The road is dark, and it's a thin, thin line

Good Lord

The toughest man in the world has died. You can have all your UFC champions, Crossift experts, Marines, Texas Rangers, Special Ops guys, etc. There have been pretenders and there have been contenters, but there was only one.

At least in my eyes.

Check Bednarik used to be my neighbor, sort of, back in Pennsylvania. I would see him around town from time to time, at the Weis Market or hardware store.

One day I was behind him in line at the Coopersburg Post Office. When he got to the counter, I heard him growling about something -- the price of stamps or perhaps about the fact that his letter carrier didn't get to his neighborhood until suppertime.

Of course I remember that orneriness, but the thing that struck me most about him physically was his hands: huge paws with bent and disfigured fingers. Hands that looked as though he might kill you with them just as easy as look at you.

Bednarik, also known as Concrete Charlie for his off season job as a concrete salesman, played 14 seasons for the Philadelphia Eagles. And I think he tried to remove the heads of opponents in every one of those games. He is most well known for the hit he put on Frank Gifford of my Giants that knocked Gifford out of football for two years. It was such a savage tackle that I have read that some at the game thought Gifford was dead.

He was a waist gunner over Nazi Germany during The Big One. He was one of the last of pro football's two-way players. The word "concrete" was fitting for his persona, his demeanor, and his no-nonsense approach to every thing he did.

Chuck Bednarik turned around to look at me briefly in line that day at the post office. I had on a Giants sweatshirt, unfortunately.

He gave me the once-over, and decided that at least that day he wouldn't try to separate me from my outgoing mail.

But he did scoff and mumble something under his breath.

I didn't wear any Giants gear around town any more after that.

The 70s: One attracts the other when you're the losin' kind

They say losing builds character.

If so, my character was rock solid by the end of the 70s, even if we just focused on football.

The New York Giants were SO BAD during the decade, fans hired a plane pulling a banner that read, “15 Years of Lousy Football. We've had enough."

Of course, the losing began in the mid-60s, 1964 to be exact. But the 70s were dreadful beyond words.

Number 45 in your program and 
number one in my heart. I wonder
 what  happened to my
 Pete Athas jersey

And I never missed a game.

What a glutton for punishment I was; look at these season records.

1970  9-5

1971  4-10

1972  8-6

1973  4-11-1

1974  2-12

1975  5-9

1976  3-11

1977  5-9

1978  6-10

1979  6-10

That adds up to a 50-93-1 record. By my calculations, there were approximately a little more than 500 Sundays during the decade. Not counting the handful of Monday night games, I was depressed for almost 20 percent of the weekends during the decade. That's how strongly this team affected my mood.

And before I get accused of sending an invitation for a pity party, I will emphatically state that being a fan since, with four Super Bowl wins, has made all that losing worthwhile. At least I keep telling myself that.

There were so many years of guys like Pete Athas, Jerry Goldsteyn, Beasley Reece and Larry Jacobsen. So desperate to identify with someone on the team, I bought a Giants jersey and ironed cornerback Athas's name on the back. Not sure why Athas, other that he seemed to personify a sort of reckless and rock and roll free spirit that was appealing to an impressionable teenager. Of course, like all Giants of that era, he lasted several hit and mostly miss years with the team.

Seasons would start with scads of enthusiasm, all to be squashed by about the 3rd week with a drubbing by the Cowboys or Redskins, or even worse, the Eagles.

Everyone references "The Fumble" as the milestone that represented the ineptitude of the franchise during this time period. But that ineptitude was on display nearly each and every week. With the coaches, with the drafts (Eldridge Small and Danny Buggs, anyone?), with the way Larry Brown ran the ball down their throats twice yearly, with the way Roger Staubach picked them apart in about 400 straight games, with the way the franchise brought in washed-up former stars like Craig Morton and Larry Csonka, with the way they had the indignity of having to play several years of home games at the Yale Bowl.

I saw most of the games on the then WDAU-22 out of Scranton. However, there was some strange glitch in our cable. If Channel 22 had another game scheduled, right at gametime it would somehow switch to Binghamton's Channel 12, which ALWAYS showed Giants games. It was like a miracle to my ever-hopeful fandom, but too often it ended up being a conduit to misery. At the precise moment the game ended, the channel would switch back to WDAU.

And some people don't believe in God and Satan.

