Some Long Overdue Apologies: September 2012

Lately the word "apology" has been in the news. It seems that one of the presidential candidates has been accusing the other candidate of always "apologizing for America."

He's been saying this repeatedly on the stump, even though no one can find even one instance when the aforementioned candidate actually did that.

Perhaps this is some kind of Vulcan Mind Meld trick wherein a lie is repeated so often it is reborn as an accepted fact. Or, God forbid, it is an example of the cheapest and most disgusting form of demagoguery designed to enrage and energize the far right base who seem all too eager to become enraged.

Whatever it is, it got me to thinking about apologies. There are several I should have given and never did. It's time for me to man up and apologize.

First, I'd like to apologize to all the followers of these lame thoughts for the photo above. It's a picture of the sign that hangs in front of a real joint in Dothan, Alabama. I'm apologizing for the slogan on the bottom. It's crude and makes ambiguous reference to backsides, derrieres, buttocks, and tuchuses. I'm not apologizing for the reference to sensitive body parts. I'm apologizing because it's a cheap and obvious pun. My old friend, Rick Miller, a master punster, would have rejected it out of hand!

Next I'd like to apologize to anyone who was a student of mine in 1969 or 1970. I was a brand new English teacher in Hingham, Massachusetts. I was given the job despite the fact that I had had absolutely no training as an educator. None. No education classes, no student teaching, no getting mentored or shadowing other teachers through their day. I was given a carton of chalk and an eraser and was pointed toward my room at the old South Junior High School. There wasn't even a curriculum or guide for me to follow. I was completely on my own.

I guess teachers, especially male ones, were hard to come by in those days, and the hope was that sooner or later I'd sink or swim.

What a blast! As long as my students weren't tearing the room apart (usually, they didn't), I was left alone to do pretty much what I wanted to do.

I'm apologizing because I'm pretty sure that often what I wanted to do was the last thing these kids needed to get ahead in the world. I'm apologizing because today there are about 200 55-year-olds who attended Hingham South Junior High School in 1969 and 1970 walking around this Earth with their eyes glazed over wondering why they never got that big job or that nice house.

I'm pretty sure that it was my fault and I'd like to apologize.

Staying in the same setting, I'd also like to apologize to the 12 or 15 soccer players who tried out for the inaugural South Junior High soccer team, probably around 1970 or 1971. I was honored to be named coach of the first soccer team in the school's history. I was proud to address the young athletes gathered before me at that very first soccer practice. Most importantly, I was completely ignorant of everything that had to do with soccer. This included rules, strategies, techniques, drills, uniforms, and even encouraging phrases.  My excellent assistant coach, Bill Alberti, was an actual college soccer player who could have advised me on any number of proper practice techniques. Unfortunately, I decided it would have been a sign of weakness for me to ask him, so most of Bill's expertise stayed with Bill.

Just about the only soccer activity with which I was familiar was heading the ball. I didn't know why soccer players did this, but I was quite sure that it was done. Thus, if you could be magically transported back to that inaugural South Junior High soccer practice in 1970 or 1971 you would have seen a groggy and dazed group of athletes doing nothing but heading soccer balls to each other for about two hours. Today I assume those 50-somethings experience splitting headaches and double vision.

My bad.

Finally I'd like to apologize to Ada, Kate, and any other woman with whom I have ever danced. When I was 13 or so, my mother signed me up for dance lessons at the local Jewish Community Center. I was not what you would call a willing participant. The two instructors, as I recall a very smarmy husband and wife duo, would demonstrate the step of the week and then we'd be paired up with the other students to replicate what we'd just learned. Unfortunately, there was not an even number of boys and girls in the class, so often I would find myself paired up with a nice fellow named Natie Mushnick who always insisted on being the male. I didn't want to make trouble so I would play the role of the lovely Cyd Charisse to Natie's less than sparkling Gene Kelly. As a result, I came to view dancing in much the same way that most people view tax audits or prostate exams.

Sorry, ladies. It's just not in me.

And I apologize.

