We had our summer evenings, now for October eves!”---Humbert Wolfe
Even after all these years, I remember clearly walking through fallen leaves to the tiny Highfield Stadium in Methuen, Mass. to watch the Saturday football games. I recall the crisp, sunny Autumn afternoons, the pungent, pleasant smell of burning leaves, the blue-and-white-clad MHS cheerleaders kicking up their heels like so many Rockettes, singing the school song.
“For our team never falters…” they went on, blithely ignoring the fact it sometimes did. There is always hope in these places, jollity, optimism that the home team will somehow pull off a miracle and vanquish the stronger foe. Bands play, long-lost friends are rediscovered, strange foods arrive from hidden kitchens and unleashed tots run wild. The crowd marches in confidently, swears allegiance to the flag, roars as the homeboys rush onto the perfectly striped gridiron, stands confidently for the kickoff. It’s clearly obvious to one and all that no opponent can withstand the iron will of the home fans, the powerful vibes emanating from the grandstand, the crush of the overloud band music thumping down on the field from above.
“The kick is in the air and Rock Bamford has it at the two, is up to the ten, sheds a tackler at the fifteen and is off to the races. Bamford at the thirty, the forty, the fifty…he could go ALL.THE.WAY! WHOA, Nelly! Rock is hit inside the fifty, a brutal tackle and….Oh NO! Is that a fumble, fans? It IS! Amesbury ball, first and ten on the fifty-yard-line. Oy vey, what a start to the old ball game.”
Lesson One; Life Can Turn On A Dime
We can learn a lot from sports, and not just football. I introduced a girl named Patty Walker to greyhound racing one Fall night at the St. Petersburg dogtrack and won a ton of money on the first five races. Like a fool, I marched up to the windows for the sixth race and committed the gravest sin in wagering. “I can’t lose,” I told the ticketer, instantly regretting my remark. “Oh yes you can,” he assured me. I appropriately got slaughtered in the next four races and left barely even. “What happened?” asked Patty, who had come to think this betting stuff was easy pickin’s. “Rock Bamford happened,” I told her. “Life gives you a kick in the ass every so often so you don’t lose your equilibrium.” I’m pretty sure she never went back to the dogs.
Lesson Two; You’re Not As Smart As You Think You Are
In September, the thoroughbred yearlings have grown and matured, built up bone, tested themselves running in the fields with their brethren. One day, large transports drive down the farm road, pull up to the loading dock, ramps are lowered and the youngsters coaxed on board for a trip to a training facility where hopefully they will learn to be successful racehorses. A lot of money has gone into every one of these individuals and now their owners will finally separate the wheat from the chaff or, in some cases, allow themselves to believe they are the proud owners of the next Secretariat.
You can make a fortune from your original business and convince yourself that you’re brilliant enough to succeed at anything merely by following the same sequence of steps you used to attain fame and fortune. You then get into the horse business, where suddenly nothing you’ve learned applies. That first-class merchandise you just bought can get sick or hurt, even die. Your talented but sketchy rider can stay out too late the night before the big race and show up under the weather. Your million-dollar purchase might turn out to have heretofore undetected psychological problems like claustrophobia, fear of wet racetracks, an incurable need to race to the front and falter or a desperate preference for the farm life. All the business lessons you have learned over time will not make Mulefoot run. Farms and racing stables owned by multi-millionaires go belly-up on a regular basis because the horse business doesn’t work like any other. You can’t just throw money at it and buy success. In the horse business, as in most aspects of life, a rookie needs to familiarize himself with the territory over time instead of jumping in with both feet. You are a smart guy, sure, but wiser men than you have bitten the oat bag.
Subsequent good advice: Don’t move to Florida if you’ve only spent time here in May or October. Don’t try hiking the Grand Canyon if you haven’t climbed Blueberry Hill. Don’t marry Eliza just because she looks good in a mini-skirt. Don’t throw a long pass into a Prevent Defense unless it’s the last play of the game. And most important of all, don’t lose your mind when your two-year-old zips down a lightning-fast training track in 36 seconds flat in his first work. So far, there’s been exactly one War Admiral.
Lesson Three; Sometimes Bigger Really IS Better.
When we were kids, I weighed as much as most of the other boys in the neighborhood. I didn’t hit a lot of home runs or get a passel of rebounds, but I contributed more than my fair share to our sandlot teams and was a card-carrying member of the Size Doesn’t Matter Brigade. Our nabe football team didn’t lose very often, partly because I was a good game manager as quarterback, our offensive line was quick and clever and we scored a lot of points, so who needs Big. Then one day I met Paul Higgins.
