Career Or A Limp?

One of my favorite stories as told by Don Baylor was about the dueling suitors he had in his senior year of high school: The University of Texas football team and the Baltimore Orioles. 

Don, born and raised in the Austin, Texas, area, always wanted to play for the Longhorns. But the bird-dog baseball scout sent by the Orioles won out after he asked Don a simple question: did he want a career or a limp?

I wonder what the 2014 version of that question is? 

I can only pray that health is still in the equation, and that in this day and age, it is the athlete and his or her family pushing the issue, demanding to know, precisely, what institutions pledge to do to prevent head injuries. Because limps have got nothing on concussions.

Kosta Karageorge

The death this weekend of Ohio State University football player Kosta Karageorge brought that into clear focus as never before. The 22-year-old’s body was found in a dumpster near campus, police said Sunday. The player, who was reported missing Wednesday, appeared to have died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound, according to authorities.

Last week, Karageorge’s family told police that the young man had suffered multiple concussions and was being plagued by periods of confusion. Wednesday morning, he’d texted his mother, cited the head injuries and wrote: "I am sorry if I am an embarrassment.’'

The real embarrassment here is that organized sports at the highest levels had to be dragged into this fight against arguably preventable injuries by lawyers rather than doctors. Sadly, no matter how many millions in damages will be won by the walking wounded or their survivors going forward, there is not enough money in the world to right the lives of athletes already permanently damaged. 

We've read the stories, seen the interviews, heard the eulogies. The human toll is stamped on the world-weary faces,  reflected in the frightened, lost eyes of broken gladiators, buried with haunting murder-suicides. Heartbreakingly, the well-documented sagas continue to mount. How many other under-reported results -- nerve and brain damage, concussion-related Alzeimer’s and Parkinson’s -- we may never know.

Players, be they in Pee Wee football, Little League baseball or the highest professional tiers in the world, should be assured by their sporting bodies that every precaution is being taken to protect what is arguably the body’s most precious organ. 

Parents -- remember the dance? -- should ask the toughest of questions. Equipment manufacturers should be made by law to make the toughest, not the cheapest, protective gear. The medical profession, even the portion represented in the team-doctor class, should always vow that “do no harm” will always trump “win at all costs.” 

Protocols need not only be written on paper. They should be chiseled in stone, in every clubhouse, locker room and stadium. And those protocols should drive policy with an authority a thousand times stronger than that of the most prestigious coach in the land.

Lastly, any team, university or professional league that knowingly cuts corners or plays loose and free with an athlete's health should face the harshest penalties. If that means criminal as well as civil litigation, so be it. Because the victims of neglect, deceit or, most ominously,  medical malpractice, need the ability, and deserve the right, to hit back as hard as they were hit playing mere games. 

An Amended Goodbye And A Hope-For Altered Life

Was Thanksgiving really only four days ago? If so, why do I feel like I’ve traveled through a lifetime since, one filled with such enlightenment that I cannot even relate to the person that laid down her head onto a tear-stained pillow 72 hours ago.

I can’t say that I am born again. That is a term that belongs in other discussions, perhaps, about belief systems,  the meaning of life, about whether or not there is a God. I don’t pretend to have awakened to a new dawn. I can guarantee that I am no closer to any answers to the mysteries of the universe than I’ve ever been, or likely ever will be.

All I know is that I’ve run smack into some things quite unexpected: a cascade of new feelings and thoughts, a flood driven by a lot of self-assessing, looks in the mirror and, as my grandmother might have said, some knocks upside the head.

What do I see when I look inside that I did not see four long days ago?

I see a person who has embraced this: I control nothing other than me. As much as I might try, I cannot change one single thing beyond my reach, even if my heart screams at me to try. I have to answer for me, and let all else flow on courses predetermined by far powers far greater than me.