Ain't life grand?
J

W W A D ? August 2012

...which of course stands for "What Would Ada Do?" Lately that question has been rolling around my largely empty head quite a bit. What would Ada do? When Ada passed on October 1, 2009 (Can it really be almost three years?), I not only lost a friend, partner, and beloved wife; I lost my most trusted advisor. Ada was my "life editor", whose counsel impacted everything from what would go well with this turkey sandwich to how I can improve this adverb lesson to am I being funny here or just nasty. I would say that during the 41 years we were married, Ada was asked to read every single thing I ever wrote, from the most serious paper to the silliest doggerel. She never refused.

Foolishly, I didn't always take Ada's advice. Male pride and all that. How desperately I wish it were available to me now. Lately I've been flying blind.

Cancer has insinuated itself upon my family once again. Never has a guest been less welcome.  I mean, hell, we gave at the office. I would sooner welcome 10 Jehovah's Witnesses, 12 insurance salesmen, Josh Beckett and Rush Limbaugh into my home than this nasty group of renegade cells. My older son, Josh, is the proud owner of a stomach tumor that is causing him and his wonderful family no end of grief, discomfort, and, especially, worry. Josh has reluctantly agreed to play the host for this arrogant intruder for the time being. But come early December, Josh and some surgeons from Boston's fine Brigham and Women's Hospital have a little surprise in store for our ravenous little friend. I shouldn't give it all away now, but I will tell you that scalpels, very sharp ones, are involved.

And this is where W W A D ? comes in. As I clumsily try to help Josh and his family cope with their new reality, I can't help but think that Ada would have added a large measure of grace to these efforts. No one, and I mean NO ONE, ever accused me of having grace, amazing or otherwise. I have spent the past two weeks trying to be helpful as Josh started the laborious and tedious business of evicting his tumor. First he had a port and feeding tube inserted into areas which had previously been missing all types of medical devices. This fairly simple procedure turned into a week's stay at the hospital as Josh couldn't shake his nausea. Both Cindy and I spent many hours sitting with him as he tried desperately to curl up into a tiny ball and disappear. When he faked feeling better just to get out of there, he then had a five hour chemo infusion followed by even more nausea. During these 10 days, he was able to eat or drink almost nothing. Never have I felt so useless. I'm quite sure Ada would have found the right words to pick up Josh's spirits during this miserable time.

All I could contribute was "Hang in there." What a dork!

Thankfully, Cindy and the nurses persisted in their search for the right combination of anti-nausea meds and Josh is past all that as he prepares for his second of four chemo infusions.

This stage is scheduled to last two months or so. After much discussion and soul searching, I have decided to head back to Florida for now, with the goal of returning during Josh's second phase of treatment which will involve daily doses of radiation and chemo. Again, how I would have liked to bounce this "plan" off Ada and get her take on the strategy. W W A D ?

For now, I'll just have to conjure up her advice as often and as well as I can.

Speaking of advice, here is some of the wisdom I have gleaned after two weeks and 3,000 miles of travel:

1. If you're going to depend on the kindness of friends, as I have done, be sure to pick friends who have great water pressure. I am so fortunate to have wonderful, hospitable friends with shower heads that rival a Brooklyn fire hydrant. You know who you are. My hard to reach nether regions thank you.

2. If you can work it out, buy gas in South Carolina.

3. Chain restaurants like Applebee's and Ruby Tuesday may be boring, but at least they're mediocre.

4. Driving 500 miles by oneself will test one's sanity.

5. I failed.

6. Despite the presence of Lehigh University, Bethlehem, PA is the most depressing city this side of Kandahar. All those abandoned steel mills.

7. Getting a little closer to my grandchildren will be the only "benefit" of this entire episode.

That, and watching my son Josh get well.

Hang in there, everyone!

Ain't life grand?
J

An Olympic Struggle: July 2012

I have always been a fan of the Olympics. In 1960, when I was in the ninth grade, I wrote a report on the Rome summer games which my nasty English teacher, Mr. Spector, called "not bad." High praise from a haughty,  pedantic, little "professor". I still vividly remember Ethiopian Abebe Bikila running the marathon barefoot through the ancient streets of Rome. From these and other Olympics I remember Wilma Rudolph, Ralph Boston, John Thomas, Bob Richards, Harold Connolly, Mary Lou Retton and Mary Decker. I can still see sprinter Michael Johnson taking the turn at unbelievable speed in the 200 meters. I remember the Russian weightlifter, Alexeyev, and the disdainful way he would throw down the bar after a successful lift. It was fashionable to hate the Russians back then. Valerei Brumel was a particular villain in my eyes. I remember the great Rafer Johnson vs. C.K. Yang.

