What’s that cliché? You can never have enough love and understanding.

Little things that (don't) kill...

This week I received an email from a reader who wrote that she avoided this and possible death or injury because she delayed leaving her house to check if I’d written. I thought I’d have something to write about that, but I just don’t.

It did get me thinking about comments I’ve received in the 15 months since I began sharing my life with complete strangers on the Internet. The comments are funny and interesting, and I thank you all for visiting and for taking the time to share your own… um, stuff. I’ve categorized them for your reading enjoyment…

Encouragement
Welcome to the world of narcissism, my friend.
It struck me how good my life is that the thing that stuck with me about my day was laughter.
Whoa! check out that 'stache!
I always look forward to finding out what's on your mind.
Reading this brought back so many summer memories; "when everyday was Saturday" - love that.
I love you dad. Happy birthday.
Rave on, baby! Always rave on!
I think the only joke that did not work-out had something to do with egg salad. Otherwise, you are a hoot.
Your audience is, indeed, broader than you thought. For example, all 13 of my personalities read your blog.
Signed,
Jeff
Jim
Bob
Rick
John
Dan
David
Matthew
James
Steven
Andrew
Christopher
Josh

Something said by one person that reminds me of another…
It is what I like to call, "intellectual laziness."

Challenge
You still need to top 'the Mary Cassett of Meatballs'

Fun Facts
There is a woman in Chicago that has an art collection of rock star's penis molds. She has hundreds, from Hendrix to Jon Langford. Interesting...
What you may find ironic is that Rodin originally named this masterpiece, "The Poet".
My boys have lost their mojo, and they have to find it.
For the record, the toilet incident did not occur at the Four Seasons, it happened at a restaurant called "The District."
The presence of ants has absolutely nothing to do with one's obsessions or talents in regard to keeping a clean kitchen. They're just part of life.
...backhair and cellulite, but she has a great personality!

Philosophy
What if Jeff was the normal one and everyone else was insane?
...and we put our assumptions aside, based on our past experiences. Basically, we truly evolve and have an open mind about the possibility that 'this time', the outcome might be different.

Opinions
Clearly there were no questions about your ability to predict volume of possessions or time estimates when moving from an apartment.
OK so this site is nice, your heads a tad screwed up but hey - I know where you live - no really I do .
I would have said 'conflicted' more than 'heads a tad screwed up'.
Weeding suits you.
Dad- I think that you should really write about your fruit salad.
I can't see Hallmark getting in on this...
That picture looks pornographic!
When I read some of these articles, I can't help but think- doth protest too much

Advice
Please be careful when buying enlargement penis pill.

Questions desperate for answers
Hey, wasn't that homeless girl in a full body cast?
Are you crazy?
So did the levee hold and the cat land on its feet again?
Ever?

Praise
The 90's were cool hanging out with you and Jeff. Listening to music, going to shows and laughing with you guys was the best "therapy" for me at that time. I owe it to Tar Hut, the music that you guys turned me on to and your acceptance. Thank you so much Leo!!
Thanks for the memories...
That was a fun post to read....nice.
Thank you for yet another wonderful read.........

Not Praise
Holy smokes! That's the guy from Twisted Sister!!!!

Requests
Please do not let me be in a bar with Leo and have a Yankee player punch a Red Sox fan.
I read over your blog, and i found it inquisitive, you may find My Blog interesting. My blog is just about my day to day life, as a park ranger.
I'd like to have your permission to include that photo in the documentary.

Lame Excuses
So, I digress slightly from the assignment, but at this point Leo expects that of me.

Fill That Void in Your Life with a Product

This blogging thing isn’t easy while trying to have a life and watch TV. My soccer Jones has not retreated, and I find myself watching replays of five year old English Premier League games on the Fox Soccer Channel at 2am. Anyway, I don’t spend all my time watching the human version of foosball. In fact, over the past week, I’ve delved into philosophy, self-awareness and string theory. Yeah, I’ve been busy.

“Philosophy as a Guide to Happiness” is a six part series hosted by and based on a book by Alain de Botton. He’s like an Aussie or something. It’s been playing on PBS-HD and explores subjects associated with the philosophers Seneca, Epicurus, Schopenhauer, Socrates, Nietzsche and Montaigne.