If I had all the money in the world, would I wish to spend it to assure my son be safe, secure, healthy and happy? In a millisecond I would. But I can’t. Not if all the gold on Earth were dropped in my lap, right here, right now, could i strike that bargain. That ability cannot be purchased, because it is a power that cannot be passed from the person who has always possessed it: Josh.

Only Josh can live Josh’s life. If if I protract, then don’t I have to admit that, if that is true, then it naturally follows that only I can live my life.

How presumptuous of me to think that I can guide that young man, that I can remain in the center of his life story without sucking out the oxygen he so needs. How selfish to assume that the decisions me makes are to spite or hurt me, to impact my life? How selfish was I to be consumed by anger four days ago, as if he wasn’t angry enough, wounded enough, for both of us?

On Thursday, I had told him he was “ruining” Thanksgiving, something I said out of anger, anguish and pain. Now I realize that while I may have felt all of that, I can never know the depths to which he been consumed by all that and more.

That became crystal clear after I received two texts this morning, both from Josh, both apologing for “ruining” Thanksgiving, both asking for forgiveness.

I thought long and hard before responding, telling him, in part, the following:

“I have received your apologies, but cannot accept them -- but not for reasons you may think.

From where you stand, you owe me no apologies. If I buy into the conceit that you do, then I would have no choice but to accept or reject. And to  either would be wrong because it would continue to permit me to buy into my long-miscast role as victim. I am not a victim. How can I be if I am the only one empowered to guide my own life? I am responsible for my life, no more, no less, just as you are responsible for yours. I hope you are seeing to your life, seeking guidance and help from those best trained to offer it. That is all I can do at this point: wish for you the strength to take care of you."

Then I apologized, for assuming I had the power to change him, putting what must have been an overwhelming weight on him. How can he fight his illness, and my expectations at the same time? It’s time he stops doing both. My last gift to him may well be giving him permission to stop trying to please me. He must only fight to please himself, and perhaps he can fight that fight more freely if we step apart for now.

As for Thanksgiving, a great and good friend told me today that the wonderful thing about the one that just passed this week means we flip the calendar; another will follow in 12 short months because, well, it always does. Tell Josh that maybe you can do the next one better.

Maybe we can, indeed. It’s something to look forward to. In the meantime, it’s still goodbye. But just for now, I pray.

Alfie Boe: A Gift From God

The above title is how my friend, Alfie Boe, humbly describes his voice.

Now, there are enough cynics in this world to be counted on to sniff at such sentiments, not because they doubt there is a God, but because they can’t contemplate anyone truly believing that God can touch an individual so. To hear, though, is to know. Experience the full measure of this tremendous classically trained tenor and you immediately understand. There is a reason that talent hits as it does, a reason why it can so powerfully reach to the rafters one moment, then tenderly touch your heart and soul the next.

This is how God works! 

Alfie Boe

That Alfred Giovanni Roncalli Boe also genuinely believes God's wish is for him to use his gift for good also speaks to this kind, generous man. He gives so much, be it through charities promoting music therapy for children in need, or merely a hug, a smile, a kind word or gentle moment with an overwhelmed follower. There are those who've been known to choke up or cry while telling him how healing and comforting his music can be. I know. I have cried when telling Alf how the beacon that is his gift has guided me to better places when I've needed it the most.

Rather than be embarrassed or feel awkward, there is understanding and caring as Alfie chooses to stay in that special moment even with complete strangers. The result of his gift of time, his lending an ear or shoulder. Countless followers speak to these magical encounters when Alfie looks not past them, but at them, in them. This, too, is a gift, one that Alfie gives and gives and gives.

In his heart of hearts, The Kid from Fleetwood, England, who only claims "to sing a bit" knows there many magical moments mark the path on his journey through genre after genre, heart after heart. 
That knowing enriches the music all the more. 