Back then I was a big fan of the Olympic ideal, the notion of the amateur athlete, training on his own after he gets off work at the factory, and then competing against the "professionals" from the Eastern Block. What can I say? I was just a kid.

Every four years for about two weeks I find myself caring about archery or race walking or water polo. I re-learn the difference between a foil, an epee, and a sabre.  I delight in the distinction between Greco-Roman and freestyle wrestling. I think in one of those you can't stand on the ropes or bash your opponent's head into the turnbuckle.  I marvel at the new technology apparent in the bizarre looking equipment used in the air rifle competition.

With this in mind, I thought I'd let you in on a little secret: There are several Olympic events in which I could never win a medal, any medal. Here are the top ones:

1. Any event with a distance in it. Whether it's 50 meters or 26 miles, I could never win a medal in any distance-oriented event. This includes land or water, on horseback or bicycle. I tend to fade after a meter so there you have it. If there were a one meter dash, I think I could place. I used to be pretty good at "One-Two-Three Red Light." I happen to have good reflexes. Just not so much stamina. Plus I'm not a fan of horsies.

2. Skeet shooting. I just watched some American kill 46 out of 46 skeets. Even the poor slob in third place managed to kill about 42 of the little clay darlings. That's just amazing to me. I remember as a kid hiking over to Boston's Franklin Park where there was a grand old building called The Commissary. Inside were several ancient arcade machines, circa 1940 or so. One of the machines was a target shooting gizmo in which a bear with a glass belly would walk back and forth while I would try to "shoot" it with some sort of electronic rifle. If I hit the bear on his glass stomach, he would roar in disapproval and change direction. If I could hit him several times in a row, he would do several about faces and replicate the Curly shuffle from The Three Stooges. I probably spent well over $8.00 trying to make that bear my b-tch. Alas, I was always the one who faced the long walk home with the bear laughing at me all the way.

3. Badminton. There are two problems here. First, I'm, well, afraid of the shuttlecock. You know how some people are afraid of clowns? I love clowns. I'm terrified of shuttlecocks. It's irrational, I know, but what can I do about it? Another problem is the incredible speed at which the game is played. During my Temple University undergraduate days, I had to take several semesters of Phys Ed courses. I signed up for badminton thinking there would be lots of pleasant afternoon barbeques and cute co-eds. What a mistake that was! It turns out that serious badminton is vicious and many an unsuspecting player can find himself with feathers imbedded in places where feathers were never meant to go. No badminton medals for yours truly I'm afraid.

4. Kayaking. Earlier in these blogs I mentioned my recent aversion to kayaks, especially kayaks with no back support. Having just watched a number of kayakers take on a raging set of rapids as they maneuvered their non-back-supported crafts backwards and forwards through designated gates while trying desperately not to drown, I am forced to admit that a kayak medal is just not in the cards. Possibly if all the gates were lined up one after the other and all you had to do was ride that ol' current straight on through them, kind of like the tunnel of love, maybe my weight would prove to be an advantage in stabilizing the ship. Otherwise, it's "Iceberg, dead ahead!"

So there you have it. Very few Olympic dreams left for me.

But for my older son, Josh, a true Olympic struggle lies ahead. As most of you know, cancer has decided to torment this family again and Josh, with the help of his wonderful wife Cindy, and his awesome twins, Sam and Sara, will be doing battle with this formidable opponent head on. Believe me, there is no man better suited for this task.

How can I be so sure?

Hey, I knew his mother, remember?

Ain't life grand?
J

Scenes That Always Make Me Weep: July 2012

There are certain film scenes and moments that always make me weep. It doesn't matter how many times I've seen the films in question or how familiar I am with the particular scene. My response is automatic, completely out of my "control". I imagine we all have such scenes. Perhaps some of yours overlap with mine.