The segment featuring Epicurus (341-271 B.C.) was on happiness, so I really tried to pay attention. For those of you playing at home, Epicurus cites the following three keys to happiness:

1. Friends
2. Freedom
3. An Examined Life

No wonder I’m miserable. I suck at number one, won’t truly realize #2 for a few more years, and am obsessed with number 3. According to Socrates though, I’m on to something with #3. One day while out with the boys having a few cold ones after a soccer game, ol’ “Soccer-tees” (Yeah, that’s how the game got it’s name…) quipped, “The unexamined life is not worth living.” It’s no wonder he was known as “the funny one” among philosophers. Well, for his "B.C." generation anyway. Years later he would be left in the humor dustbin of history by that knee-slapper, Friedrich Nietzsche.

So, the examined life… A guy I work with is on a crusade to use the philosophy of Marcus Buckingham as the genesis of employee development. He gave me the book, Now, Discover Your Strengths and the DVD series, Trombone Player Wanted.

Last week I read the book and took the Clifton Strengthsfinder, the Gallup Organization's talent assessment tool. I’ll get into this more on my pay per view site, but for you freeloaders, all I’ll reveal is that my five most dominant themes of talent are Strategic, Intellection, Developer, Relator, and Adaptability. Hey, what about sensitive?

Finally, The Elegant Universe is a series on PBS’s Nova. In the episode, A Theory of Everything? string theory is um, explained. As the theory goes, everything in existence is comprised of sub-microscopic vibrating strings, and the math required to prove it requires 11 dimensions. That would be eight more that the three we live in… Up/Down, Forward/Back, Side/Side.

I wish I had a clever little line to tie this mess all together, but I don’t. Oh, the title of this post… It was a spoof ad in the Epicurus show. It was amazing when they showed advertisements pushing various products by using the 3 Epicurean themes of happiness above. Beer ads featuring happy, engaging friends. Car ads shot in beautiful open and free spaces. A whiskey ad centered on a contemplative, middle aged man in a study holding a glass in an easy chair. The tagline could well have read, “Drink Before You Think.”

Another Thousand Words

This picture, taken by Reuters Goran Tomasevic in Haifa, Israel, really captures what’s happened to peace on the border with Lebanon.

Relativity

In his work, Human Destiny, French scientist Lecomte du Nouy, wrote in 1947, “Certain of our mental illusions are due to the fact that we consider a phenomenon, as we observe it, in the frame of our current life... In other words, one can say that from the standpoint of man it is the scale of observation which creates the phenomenon. Every time we change the scale of observation we encounter new phenomena.”

Lately I’ve been fretting (maybe I am a fretter) over buying a car. My consternation has been over just how much luxury I can afford. For the past month or so, I’ve been swinging on the rings of mental gymnastics with the relative pros and cons (and car payments) of Acura TL, BMW 3 Series, and Infiniti G35. In the last week, a new Lexus ES 350 has been tossed onto the mat, although it introduces financial uneven bars to the all around competition.

Last night as I drove to meet friends for dinner, I observed all potential suitors as I cruised the highway listening to Neil Young’s Harvest. As I manuvered along Rt. 3A in Billerica approaching the restaurant, I passed a grocery store and slowed to a stop so I could let a man cross the road. He was carrying about six bags of groceries. I wondered if the man had a car, if he had children and how many? I thought about the relative smallness of my current worries compared to most.

After a nice dinner with Tom, Alan, George and Pete, we headed to the Veterans of Foreign Wars Hall in Lowell, MA for a “going away party” for a guy I’ve worked with and known for almost 20 years. During the night I walked around the Spartan hall and read some of the plaques of the veterans that sacrificed much for those of us who didn’t. I thought about how lucky I was to have been too young for Vietnam and too old for Iraq. I can’t even imagine living one day in a foxhole or a rice pattie wondering if some sniper would make it my last.

Our pal Bob is only “going away” from work after a couple years of serious health problems that just won’t quit. Due to his condition, he’s suffered brain hemorrhaging and there have been times when his vision just leaves him. Since suddenly losing sight while at the helm of a moving vehicle is very detrimental to ones insurance rating, he no longer drives. He’s much closer to worrying about the sniper than the Lexus.

The events of last night changed the scale of my observation, but will it last? Last night there were friends and laughs and hugs and tears that were born from human relationships, none of which come with a new car.

Pondering Hope in Purgatory

I disagree with most of this review of Stephen Adly Guirgis' The Last Days of Judas Iscariot. Set in a little known nook of Purgatory called Hope, the serio-comedy pits “God and the Kingdom of Heaven vs. Judas Iscariot” in a heavyweight courtroom bout for the ages. It explores the relative guilt of Judas against others with more or less holy blood on their hands, including Caiaphas the Elder and Pontius Pilot.