Tonight, across the pond, my friend will continue to bring the heart and soul to the world of music as he embarks on an arena tour that will take him the length and breadth of Great Britain.  He will undoubtedly weave more wonderful memories with threads made of golden notes. I wish him well, and wait for the moment when I get to see  the magic, the gift, again. Soon, my friend. Soon. Until then, keep bringing down the house!

http://youtu.be/0Lpp-bP7CpY

’Tis the Season, or so we hope

The holiday season can be treacherous, with the danger of the overwhelming merriment of the season oozing from every pore of the adverts driving commercial/retail machine. At the other end of the spectrum you find the Christmas ballads, many as heartbreaking as they are poignant, endlessly buffeting mixed feelings, and vulnerable emotions. On the radio, the television, MP3 players, the humming under one’s breath.

When we were children, did we ever understand what grownups meant when they talked of surviving the season? Why has it come to that? Why have we let corporations wave the green flag that starts the madness? I don’t understand why Black Friday gets to share the headlines with Thanksgiving, or worse, trample it in far too many households. Walmart brags that 22 million people hit its stores for Black Friday, which, sadly, now begins on Thanksgiving Thursday. Just like that, one of the few days still carved out for family gatherings has become frayed at the edges. Will Christmas be next?

Goodbye

I watched him walk away, a laundry bag draped across his back like a cross. His shuffle, inexorably slowed by defeat, made the 30 feet from car to corner seem like 100. He’d exited the car after mumbling the first coherent sentences of the day, the first not delivered through a haze of angry tears.

“Tell the doctor I am sorry I couldn’t come to Thanksgiving dinner,” he had said as he pulled his possessions -- the laundry, a knapsack, old boots -- from the car. “Have a good day. We’ll talk, soon, Mom."

I had no response. For the first time in how long, a life time? I could not speak for fear of years’ worth of screams replacing words. I hated. The day, the life, the relationship. I could still smell the stench of alcohol mixed with vomit and defeat, and it made me crazy with anger. Even when he’d  closed the back door of the car, even after I’d rolled down the passenger-side window as if willing myself to speak, I could not. Not even when he leaned in through from the chill and said, “Goodbye, Mom."

Then he walked away, down the driveway toward the back of the Sober House. It was where he said he wanted to be. “I just want to go home,” he cried over and over before planting himself in the passenger seat more than an hour earlier. “I never wanted to do this. I just want to go home.”

Moments before, he’d come into the kitchen. We were minutes away from leaving for Thankgiving dinner with friends, my doctor and his lovely family. I’d been touched by the invitation, all the more so because I’d been told it included Josh. My friend knew how tortured I was by the thought of spending a fourth straight Thanksgiving away from my son, a real possibility since we two had had yet another fight and parting just a week before. My friend has so much wisdom. He’d said if I chose not to talk to my son about the Thanksgiving we’d been longing for, it could be bad. Then, he cautioned, it could be worse if we did meet and it went wrong.

It went wrong.

The moment he joined me, at a bit before midnight Tuesday, I was overwhelmed by the smell of liquor, and the sight of surrender. He was zombie-like, then soon asleep, leaving me to my desperate thoughts as I made the hour-long drive to my home. The radio, cranked high, did not disturb him. I needed life, I needed beauty, so I listened to Alfie, his booming voice speaking to love, to responsibility, to the life every vibrant note represented.

By the time we reached Ellington, my son had awakened. He poked at the trunk latch, again, and again, before asking me to unlock it. I said “it’s already open,” my voice fighting hard against the anger and shock. For he could not even see that the trunk lid was rising up to meet him even as he poked at the lock, again and again and again.

Eyes that can’t see, a mind that cannot register, those were signs I ‘d never wanted to witnesss in him, again. The same signs he said he’d never wanted to see in himself, either. He’d learned so much in three years of forced sobriety, he swore. He didn’t like the old self, the old demons, the DTs, the hangovers and gutwrenching illnesses. He did not like the degredation that was his life, a pitiful portrait he could only see when sober. Yet it was that shattered soul who once again stood before me, back in my home, back in the cracks of my shattered heart.  Back where I swore that person would never be able to return, again.