As a seventh grade teacher, I probably taught Harper Lee's To Kill a Mockingbird over a hundred times. Every time one of my classes finished the book and completed whatever wrap up assignment I had devised for them, we would celebrate by watching the movie in class. And every time Scout turns to the wall in Jem's room and says so matter-of-factly, "Hey Boo," I weep. I guess it's the depiction of that beautiful innocence, exemplified by both Scout and Boo, to which I and my tear ducts react. To this day I never tire of that film and especially that scene.

As I have mentioned in an earlier post, one of my favorite movies is Tornatore's Cinema Paradiso. There are many scenes in that brilliant film that "grab" me, but most of them cause delight and laughter. When young Toto is told by his mentor, Alfredo the projectionist, to project the film onto the ancient walls of the city so that those without tickets will be able to watch, I can often feel the tears rising. But the scene that knocks me out each and every time is at the end of the film when the adult Toto, now a successful director himself, watches the bits and pieces of old, spliced film that his wonderful friend bequeathed to him. The images projected are all the love scenes that the Church had prohibited the old rogue from displaying. Toto weeps as he remembers his old friend, Alfredo, and so do I. Every time.

Although I have only seen The Artist once, and that very recently, I know that there is one scene in particular that will cause the waterworks to flow freely every time I watch this brilliantly conceived masterpiece. It occurs near the end of the film. I don't want to spoil it for those of you who have not as yet had the pleasure of watching this fine movie. I have a feeling that those who have seen it know the segment I'm referring to. John Goodman himself thought the scene was "perfect"!

 Elia Kazan's beautiful film On the Waterfront has several scenes that are tearworthy. The classic backseat conversation between Terry Malloy (Brando) and his brother Charlie the Gent (Rod Steiger) comes very close. The resignation in Brando's voice when he says (about his being a bum) "Let's face it," is heartbreaking for sure. But I bawl at another scene. When Malloy walks down to  Johnny Friendly's waterfront hangout and challenges him, all of the self respect and dignity that had eluded him in his life returns with a few quick body punches. Despite being pummeled by Lee J. Cobb and his henchmen, Malloy can finally stand on his own two feet, a natural, free man. Combine that visual with Leonard Bernstein's brilliant score and I am a piece of very wet toast.

Here are a few other quick looks at scenes that get me every time:

     when Oskar Schindler bemoans the fact that he could have done much more...

     when Randall P. McMurphy announces the World Series sight unseen...

     when the old Pvt. Ryan returns to the Normandy cemetery...

     when Forrest Gump asks Jenny if their son is smart...

     when Toy Story 3 starts, ends, and everything in between...

Finally, let me end this piece with my all-time champ. Saying I weep every time I see this scene is not quite accurate. I cry. I choke. I bawl. My nose runs. My breath spasms. My hands shake. The lump in my throat practically explodes.

  At the end of Field of Dreams, one of the sweetest movies of all time, Ray Kinsella, played wonderfully by Kevin Costner, chokes back tears as he asks his returned-from-the-dead father, "Hey, Dad, want to have a catch?" I'm actually crying as I TYPE this!

The reasons for my strong reaction to this scene range from the brilliant way the story has lead to this point, the yearning in Costner's voice, and the music that accompanies it; however, sitting above all that is my own story, in particular my own complicated relationship with my father. All that personal history conspires to make that scene remarkably powerful to me. It's a great, great cry.

Some people who are very dear to me are experiencing tears of a different sort these days, tears that are every parent's worst nightmare. Here's hoping that those tears flow beautifully and freely for as long as necessary.

Ain't life grand?
J

The Stuff I Don't Know: July 2012

The stuff I don't know could fill the province of Manitoba, and I happen to know that Manitoba is one big-ass province.

Here is a partial list:

I don't know how to fix anything. Oh, I can tell when a lightbulb has burned out (suddenly it's dark), or a battery needs replacing (the clicker stops working and I'm stuck watching Rachel Ray for the next hour), but if it's anything more complicated than that, I'm toast. I'm not proud of my ignorance in the area of manual repairs; it's just not in me. I believe those kinds of skills are usually passed down from father to son/daughter and ol' Sam was not, shall we say, particularly dextrous. Once during a New Hampshire Thanksgiving, our electric stove stopped working. Through trial and error, (I kept touching various heating elements until I found the one that didn't burn me) I was able to locate the part that needed replacing. I was then able to remove that part and replace it when the new part, ordered online, was shipped. I mention this because to this day that oven is the one and only household item that I have ever repaired. By the way, if you're wondering, that year's Thanksgiving dinner was cooked in our neighbor's vacant condo unbeknownst to them. I'm a bad fixer. I'm an excellent borrower.