The prosecution is headed by dumb like a fox Yusef El-Fayoumy, played with a wink by Mason Sand. When he wasn’t ass-kissing the Judge or hitting on the defense attorney, he was dropping some of the nights best lines. When he playfully calls witness and alleged cocaine user Sigmund Freud “Sigmund Fried,” he says, “Forgive me, I made a you-slip.”

Without getting into an all-out review, let me just say I recommend the play as a paradoxically (is that a word?) fun night of deep religious and moral inquiry. My favorite character was Satan, but he’s not what you might think. He’s thoughtful and very matter of fact. “I don't believe in good and bad,” he states plainly to a Defense inquiry. “What I believe in is truth.”

At one point, the character Butch Honeywell arrives in purgatory and laments his marital betrayals. He seemed to me a man who had not yet forgiven himself and had self-imposed a sentence of personal purgatory. Now the time had come for him to meet his maker and his fate. Was he doomed to the same end as Judas for his sins? Should he be?

I don’t recall exactly when, but at one point during the play Saturday night I felt myself well up. Maybe it was the unconditional love thing. Like much of we witnessed, that was pretty powerful.

Company One's performance of The Last Days of Judas Iscariot runs through August 5th at the BCA Plaza Theatre in Boston's very cool South End.

Mirage

This morning I was running a little late to work. I did some email, and then headed in. On my way in my attention was seized by a dark blue Passat. I thought I recognized the car, but perhaps not. It was hot this morning and I found it unusual the car had the windows about half way down. I wondered:

• Is the AC not working?
• Is this person an environmentalist conserving fuel?
• Are they simply enjoying the warmth of a summer morning?

As I passed the car I glanced at the driver. She was a dark haired beauty with big dark eyes. Well, I imagined the eyes behind the sunglasses. I waved at the expressionless image and drove on. I thought I recognized her but perhaps not.

The Soda Break

I had some interesting employment while in college. Three that come to mind are jobs with:

• A lawyer who’s now one of the most powerful in the city of Tucson
• A landscaping company that now commands 25% of the market in Tucson
• A soft-drink bottling company with current revenues North of $120M

At the Kalil Bottling Company, my pal Mark Gonnella and I loaded the big distribution trucks with RC Cola, Canada Dry and Crush products, at first cases by hand, then with a forklift once we earned that spot. We’d ride our bicycles the 3 plus miles for our 5:00 to 10:00 pm shift, usually after hanging out at a nearby pizza joint playing Pac-Man. Yeah it was all the rage then.

There were some interesting characters besides us working there. For many, it was their job, the primary means of putting food on their tables. For me, it was rent and fun money, and I was just passing through. One night I stopped the forklift when the break whistle sounded and grabbed a cold soda. I was chatting with a guy who was probably my age then. We shot the breeze about the Celtics-Lakers who were playing in the NBA Finals, but then the conversation turned serious. The man asked me what my future plans were. I don’t even recall my response, but I’ll never forget what he said next. He looked at me with a face older than his years, one reddened and aged by too much sun and too much alcohol. “Well,” he said, “there’s only one person in this world who can stop you from doing anything you want with your life.” I waited for the answer that back then wasn’t obvious to me. “You.” The whistle to get back to work sounded, but I was stunned at the gravity of the revelation. It was a keeper, and a huge part of my education that didn’t happen in a classroom.

Heart of Gold

Last weekend I enjoyed seeing and hearing Neil Young as a young man and as an old man pour out from his own heart words, voice, guitar and harmonica. First was an MTVHD video of "Heart of Gold" from the Jonathan Demme film of the same name, followed by a performance, almost thirty years earlier, of "Helpless" in "The Last Waltz." The studio recording of "Heart of Gold" is from Mr. Young’s 1972 record, Harvest and is to date his only #1 hit.

One very fond memory of mine is of a college break road trip from Tucson to Boston via Fort Hood, TX and Queens, NY. Back in 1978 or so, there were no iPods or even CD’s. We were lucky to have a cassette tape and a harmonica in my buddy’s 1973 Pontiac Grand Am that looked kinda like this. Anyway, over the course of the 48 hour drive, I pretty much thought I had the harmonica from the song nailed. No, I did. Not once in the 48 hours did any of my buddies attempt to leave the moving vehicle. On the contrary, during each of the many times we played it, we all sang along with all of our um, hearts. We were young, uninhibited and all searching for our own heart of gold.