These last few seasons have felt like the 70s. I am seeing familiar mistakes and half-hearted efforts, although I can also state that these losses don't affect my mood like they did previously. Real-world issues have a way of putting all things in perspective.

Maybe I will be able to look back at what feels like such misery now as the price paid for recent glory -- or perhaps for glories ahead.

But hey, I'm not getting any younger, so they may want to hurry up.

He who is not busy being born...

After many years, I finally realized out that it really doesn't matter one bit if all your football or baseball or basketball teams lose. For a long, long time, my mood on fall and winter weekends was determined by how well the New York Giants played.

Yesterday, a beautiful day was not ruined by lousy football.

It really helps when you have things that are far more important to care about.

Isn't it great when our priorities change?

It don't take long for the good to get gone

They ain't makin' 'em like this anymore:
Slim Whitman and his Cowboy Cool

Four deaths of public figures in one day is a lot. Four deaths of people who affected me in one small (or large) way or another.

“The Sopranos” deserves all the acclaim it received, especially the work of James Gandolfini as Tony Soprano. But its unending violence finally did me in, and I became weary of the killing, the language, and even the gratuitous sex. Still, we watched it religiously on Sunday nights for a few years, reveling in the stories told, the characters, the Jerseyness and the acting, especially that of Gandolfini. He domineered every scene he was in, and was larger than life. One of the greatest TV characters of all time.

Dave Jennings was the best player on several bad Giants teams during some of my formative football years. And that is especially sad given that he was a punter. But he was all I could brag about to my friends for awhile, arguing he was better than Ray Guy (he wasn’t), and trying to put a positive spin on Sunday after Sunday of dreadful Giants play.

A lot of my appreciation and love of music came from reading a stable of great writers: the likes of Greil Marcus, Dave Marsh, Paul Nelson, Robert Hilburn, Lester Bangs, and Chet Flippo, who died yesterday. I had long read Flippo’s work in “Rolling Stone” and especially remember his “People’ cover story on Springsteen during the ’84-’85 frenzy. The fact that Flippo was paying attention somehow legitimized the Jersey Bard. Flippo was a great writer who placed music in its proper place, i.e. gravely important and often a reason for living.

The likes of Slim Whitman is unimaginable today. Corny to a fault, with a falsetto that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. Cowboy costume, pencil-thin mustache and yodeling, he certainly was an anachronism when he got really popular due to a late-night TV ad in the 80s. I don’t own any of his records, but I deeply respect his devotion to his craft, which only ended when he did. And I get older I have begun to realize, perhaps he wasn’t all that corny. Just very good at what he did.

It's been a long time comin,' but now it's here

One of the most satisfying things about the Giants improbable run to Super Bowl glory this year was that Jack was along for the ride.

Although we didn't get to watch any of the games together, we talked about each playoff game, and if asked, he was happy to say his favorite player is Eli Manning -- just like his dad. He also dutifully wore his Giants hat that I got him during the Christmas holidays. The morning after the Super Bowl, he called me and exclaimed, "the Giants won the Super Bowl." He doesn't know how happy that made his old man -- the fact that not only did the Giants win, but also the fact that he sounded as excited as I felt.

Although my dad and I watched many games together, he never seemed to have a favorite team, except that he made no secret that he didn't like the Yankees. In sports, as in political persuasion, my dad never revealed his true colors. Which, at least as sports go, is a shame, because he and I never got to share a rooting interest and the joy that comes with seeing your team bring home the ultimate prize....together.

Hopefully, Jack and I (and Ruby too, if she wants) can share more victories down the road, because celebrations are never as sweet when you are alone.

This Time It's For Real

Watched the Giants game yesterday at a local crowded and smoke-filled sports pub. I had a booth to myself, and just as the game was ending, a guy, seeing there were no other seats available, asked if he could join me.

Harold is a roofer and a Steelers fan. And he also has an Elvis fixation; at first I thought he might be a day early for Halloween with his jet back pompadour and long sideburns.

But Harold was nothing but real.

I stayed and watched some of the Steelers game after the Giants game ended. Early on, he pulled out what I thought was a ratty handkerchief, but in reality, it was a Terrible Towel that he had for many years. It was dirty and had a worn signature from some former Steeler that he couldn't remember. He also would whistle loudly when the Steelers made a good play.

Full of things to say, Harold was one money quote after another.