I don't know how a car works. I know which buttons and pedals to push and I know what happens when you push them, but I have no idea why or how anything happens. Now, the question could be asked, "Does one need to know this information?" Obviously the answer is NO, since I've been able to get wherever I wanted to go in a car since 1964. That includes Eufala, Alabama. So why do I lament being saddled with this particular area of ignorance? There are several reasons. In any male conversation involving  horsepower, cylinders, brake pads, mufflers, universal joints, rotors, washer fluid, or octane, I must sit in a quiet corner and hope my name isn't called. When I bring my car in for repairs or maintenance, I must await the final tally and pay the bill with a smile. I can't ask "How come you did this?" because I don't know what "this" is. It's kind of like ordering dinner in Albania: Here's my credit card. Please do not ask me if I have any questions. One time Ada and I were traveling with our English friends, the Davidsons. Young Jamie, probably about 5 at the time, asked his dad to explain how an internal combustion engine worked. (By the way, young Jamie is bound for Cambridge University to, as they say, read chemical engineering. I guess the lesson took!) I was hanging on every word of Steve's patient and not at all condescending explanation. Unfortunately, he lost me at "turbine".

I don't know how to grow anything. If I tried to live on the stuff I've grown, I would have died of malnutrition sometime around 1972. I see other people, many of them barely literate, able to grow actual vegetables in their own back yards. As near as I can tell, there really isn't supposed to be that much to it. You need a seed, a shovel, dirt, and water. Frankly, I don't think I ever had the right kind of shovel. In our Hanover, MA house, I was forever trying to fill in the sketchy parts of our lawn. Each spring I would march down to the local Home Depot to purchase that year's can't miss lawn seed,  (for hard to grow areas) special fertilizer (for hard to grow areas), purified spring water, (for hard to grow areas) and sketchy-lawn-growing-shovel (for hard to grow areas). How proud I felt when the last bare spot had been dug up and gorged with wonderful new seed, dirt, and water. Every day I would come home from teaching and inspect these newly-fecund areas. When I spotted the first evidence of new growth, I would ask my family to raise a glass to honor and acknowledge my fertile, green thumbs. Alas those first spare thin strands would prove to be the only strands, a lawn rogaine experiment gone terribly wrong. All that was left for me to do was pray for winter to arrive early.

I don't know how to build anything. Let me amend that. I can build you a board. Just tell me how thick, how long, and how wide you want it and I'll take care of the rest; however, if that board needs to be attached to something larger, say a bookcase or desk or lunar transport, I'm afraid I'm going to have to farm the job out. I have good friends who have built their own homes. Let me clarify: they had a vacant piece of earth and a year later on that earth stood a complete house, with electricity, cable, and a porch. If I were given that same challenge, a year later that vacant piece of earth would be strewn with various sized boards. Nothing else, just boards. But in my defense, it wasn't always thus. Back in the fourth grade in Mr. Fairweather's wood shop class at the Sarah Greenwood School, I was considered something of a woodworking prodigy, a little pudgy Jewish Bob Vila if you will. My signature piece was a woodpecker-shaped doorknocker which I proudly presented to my Aunt Minnie and Uncle Albert at their home in Newton. That beautifully painted and varnished woodpecker adorned their back porch door for many years, forever ready to announce the arrival of unexpected guests. It wasn't Woody's fault that nobody, expected or unexpected, ever used that particular entrance when visiting Minnie and Albert's place. As a matter of fact, I believe that I am the only person to have used that knocker, which I did probably 3 or 4 hundred times every time we visited there. One sad day I went to see if Woody still had his spectacular knocking ability, and he was gone. Even the nail holes used to fasten him had been spackled over. When I asked what had happened to Woody I was given a doughnut and told to get lost. My ability to build things was gone. On the other hand, my ability to eat doughnuts blossomed from that moment onward.

In To Kill a Mockingbird Jem complains to a neighbor that lawyer Atticus can't actually DO anything. The neighbor gently scolds him and reminds him that there is plenty that Atticus can do, including making someone's will so airtight that....(I've forgotten the rest of the line, but you get the idea.)