By Wednesday, we were socked in, by a snowstorm and disquieting silences. Small talk did not exist. He took to the loft, I sought peace in my bedroom. He never ate, even though we shopped for a nice dinner. When it came time to cook -- his pastime -- he could not pretend. Instead, he just neatened the kitchen and returned to his solitude.

By midnight, the storm had pretty much paralyzed the area, yet I found him in the kitchen with coat and hat on. Where was he going, what was he thinking?

“I need a cigarette,” he said.

It’s snowing. Bad.

“I need to walk.”

Nothing’s open.

He went, anyway.

Moments later, I heard him, again. He said he’d changed his mind. He said there was no place to go, other than to bed. I was exhausted, and I agreed with him. No place to go but bed.

The next morning, I called to him to get ready to go. I readied a thank-you gift for my friend and his family, waiting for my son. When he came down the stairs I was stunned. He had on a faded tee shirt and washed out old jeans, and, of course, the signature of 20-somethings going on 15 - a backwards knit cap pulled low around his ears.

I was flabberghasted! I had told him to bring appropriate clothes, the ones he wears to job interviews.

“I forgot.”

I had asked him Wednesday, during the day, before the storm chased us home if he was set with clothing. He said he was.

Now he stood there, despondant, knowing what he wore was not appropriate.

I told him to get himself together. We will go to K-Mart. Shopping on Thanksgiving turned my stomach, but the idea of my son dressed like a hobo sickened me even more.

We were running late. I finally rummaged for a pullover that I thought could pass as a shirt. I told him to put it on and I would meet him at the car. I went into the garage, walked around the front of my car and stopped in my tracks. There, on the floor, was a piece of the car grill. There was new damage on the bumper.

Did you drive my car last night, I called to him.

“No.”

There are pieces of the grill on the garage floor.

“I took one of the bikes. Maybe I ran into the car. I’m sorry.” And he disappeared back up the stairs.

Moments later, he came back, his possessions in his hands, his tee-shirt still on.

Can you change your shirt so we can go, please?

“I don’t want to go. I just want to go home. I never wanted to do this.”

He started to cry, and get agitated. Then he went into the garage and put his stuff in the back seat.

I’m not going to Waterbury today, I told him. You said you needed to go back Friday, not today.

“I have things to do. I just want to go home. Please, I just want to go home.”

He was getting more and more agitated. I said, you know you’re ruining Thanksgiving for everyone, including me.

“I know. That’s why I just want to go home.”

I called my friends. An emergency will prevent us from attending, I said. Again, another large chunk of my heart fell to the ground, stomped to pieces.

We drove in silence. After pulling over once because he was sick, we made it “home.” His Sober House, nestled on a street with a handful of operable buildings surrounded by abandoned and burned out structures. We’ve talked of his moving, but, of course, he would have to make the first move by inquiring about other locales. He has yet to do so. At least he had not lied about that. That is one of the few things he has not lied about.

Home. It brought his voice back, at least.

"Tell the doctor I am sorry I couldn’t come to Thanksgiving dinner” ...  “Have a good day. We’ll talk, soon, Mom” ...  “Goodbye, Mom."

No one who is 27 should look that broken, that incapable of putting one foot in front of another with the purpose that comes with youth.

How could he let a demon continue to win? How could he, after so many years, still not know how to fight for just a day, a minute, a second? Back in Ellington, I would learn that the demon had, indeed, come in the night. I was missing an unopened bottle of wine. He had stolen more than just the last bit if naivity I had left. I suppose I got off easy. He didn’t wreck my car or, to my knowledge, hurt anyone. Except himself, and me.

He’d once told me, “Mom, I’m going to the Devil, you know.”

He was five.

He once told me he never deserved to be happy. He was not yet a teen.

He once said “Goodbye, Mom.”

I said to myself, Yes, it is. As he turned the corner, I screamed through my tears. Then I dried my eyes. And I drove home.