He shared some of his burdens with me. When discussing his troubles with his wife and grown children, he said, "sometimes I wish I never would have gotten sober."

When I asked him about the Elvis thing he had going on, he said: "I ain't seen nothing that I like in this millenium." And I don't think he was referring to just music.

I wonder if he is available to watch next week's game.

Somewhere in the swamps of Jersey

Yesterday afternoon, with too much time on my hands and a total disregard for the weatherman, I drove 70 miles each way to see something I had always heard and read about, but had never seen in person.

This year my beloved New York football Giants are holding training camp at The Meadowlands, a short trip across New Jersey.

The photo above is just about the most that I was able to see; the dark clouds were already rising from the north-northwest. At 5:59, one minute before practice was scheduled to begin, Ahmad Bradshaw and Brandon Jacobs wandered out, threw the ball back and forth several times, stuck their hands out to feel the drizzle, and went back inside.

No public outdoor practice.

And then it started to pour. As I hurried to my car, the wind whipped empty hot dog and sausage sandwich wrappers around the deserting parking lot, making for a lonely scene.

I drove back to Easton to prepare for today's birthday observance, which I am hoping is not replete with empty hot dog wrappers in a deserted parking lot outside Jimmy's in the 25th St. Shopping Center.

There's a joke here somewhere

Packers 45 Giants 17

Where nothin' moves, just a strange breeze

File these photos under unexplainable things.

At least to me.

Captain Beefheart, who died last week, was a mysterious and bizarre musician, responsible for some of the strangest work in all of music. I can’t say I understood most of it, and Trout Mask Replica, his masterpiece, is one I worked hard trying to access. Its oddball blues and freeform chaos never really hit with me.

But in an attempt to reveal my coolness, I put on the album during a first date long ago. By the time it got to “Moonlight in Vermont,” it became abundantly clear why I had little to no success with women.

But here's one I DO get: Captain Beefheart -'I'm Gonna' Booglarize You Baby"

And once and for all, that’s a catfish and not a trout on the album cover.

Speaking of strange (and "booglarizing"): the Giants performance on Sunday. I have now, 48 hours later, just recovered enough to acknowledge that it happened. While the media heaps holy hosannas on Vick and Jackson, my only comment is that with about eight minutes to go, the Giants laid down.

Like dogs.

I'm not sure what "booglarize" means exactly, although I have a pretty good idea. And I think that's what happened on Sunday: The Eagles booglarized the Giants.

While not as bad as the 49er playoff meltdown, it still ranks as the worst and most embarrassing regular-season loss in franchise history. It was disgraceful to have that team come into your building and, after getting pushed all over the field for 3 ½ quarters, go on a rampage while you did nothing. Poor coaching, worse execution, no guts. It was absolutely, positively Fassel-like in its vulgarity. How does Coughlin keep his job?

Bah, humbug.

Workin' and workin' for the big payback

Let's hope so.

Walking on the wild side, runnin’ down a one way street

My kids are so used to umpteen channels, with something on every moment worth watching (or so they think): Cartoons, Nickelodeon, "Dirty Jobs,""Swamp Loggers" and on and on.

It wasn’t always this way.

At our house when I was a kid it was three channels and a cloud of dust, and ultimately four when PBS arrived. Cartoons were only on Saturday mornings, and daily kids entertainment consisted of Captain Kangaroo (the greatest children's show in the history of time) and “Hatchy Milatchy,” a local morning show. One of the highlights of the latter show was when Miss Judy (I had a massive crush on her) wished me a happy birthday personally on the air.

Just imagine hearing Miss Judy say, “Happy Birthday to Denny Lockard from Shavertown. Look under the davenport for your birthday surprise.” I looked, and there it was – a new baseball bat!

I still remember seeing my excitement reflected in my mom’s eyes.

And the theme song still provides indescribable flashbacks.

These shows were all we knew, and we thought it was all pretty great.

But it wasn’t always great on Sunday afternoons, when I would hope against hope that Channel 22 in Scranton would show the Giants game. That was a weekly crapshoot, given that we lived closer to Philly than NY. That meant I had to often listen on the radio which, while better than nothing, wasn't and isn’t as entertaining and perfect as baseball on the radio. At my grandmother’s house, 50 miles away, Giants’ games were usually on Channel 12 out of Binghamton. But we were often not there on Sundays.