I don't know how to read a legal or financial document. I've tried, I really have. I'd like to think that if I tried just a little harder, maybe I could get beyond the first paragraph. So far this inability has not caused me any great financial or legal hardship. Unless you count the fact that I can't enter Missouri or exit Arkansas.

So how can someone with such a dearth of common knowledge and skills survive in this crazy, wacky world?

I have a secret. It's spelled V-I-S-A!

Ain't life grand?
J

The Least Interesting Man in the World: June 2012

He is the least interesting man in the world.

He has not altered his condiment choices since 1953, the year he switched from French's to Gulden's.

When you play a round of golf with him, he will tell you the one about the 80-year-old caddy, on both the front and back nines.

After the round he will ask if you've heard the one about the 80-year-old caddy.

He has never been on a roller coaster.

His favorite amusement park ride is the merry-go-round. He prefers the stationary chariots to the wildly romping horsies.

Of the 3500 songs on his Ipod, fewer than 12 are sung or played by a living person.

His idea of a gourmet meal is when they offer pepper jack as an option for the cheeseburger.

The list of surfaces on which he has not had sex is over forty-five pages long.

He ate his first olive in 2008 and is planning on trying another next year.

Probably in the fall.

He prefers low-speed internet.

In Monopoly he always tries to buy the orange properties. Nothing else, ever. Only the orange properties. This way, he's sure he'll never finish worse than second.

His highest Scrabble word total is 18 points. He did it twice.

In Cribbage, he knows almost every way to make 15.

He's never fired a weapon, although he fancies himself quite an archer. Not with the modern carbon fiber pulley assisted bows...he's referring to the old Woolworth's variety suction cup deal. He could probably put your eye out.

He's traveled to some of the most exotic places on Earth but chose not to get out of the car.

Whenever he checks into a Comfort Inn or Sleep Inn, his preferred residences away from home, he always asks the clerk if the maitre d'hotel is in.

After a moment of awkward silence, he takes his key card and sheepishly walks away.

Whenever he visits a Gap or Old Navy, he'll walk up to the service desk and ask, "Do you folks carry anything in denim?"

Again there is usually an awkward silence as he begins his browsing.

He enjoys awkward silences.

He once hitchhiked almost 7,000 miles from Boston to San Francisco and back again without having even a single adventure.

For one of his summer jobs he was a counsellor taking elderly blind people on interesting day trips. He once took them to Boston's Museum of Fine Arts and asked the custodian to turn the lights off.

During his teaching career he would frequently tell his students, "We're having a surprise quiz next Tuesday."

Many of them didn't get it.

When any of the many Evangelicals in this part of Florida ask him his religion, he tells them he's mainly Jewish with just a touch of Incan. Then he invites them to next week's sacrifice.

More awkward silence.

He has very good friends in exactly two countries.

He is the least interesting man in the world.

Stay thirsty, my friends.

Ain't life grand?
J

Celtics Homage: June 2012

Now that the Celtics have ended their improbable quest for an 18th championship, perhaps it is fitting to use this space to honor this remarkable organization, one that happened to be a key psychic contributor during my coming of age years. My father would take me to watch the Celtics beginning in early 1957, Bill Russell's rookie year. The NBA was anything but a thriving concern in those days, especially in Boston where the Bruins dominated the winter sporting scene. I can still remember Sam taking me to NBA doubleheaders at the old Garden during which I'd see maybe a Syracuse vs. Rochester first game followed by a Celtics vs. Philadelphia second game. With eight teams in places like Ft. Wayne and no teams west of the Mississippi, the NBA was nothing like the glamor league we see today. The teams were overwhelmingly white and the style of play could best be described as lumbering.

Everything changed when Russell and Auerbach got together. Auerbach realized that the easiest shot in basketball is a layup; the easiest way to get a layup is to beat the other team down the court; the easiest way to beat the other team down the court is to get the rebound from their missed shot and put the ball quickly into the hands of a brilliant passer like Bob Cousy who could orchestrate the perfect play to yield said layup.

From the beginning of 1957 until the end of 1969, basically during my entire childhood and adolescence, this simple formula brought 11 championships to Boston. How could anybody who came of age in Boston during that time not have been affected by that?