Higgins was not a giant, but he was taller than most of us and built like the Rock of Gibraltar. He didn’t speak much but carried himself like he was a man of importance, straight-backed and graceful with unquestioned presence. On the street, he was just another guy, quiet and remote. On the football field, however, he was a holy terror. He seemed to have a mean look in his eye, never smiled and might even have growled a little. His singular determination was to run right over you and get to the goal line. One day, our team rode our bikes across Winthrop Avenue to play Paul’s East Side Boys.
We got the ball first and slowly ground our way down the field, scoring after about a dozen plays. When we kicked off, however, Paul Higgins ran through defenders like they were bowling pins and immediately tied the game. “I think we’re in trouble,” said Joey Pozslusny.
No matter. Another long drive put us up 14-7 and we knew what to look for on the kickoff. Rather than spread our defense, we clustered together, prepared to gang-tackle the mighty Higgins. Churning his legs like iron pistons, he blasted right through us and made it 14-13. Luckily, The East Side kicker missed the point. “That guy is going to kill somebody,” said Jimmy Lavery.
Our offense sputtered on the next drive and our fragile lead was in peril as we lined up to punt to you-know-who. By this time, most of our kids had been creamed by the speed and power of the big guy and had little appetite for more. I figured I would have to do it myself, which was not a pleasant thought. I wondered how long it would take Father Gallivan to get to the field if I needed Extreme Unction.
Our punter tried to kick the ball out of bounds but Higgins was there to snare it. Paul, it should be said, was not a fancy dancer who ran this way and that, slipping tackles, spinning, juking hopelessly inept pursuers. Higgins preferred the direct approach, sort of like a railroad train fearlessly advancing down the track. Those who would keep him from his appointed destiny were but so many hapless mosquitoes to slap aside and leave in his wake. Into this maelstrom I ran as fast as I could, my artless tackle being more of a direct crash of two bodies at full speed. Paul Higgins went flying through the air, I crashed to earth with a thud. The ballcarrier jumped up immediately with a big smile. “Good tackle,” he said, surprised. Laying on the ground after the rhinoceros stampede, I was in no mood for conversation. I dragged myself off the field, savoring halftime, convinced I would never run again. Years later, Dirty Harry gave me advice I have never forgotten; “A man has to know his limitations.” Right, Clint. Where were you when I really needed you?
Lesson Four; There’s Always Tomorrow
Girlfriend leave you for a hunchback rock guitar player? Car break down in the badlands of Michoacan? Did a highway patrolman taking a piss in the woods discover your mammoth marijuana crop just before the harvest? Did you win an expenses-paid date with Marjorie Taylor Green? Don’t worry, pal, there’s always tomorrow. Even if you’re busted flat in Baton Rouge, waitin’ on a train, you can always write a song about it.
In October of 2004, the Boston Red Sox were down three games to none to the cursed high-flying New York Yankees in the American League Championship Series and even Bosox fans were convinced it was all over but the taunting. The next day, after an unlikely series of events, they won a game, then a second, third and a blowout fourth. The Red Sox became the first team in baseball to ever win a best-of-seven series after losing the first three games. Winning the World Series against the dumbstruck St. Louis Cardinals was like breaking sticks after the AL whoop-de-do. Boston swept St. Louis in four games and became champions of the baseball world. What a difference a day makes.
Ever notice how, after a hurricane, the following days are brilliant? You can see clearly now, the rain is gone, there are no obstacles in your way. You break up with the love of your life, Amelia, and you’re climbing out on the ledge when Carmen comes along. An airport poltroon tosses your shiny guitar on the conveyor belt in pieces the day before you play Carnegie Hall; you borrow another and play like Segovia. You lose your shirt at the blackjack table in Vegas, throw some loose money at a slot machine on the way to the airport next day and hit the jackpot. You can’t get a singing gig in 1962 Austin, Texas, have to pick up a job waiting tables at a Pancake House and next thing you know, you’re Janis Joplin. Okay, that last one might have taken a few more days but you get the drift.
Author Margaret Mitchell was hip to all this ages ago. She’s the one who wised up Scarlett O’Hara to the fact that “After all, tomorrow is another day.” Keep that in mind next time your cardio guy comes in with a vile diagnosis. It’s just the storm before the lull.
That’s all, folks….
bill.killeen094@gmail.com
