THE DEEP END OF THE GENE POOL

Let's all wish my main-man Andrew, (and I do mean main-MAN),  a HAPPY 18th BIRTHDAY!

At the time of your first child's arrival, it is easy to become awed by the miracle of birth, the concept of life, the existence of our planet and the infinite possibilities of the universe. Whether you have additional children or not, over the course of time, "the seen that...done that mentality," infiltrates our psyche and the fantastic process of the stork's delivery system fades, becomes less important and even worse...taken for granted.

I am guilty of this failing but with the aid of great memories, photos, ancient VHS tapes and having Andrew around every day, my appreciation of the endowed blessing that he represents, is never too far away. Then if I need a kick in the ass to remember what he means to me, a special event or another of his incredible accomplishments crop up.

These days, I look up at Andrew with esteemed admiration as he handles his latest whirlwind of  accomplishments.  More importantly, I look behind him and see that the trail he blazes, is not only for himself but for others, inspired by his intelligence, sensitivity and leadership.  I am certain, they gravitate to him because of his charismatic good nature, sense of fair play, humor and earthy seriousness.  These traits encourage others to aspire to higher levels of personal growth and to pursue greater self awareness and improvement.

EARLIER THIS MONTH, ANDREW'S SKILL AND KNOWLEDGE IN A WIDE RANGE OF FIELDS WAS RECOGNIZED WHEN HE WAS VOTED HIS SCHOOL'S "RENAISSANCE MAN."  ADDITIONALLY, HE AND HIS FRIEND KEVIN (above) CHOREOGRAPHED A TWELVE PERSON PRESENTATION AT THE STUDENT TALENT SHOW...AND WON.  THEIR "SUPERHERO RAP," WAS CITED AS AN INFLUENTIAL PATH OF POSITIVE VALUES BY A LOCAL ELEMENTARY SCHOOL WHO  INVITED THEM IN MID-MARCH, TO REPRISE THEIR MESSAGE ALONG WITH A QUESTION AND ANSWER PERIOD, DURING AN ASSEMBLY. 

One of the side benefits of birthday celebrations is, we reflect on that person's history.  Some birthdays have a greater implied weight because of its number and to me, Andrew's eighteenth is a major milestone. He is now a man, eligible to vote, serve his country in the military or even work in a New Jersey casino, (let's try not thinking of the latter two).  While manhood opens up a whole new world of opportunities, (he'll be starting college in six months), it also serves as an exclamation point to close his childhood as well as marking the end of organized birthday parties, (by parents).

At Andrew's first birthday party, I proposed a toast.  I raised my cup of Diet Pepsi and said, "Here's to Andrew."  Then I paused and said to the crowd, "There's nothing better than babies."

FEBRUARY - 1995. WITH THE HELP OF A KNOCK-OFF BIG BIRD COSTUME PROVIDED BY HUIED, KURUDAVE ENTERTAINED THE MASSES.

Our early kiddie parties for Andrew included, clowns, magicians and singers.  We had them at the Children's Museum, Tunnels of Fun, Diane's Tot Spot, the bumper bowling alley and McDonald's.

ANDREW'S SECOND BIRTHDAY WAS SO JOYOUS THAT HE NEARLY STRANGLED KERMIT IN THE EXCITEMENT.  NOT PICTURED WAS THE ROCKING HORSE THAT HE HUGGED AND SAID, "GREATEST!"  ODDLY, HE REGISTERED LESS THAN AN EIGHTH OF A MILE ON THAT BABY, DUE TO MOTION DIFFICULTIES.

The festivities became more sophisticated as he got older.  His Bar Mitzvah in 2007 was obviously the pinnacle of those events.  But his roller rink party and surprise fourteenth birthday party were special to him too.

LUCKILY, SECURITY APPREHENDED AND KICKED-OUT THIS UNDERAGE GATE CRASHER AT ANDREW'S SURPRISE FOURTEENTH PARTY.

In celebration of all things Andrew, I choose to digress to a nearly infamous party and honor someone other than the birthday boy.

Andrew's fourth grade birthday seems to be easily overlooked but it has left an indelible mark on me and one of...if not both of the principle characters.  The parents of one of his friends, invited him to an indoor pool party at a high school, a few communities away.  The party was such a success that my wife Sue put heads together with another mom and had a joint birthday extravaganza for Andrew and Joey, (the other kid), there.

The mom's split the cost of the package that included, up to sixty attendees, two lifeguards, a swimming safety lesson and the use of a party room.  Both boys had mutual friends from the neighborhood, school and scouts so it felt like one gigantic party...but the highlight of the day had nothing to do with an invited guest.