Russell was the constant factor, even coaching the team to its memorable 1969 victory over the hated Lakers. While Cousy had been replaced by KC Jones, Sharman by Sam Jones, Ramsey by John Havilcek, and Heinsohn by Don Nelson, the Celtics still demonstrated the selfless dedication to teamwork necessary for success in basketball. Wilt Chamberlain, Oscar Robertson, Jerry West and Elgin Baylor were never fortunate enough to play under such a system.

The Celtics' success went far beyond wins, losses, and even championships. There was an important sociological aspect to this remarkable franchise. The Celtics were among the first teams to sign an African-American player, Chuck Cooper. They were THE first team to start five African-American players (Russell, Satch Sanders, Willie Naulls, Sam and KC Jones), and I believe they were the first team to have racially mixed roommate assignments on the road. A lot of this progressive attitude had to do with the owner, Walter Brown, and the coach, Red Auerbach, both of whom cared much more about winning than they did about the racial mores of the time.

To a kid who wanted very much to believe in racial equality and the American ideal of fairness of opportunity, the Celtics provided a real life example of how the races can work together toward a common goal. I have no idea what the off the court racial attitudes of the players were. I imagine they were a mixed bag, mirroring the rest of society. All I knew was that a group of white and African-American athletes seemed to enjoy playing basketball together and I thoroughly enjoyed watching them win.

The Celtics made me very proud to have come from Boston.

Much more so than cod or beans.

There have been four Celtic championship "eras" spanning the 55 years from 1957 to the present: The Russell era was of course the most impressive, both in terms of championships and in the respect due to that era's namesake. Bill Russell stands at the very top of my personal sporting Olympus. He shares that spot with Number 9 himself. Both men had their warts to be sure, but you would have to look long and hard to find someone of more intelligence, integrity, and heart than Bill Russell.  And that legendary cackle to let you know that in the end, it's all just a game.

The second era could be dubbed the Cowens era, although Havilcek, Jo Jo White, and Paul Silas were major contributors. Cowens' indomitable spirit and incredible hustle (imagine a 6'8" Dustin Pedroia) allowed him to do battle with centers like Jabbar who towered over him. Ada and I were fortunate enough to have been in attendance at the ratty old Garden for the famous 1976 triple-overtime playoff game against Phoenix, which remains my personal sporting eyewitness highlight.

Next came the original Big Three Era of Larry Bird, Robert Parish, and Kevin McHale. It was during this era that our boys, Josh and Matt, became big Celtics fans, mesmerized by the Celtics' selfless dedication to team goals just as I was 30 years earlier. By this time players like Magic Johnson and Michael Jordan had turned professional basketball from some kind of niche sport into big business, where it remains today. I'll never forget the time the Celtics were involved in yet another playoff game against their hated rivals, the 76ers. Our family was huddled downstairs in what we used to call "The Blue Room" watching the contest. The Celtics were way behind and the blue room was very blue indeed. Then, as they had done so many times in the past, the Celtics began to claw their way back into the game. They had come almost all the way back when  Matthew, who was probably about 10 at the time, got out of his seat to go upstairs to the bathroom.

"What the heck are you doing?" I asked.

"I have to go," poor Matty said.

"Hold it," I commanded.

"But, I have to..."

"You can't leave your seat during a comeback. I'm sorry but that's the way it is."

And he sat back down and held it.

And of course the Celtics won.

I'm not proud of that little true family anecdote, but, now maybe you understand what kind of hold the Celtics have had on me and my family.

Of course today we find ourselves at the end of the fourth Celtics era, also named after a latter day version of the Big Three: Paul Pierce, Kevin Garnett, and Ray Allen. Ironically it has been the fourth member of this big three, Rajon Rondo, who has been just as responsible for their success. Age, injury, and the athleticism and heart of Lebron James caught up with this group last night, bringing this era to an end. It was gratifying to watch the Celtics' fans cheer this team after a loss the other night, sensing it would be their last chance to pay their respects.

And it was especially gratifying to get a call last week from another Sam Getman, age 12, who was excited to cheer with his grandfather in Florida as the Celtics were making yet another run.

Four generations, two Sams, one very special team.

Ain't life grand?
J