Fast forward to today and cue the greatest invention ever for football fans: NFL Sunday Ticket. The idea of having the ability to watch every Giants game, and every other game as well, was inconceivable until a few years ago. The cost is prohibitive, and although it seems to go up each year, it’s still worth it. The addition of a DVR (another splendid invention) allows me to record games and watch them after the kids go to bed, which works great as long as I can avoid the scores before I sit down to watch.

This is now what passes for unforgettable excitement in my TV land these days. And that’s all right with me.

But the wonder of children’s shows being a special occasion is long gone for my kids in this on-demand world. Who knows what technology will bring us by the time they grow up, but the leap from rabbit ears and three stations to Sunday Ticket in my lifetime seems astonishing. Not much else seems worthwhile on television these days; football is a notable exception and the ability to see your team every week on your schedule still boggles the mind.

Technology may or may not save us; I suspect it will not, but it has made some things far more enjoyable.

Strictly 100: Number 11 – NFL Sunday Ticket

Wanna change my clothes, my hair, my face

In the grand scheme of this things, the Giants performance yesterday, or lack thereof, means nothing. Especially in light of everything else going on.

But it’s disheartening when a supposed disciplinarian instills a distinct lack of discipline in his charges. Yesterday’s meltdown was very reminiscent of the previous regime.

Head coach Tom Coughlin is still riding on the glory of 2007. And glorious it was.

But it’s time to go, along with a handful of non-producers on the field.

Change is in the air, everywhere you look.

Living Proof

Yup, the air today smells a little fresher, food tastes a little better, and everyone (well, most everyone) seems a little friendlier.

The Giants beat the Panthers 31-18 yesterday.

Most of my game wishes came true. The Giants won and Jack watched a good three quarters of the game with me. He genuinely seemed interested, asked questions and decided that Eli Manning is his favorite player.

His mother and sister came home from shopping early in the fourth quarter, and I sort of lost him amidst the excitement of some new purchases.

But still, a good and satisfying time.

Next week’s game is Sunday night, which will start after his bedtime.

I hope the first thing he asks Monday is who won.

I also hope to be able to give him a good, and happy, answer.

Meet me in the Land of Hope and Dreams

Sunday marks the beginning of another Giants season, although I’m hoping this one might be a bit different. Yes, I hope the team sniffs the playoffs (and hopefully more). But another wish I have is that Jack gets interested and wants to watch the games with me. He says he does, but if he looks out the window five minutes before game time and sees a slug on the front steps, all bets are off.

My dad liked sports, and he watched some with me, but it was never any sort of bonding experience. He didn’t care about the Giants, hated the Yankees, and usually had something better to do than immerse himself in a team or any players. Maybe he knew the heartache that was involved when attaching oneself emotionally to a bunch of strangers that didn’t know he was alive.

The Giants play the Panthers this week. When Jack heard them talking about the Giants-Carolina game on the radio, he thought it was the Tar Heels and said excitedly, “ Oh no! Who will we cheer for?”

By Sunday at 4 p.m., I hope he knows the difference and that we never root against the Giants.

Ever.

And I also hope we are celebrating the first step of a long march to the playoffs...

Spend your life waiting for a moment that just don't come

And when that moment finally comes, how does it feel when there is nothing, absolutely nothing, you can do about it?

I got The Call yesterday; The One that has been 20 years in the making.

At long last, my name moved to the top of the season-ticket waiting list for my beloved New York Giants.

So, what's the issue? Well, I no longer live in PA, so my proximity to the Meadowlands is now a real problem. A 500-miles each-way problem.

But even bigger is the astronomical cost. Or should I say ASTRONOMICAL COST. Theoretically, I could buy the tickets and go a couple times a year, sell the others, and come out about even.

But, pro sports has now priced itself way above the regular guys. It's Big Money. Just to be a player (sitting in the end zone upper deck), I need to shell out $7,500 for a Personal Seat License (PSL) and then pay $250 per game for a 10-game season.

So, if I want to buy two so Jack and I could go, I need to spend $20,000 up front.

And that's for bad seats. Two PSLs for great seats are $20k for PSLs and $700 per game ticket.

When I added my name to the list all those years ago, there were no PSLs and tickets were about $70 per game.

I guess it sounds dramatic to say that this is heartbreaking. This is a club that I can never join.