I want to live, I want to give
I've been a miner for a heart of gold
It's these expressions I never give
That keep me searching for a heart of gold
And I'm getting old

I love lyrics and remember really feeling the words “And I'm getting old.” Yeah, I was feeling it. After all, I was like twenty and certainly my best days were behind me... It’s funny how that perspective changes as the miles roll by. Four score and there’s so much more…

Recently I was chatting with a friend about women and the type I find myself drawn to. “Maybe it’s because they have the kind of heart you need.” May be.

“It's like hoping for fireworks on the Fourth of July and being handed a sparkler.”

Ah, expectations. We all have them. Well, most of us do, and how we manage them has a great influence on our day to day enjoyment of life. The title of this post is the Boston Globe’s Cate McQuaid’s summation of the MFA exhibit I was um, supposed to go to Friday. No biggie. The show is here till September 24th. I’ll get there eventually.

Speaking of expectations, I was really hoping for a better ending to the career of French futbol legend Zinedine Zidane. Yesterday, in overtime of a 1-1 World Cup final with Italy, Zidane inexplicably and viciously headbutted Marco Materazzi in the chest, ending his World Cup career in disgrace and effectively ending France’s quest for the Cup. Adding to the bizarre was the fact Zidane had to walk right past the object of his and his nation’s desire as he exited the pitch after his ”red card” ejection.

I guess there are times when a little head can be a bad thing.

There's one for you, nineteen for me…

Unfortunately, the correspondence I received last week was not from this IRS. No, it was from our friends at the Internal Revenue Service informing me that, “If this information is correct, you will owe $12,067.” Holy interest and penalties, Batman! I’m sure one can get much worse news in the mail, but a letter from the IRS looking for cash must be in the top ten. Based on the facts presented, I was pretty sure they were mistaken, but I was so busy with work stuff I didn’t have time to fully refute it until this week while I’m on “vacation.” I can’t say I worried much about it, but some things I was planning did get a little thought for being somewhat in jeopardy. Anyway, my research shows the income they say I didn’t report actually was reported elsewhere on my 1040. Looks like Megan may get my Volvo after all.

Oh, any guesses on the lyric title of this post?

I’m Only Happy When it Rains
I’ve never been a fan, nor do I own any of their music, but there’s a really good performance by Garbage on PBS’s Soundstage on WGBX and WGBH-HD.

What, Me Worry?
No, that wasn’t me on the Tobin Bridge after the Sox lost 3 in a row to the DevilDogs. Really.

And...
Finally, this bit of wisdom from a beautiful film: “Just Keep Swimming… Just Keep Swimming…”

Be the Art

Today on Yahoo’s home page was a link to this cool video. It captures people's expressions as they view one of the world's most famous works of art. Please check it out and then come back. It’s worth 3 minutes of your time.

I’m going to the MFA on Friday to see “Americans in Paris, 1860–1900.” I’m sure my face will be filled with wonder a few times during that visit. What does viewing art do to you? Does it move you? Does it conjure up any level of emotion, or is it just nice to look at? I’ve experienced many emotions while looking at art… mostly discovery, surprise, wonder, sadness and sometimes a degree of happiness at the sheer genius and beauty of some works. I use “degree of happiness” because while looking at some art has produced pleasurable moments, uncontrolled hilarity has not been one of them.

I’m not going to mention any names, but during one recent museum trip, the person I was with had such an emotional episode from looking at a sculpture. I thought the piece was quite tasteful, albeit a bit over the top with the powdered wig look of 18th century aristocracy. I took a picture of the royal gentleman in question and I still cannot see the humor in it. Maybe you can.

By the way, the art in the film was Michelangelo’s “David.”

The Catcher

It was a seasonably warm July 3rd at Moulton Field. The trees deep in center were motionless and still sun drenched in the early evening just past six. The Wakefield “Townies” team was on the field defending against their cross-town rivals from Melrose who were swinging. The Melrose leadoff hitter was fast and the catcher could see him dancing off of second on the balls of his feet, ready to race toward home on any opportunity. A sharp single to right was that opportunity and the catcher got ready.

Plays at the plate were one of the most fun things about being a catcher. It probably placed just behind gunning out would-be base stealers and just ahead of calling pitches. The cat and mouse game of keeping hitters off-balance with pitch selection and location was the brains exercise, defending home was all brawn and a matter of personal pride. After Ralph Romeo jarred a ball loose from the catcher in a high school team scrimmage, the young receiver vowed it would never happen again.

Donnie Morelli charged the ball and fielded the single cleanly on two hops. He gracefully extended one more stride and uncorked a perfect throw toward home. It was targeted right at the first base “cutoff man” and was about waist high when it passed him, just one clean skip off the green grass away from the crouching catcher facing it.

At the crack of the bat, the catcher sprung up and got in position to defend the plate. If the runner was going to touch it, he’d have to get past the (almost) six foot, one hundred and ninety pound backstop first. Collisions at home were part of the game and there were some classics in those years including the late, great Yankee Thurman Munson bowling over the Red Sox Carlton Fisk ensuing a brawl, and Pete Rose ending the career of Ray Fosse with a shattering home plate impact in the 1970 All-Star Game.

A couple seconds before the throw arrived, a quick flash in the left periphery told the young batterymate the runner had rounded third, but since then all his focus was on the incoming throw. The ball hit the mitt cleanly with a puff of dry Moulton dust. The catcher quickly turned his head from right field toward left to find the runner, but time had run out. The Melrose runner barreled in knee first and the impact was directly to the catchers face. Bodies tumbled like jeans in a dryer and dust exploded, obscuring the verdict. The catcher landed on all fours, knees and hands buried in the khaki colored powder, the ball still clutched in his right hand. “OUT!” barked the umpire, and that’s what the catcher was on the verge of. It was in that moment he first experienced “seeing stars.”

His mother was sitting in the corner of the room at the Melrose-Wakefield Hospital when he awoke from surgery on July 4th, 1975. The local paper wrote that the injury was similar to that of Red Sox pitcher Dick Pole, who was struck with a line drive in a game against the Baltimore Orioles, an injury ironically witnessed by the catcher and his dad just 5 days earlier. Medically speaking, his injury was nowhere near as bad as the Sox hurler. It was a simple fracture of the zygomatic arch requiring only 20 minutes of “plastic surgery” to repair. The procedure involved an incision above the hairline to hide scarring, that’s why it was considered “plastic.”

“Nice mouth on you” were the first words he recalled hearing from Mom after emerging from the July 4th fog of sodium penethol. Apparently, when the on-call nurse visited every 15 minutes to check vital signs, the young and the injured politely requested that she “leave him the f___ alone.” Mom quickly realized the poor boy was still quite out of it when he asked in all seriousness, “Can I go out tonight?” “Out” would have to wait until the 5th, when he got together with his buddies for a few cold ones and a thorough analysis of the events. There were only a few wisecracks about the protective metal and foam bar taped to his face. After all, the injury was now being seen as a deliberate act by a Melrose player alleged to have been drinking before the game and laughing after the play. The catcher didn’t care.

I held the ball and he was out.

The World’s Field is Flat

At one point in the Dylan documentaty "No Direction Home," I believe it was photographer John Cohen who said, “It may take a lifetime to find out what you truly enjoy.” I’ve been a sports fan for almost 40 years (October 1967 to be exact), and it’s taken me nearly all of it to figure out: I love Soccer. This years World Cup has completely reeled me in, but it was in 2001 when the game first flirted with me. I was in London to celebrate the wedding of my brother and sister-in-law. After a day of art exploration, we found ourselves in a pub around the corner from our flat near Harrods’s department store. There weren’t too many people in there, but for those that were; futbol was on the tele accompanied by an Oasis soundtrack pumping out of the jukebox. I recall being very into the English League game, despite not knowing or caring about either team. The game itself was interesting, and the passion of the fans in the room more so.

On the plane home, I carried a strong curiosity to know more about art, and I did purchase a couple Oasis CD’s, but I left futbol on the isles… Until this year. I’ve watched every game possible in its entirety, including some that I’ve recorded while at work. The game has everything… speed, power and athleticism that approaches magical with some of the best players. Check out this goal by Maxi Rodriguez of Argentina. He "catches" the ball off his chest and before it hits the turf he drills it with his left foot inside the far post of the goal. Players like Rodriguez, Brasil’s Ronaldinho and France’s Zidane work the ball as well as Allen Iverson or Wayne Gretsky handle a basketball or puck, except they do it with their feet. Just imagine trying to juggle while running full speed with someone chasing you trying to kick your balls away. Yeah, just imagine that… The talent level at the World Cup is amazing, and the orb moves around the field like a ping pong ball.