And even though I know there are many others just like me, it's a bitter pill that tastes just a bit too much like greed for my liking.

For duty and humanity!

Watching the Giants' dreadful performance on Sunday, I am reminded of The Three Stooges football episode, but not in a good way. Tom Coughlin, Bill Sheridan, and the entire defense comprise the current stooges from East Rutherford, but trust me, there is nothing funny about it. At all.

But it's time to move on, and fortunately, AMC is here to ring in the new year and remove all memories (hopefully) of the Giants disaster. Trust me, this is the best revelry of all.

Oh I know, it's said that many people -- and most women -- don't like the Stooges -- and my wife is certainly no exception. And my son Jack is still not old enough (according to her) to enjoy an eye poke or a hammer to the skull. Maybe it is all too much for little kids, although I watched them religiously when I was young, and I've never taken a pair of pliers to anyone's nose. Yet.

But, despite any criticisms, the real Men in Black remains the funniest 18-minute short in the history of film.

Which Way to the Jersey Turnpike?

It's funny how a dominating Giants' performance can add to the Christmas merriment for me. And against the Redskins no less. Still somewhat of stretch for the playoffs, but all I ask for (after suffering through the lost decade of the 70s and many other frustrating losses) is to play Meaningful Football in December. It all just makes for a happier holiday season.

Which leads me to the next selection on my list of great Christmas songs. While I think Otis Redding's version is probably definitive, I prefer the Springsteen version, if only because of this video that reeks with seasonal giddiness and features the obligatory Santa appearance at the end.

This is a song and video that gives me almost as much happiness as last night's game.

Giants take another on the chin

Simple arithmetic: Poor coaching + too many penalites + inconsistent offense + shoddy defensive play + no guts = A Giant mess

What a disgrace.

Get on the good foot

Super Bowl MVP and Pro Bowl QB Eli Manning and I finally have something in common. We both have Plantar Fasciitis.

So, given that he is the leader on my favorite team and that I need to emulate him whenever possible, I have decided to follow whatever treatment he does.

So far I have tried:

• orthotics
• stretching
• new shoes
• cortisone shots
• acupuncture

all with limited or no success.

I am also exploring the options of shockwave therapy and surgery.

But I will follow whatever course his doctors prescribe for him. No matter that he's a 100-million dollar man, and I am a middle-aged schlub with very little tread left on my tires.

If it's good enough for Eli and the Giants, it's good enough for me. He is officially listed as day-to-day and hopes to play Sunday. Ironically, I am also day-to-day and I hope to go to work tomorrow.

The Godfather of Soul Brother was right: Time to Get on the Good Foot.

They must be Giants

GAMEDAY

On a cold winter day in 1963, a lifelong love affair was born. The New York Giants played the Chicago Bears for the NFL Championship, and the Giants had golden boy Frank Gifford and some weird-looking bald guy named Y.A. Tittle. My brother and dad watched it on our 21" Philco black and white TV. The Giants lost that day, but I didn't care -- I was mesmerized.

Never again would I not care if they lost.

While my relationship with the Yankees didn't survive George Steinbrenner, interleague play, artificial turf and steroids, the Giants have remained a constant. The years of 64-80 built character while also teaching me to be a somewhat gracious loser. It also made me appreciate winning even more. Many people, plays and moments stand out, some good, some great, some ugly and some heartbreaking: Fran Tarkenton hitting Homer Jones on a flea flicker, "the Fumble," LT knocking Ron Jaworski into another area code, Phil Simms refusing to lose, Mark Bavaro carrying a whole team of 49ers on his back (literally) on a Monday night in '86, Trey Junkin's bad snap that put me into a six-month funk that only ended with the birth of my first child. And, the redemption of Eli.

And so many more.

Many people don't understand this. Including my wife (well, she hates football, but that's another story). But I am looking forward to passing my love of the Giants and the game to Jack. He needs to know that the Cowboys, Eagles and Redskins are all evil, each in different ways. He needs to know how for three hours each week, we can lose ourselves to something that is graceful and barbaric both at the same time. He needs to know what it's like to live and die on each game, on each quarter, on each play. He needs to know that with each moment of agony comes the promise of wonderment. He needs to feel and understand the passion. He needs to know this game and this team, and how it can make you feel alive.

The Giants open the season today against the hated Redskins.

Let the games begin.