Another great attraction of the game is the spirit of the fans. They go all out dressing in their team colors and spontaneously break into song during games to help motivate their teams. Yeah, there’s some ugly hooliganism and racism creating a blight on the world’s game, but those small pockets are just a microcosm of the worlds societies today. There are jerks everywhere and when they drink too much and attend sporting events, bad things can happen. Speaking of bad things, one little annoying nuance of the game is the tendency of players to "take a dive" in an effort to get fouls called on the competition. Some of these guys are incredible overactors, feigning the pain of a shotgun blast, only to be back up and running moments later.

So, will the US catch up to the rest of the world? I hope so because “futbol” is a beautiful game and may be the social sport thread that weaves the fabric of today’s global economy. US businesspeople can easily talk baseball or football with their US peers, but what do they talk about with international partners? Executives from England, India and China don’t even know who Tom Brady or Peyton Manning are. If you can’t talk about Thierry Henry and Adriano, you may not get into the global “Old Boys Club.” If William Friedman is correct that “The World Is Flat,” then we’d better understand and embrace its game.

As a public service, the remaining World Cup games are:

Jul 4 Germany v Italy
Jul 5 Portugal v France

Jul 8 Consolation Game
Jul 9 Championship game

Check your local TV listings for times. I’m going with France over Italy in the final.

No Direction Home

After midnight is not a good time for me to wake up. Well, alone anyway. It must be an age thing, but if I wake up after midnight, it usually means at least a couple hours of consciousness before I’m asleep again. One night recently it was a bat flying around my room that did it, but usually my sleep is pretty restless until I know Megan is home, safe in her bed… or on the couch, asleep with the plasma tv still on, glowing with the image of a test pattern…

This house is home to Megan, and that’s a calming thought to the man raising her. She and her friends spend quite a bit of time here, and trust me as a reasonable adult they can talk to. Kyle certainly makes himself at home when he’s here about half of each week, but in his mind, motivated conditioning has taught him, “I live at my mom’s house.” In spite of that, my son certainly feels “at home” when he’s here. It’s the love and security in it that makes my house a home for Megan and Kyle.

Home. The connotation of the word is usually good, but not always. Many a weary traveler are consoled by the words, “heading home.” “Bring them home” is a rising sentiment toward our men and women in Iraq. “Home for the Holidays” sounds good, but often doesn’t meet expectations once you get all the relatives in the same room. In baseball, “home” teams usually fare better than those “away” because they’re um, “home in their own beds,” and “enjoying a home-cooked meal.” “Go home” is something every baserunner wants to hear, and hitting a “homer” is so cool it inspires nicknames all its own like “dinger” and “round-tripper,” even though an enthusiastic “HOME RUN!” from a good announcer totally gets the job done. On a side note, Meatloaf’s “Paradise by the Dashboard Light” is a colorful metaphor of the pursuit of another kind of home run. The song includes classic “play-by-play” from former Yankee announcer Phil Rizzuto: “Holy Cow, I think he's gonna make it!” Unfortunately, then Ellen Foley gets to sing and the first words out of her mouth are “Stop right there!” OK… Think about baseball… Where was I? Oh… So announcing a homer is good, but being a “homer” is bad. I mean, who’s more obnoxious than John Sterling belting out "Theeee Yankees win!!!?" Yeah, that’s right. Nobody. Finally, for a pitcher, not being able to find home is very bad…

It was around 1:00 am when my paternal instincts woke me to Megan’s absence. An animated phone discussion around the definition of curfew ensued and my girl was soon, uhhh, home comfortably sleeping in her bed. I wasn’t. With no World Cup Soccer replays on, I settled in to a PBS station for Martin Scorcese’s Dylan documentary. I’ve never been a big Bob Dylan fan, but after seeing this film, I’m stunned over what I’ve missed. It’s like not seeing Springsteen and the E Street Band live until 2003. I really can’t find any other way to describe it. If you’re a music fan, see the film.

So, obviously I’ve been thinking about home and what it means. One year for my birthday, my then wife gave me a door-knocker. No, I’m not kidding. I was kind of offended that I didn’t get something more for “me.” You know, something to meet my own selfish needs. The truth is, I just didn’t get it… The golden colored piece was etched:

Daley
Love is
Spoken Here

Yeah, that really was a home, but I broke it and have been searching for my own “direction home” ever since. Lately I’ve also been pondering the home at the end of the rainbow. No, not the nursing home, the one after that. The one near the Iowa cornfield… or the one with the 72 virgins… or the one with all good karma… or the one with Pearly Gates and harps…

Trying to find the way home can be difficult. Even if a person never gets there, isn’t it important to simply enjoy the journey and the elusiveness of the search? I may never find my way home, but I’m still looking. Hey, maybe I’ll stop and ask for directions.