About forty kids, (mostly around nine years old), changed into their swimwear and met with one of the lifeguards.  The guard led a fifteen minute briefing on safety policies, do's and don'ts, diving restrictions and emergency procedures.  The lecture was just about over when a late arriving straggler entered the pool area...unescorted by a parent.

The two host families knew all the kids from the class, so this girl was welcomed in and encouraged to listen to the lifeguard.  The girl was famous in their class for two distinct reasons.  One, at a time when the average kid carried no money or at best a buck or two, she regularly flaunted big money, (over fifty dollars), around at school.  The other thing was, she was foreign and attended the English as a Second Language (ESL) Program.  We had no idea that she had zero command of English and couldn't understand much either.

During the party, I took a dip in the pool and horsed around with the kids.

 ANDREW AND I BOTH  GOT THE, LOVE FOR SWIMMING GENE, FROM MY DAD.  THAT'S THE SEA-BREEZE MOTEL, ON ROUTE-40 IN WEST ATLANTIC CITY.  IT WAS FAMILY ORIENTED  IN 1967 BUT NOW, IT'S A HAVEN FOR CRACK WHORES.

At Andrew and Joey's party, I was in the shallow end, splashing around with Bill, (an invitee's dad), when we encouraged Tony, (the other birthday boy's father to join us).  In street clothes, he said he wasn't big on swimming.  Tony also made some other lame excuses but we guessed that he wanted to save face and not admit that he forgot to bring a swimsuit. 

A shrill whistle echoed through the pavilion.  Everyone stopped for a second as one of the lifeguards caught a kid running.  That boy was penalized and was not allowed in the water for five minutes.  At the same time, Bill, Tony and I focused on the deep end where four girls were holding up the diving board line. 

It seemed three of them were loudly shaming the one having second thoughts about taking the big plunge.  Finally, the scaredy-cat got the attention she craved and routinely jumped in.  She disappeared underwater for a few seconds before bobbing back to the surface and swimming to the sanctuary of the water's edge.  In an almost identical manner, she was followed by a black-haired girl. Next, to the satisfaction of the onlookers, the blond did a colossal cannonball and backstroked to the exit ladder. 

When the area was clear, the last girl...the foreigner who arrived late...casually walked to the end of the board and jumped in.  She disappeared for a few seconds underwater...but DID NOT bob back up to the surface. Before I could even process the information and call a distress signal out, Tony took off along the side, towards the diving section.  Both lifeguards reacted to his running and before they realized what he was doing, Tony dove in fully clothed and brought the girl to surface.  The lifeguards followed, took over and got her out of the pool.  She was given mouth-to-mouth resuscitation before anyone else moved a muscle.  Although the girl was still a little pale by the time we were in the party room, she was thankfully fine.

(SUMMER - 1999, OCEAN CITY MARYLAND'S BOARDWALK).  SOMETIMES...EVEN AT A BIRTHDAY PARTY, THE MEMORY OF THE BIG CELEBRATION PAYS TRIBUTE TO SOMEONE OTHER THAN THE GUEST OF HONOR.  TONY'S HEROICS OVER SHADOWED THAT PARTY AND ARE CALLED TO MY MIND FREQUENTLY.

That foreign girl moved away about a year later, so I don't know whatever became of her.  But I do know her irresponsible parents(?), who dropped her off alone, at a swimming party, knowing she couldn't swim or speak/understand English, never acknowledged Tony's deed.

Yes, birthdays help us conjure up thoughts of the miracle of birth, respect for the blessing of life, the beauty of our planet and the endless possibilities beyond the farthest stars.  That's why I salute and appreciate Tony especially because the right people didn't or couldn't figure out how to express it. 

As for my birthday boy, I marvel at the perception that somehow, he sifted through and took on the best qualities of his mom and dad while adding a few of his own.  Now as I look at him and his Renaissance Man credentials, I see him in the future, excelling in countless varieties of greatness and continuing to inspire others to have a positive impact on society.  Then when the time is right, I have confidence that my main MAN will have his own family and his scions will continue to forge even better versions of him.

DANDY JAN

In the early 80's, when I lived in Las Vegas, I was watching the NFL's opening week highlights on TV.  At the end of a New York Jets segment, the camera focused on a celebratory fan running down the Shea Stadium aisle.  In the close-up, I saw it was my friend, Jan Soodak.

My move west in 1979, acted as a natural end to the ties I had with my community (the Canarsie section of Brooklyn) and friends. But fate lured me back home for eleven months in 1984.  That's when my wife Sue and I moved in with my parents, (while waiting for my New Jersey casino license to be approved).

Canarsie changed a lot during my five-year absence. Far worse, everyone else I was friendly with had also fled the old neighborhood.

When summer rolled around, I tried to revive an old past time by getting a lime rickey with friends after playing stickball, at Goody's Luncheonette.  The big difference that day was, I didn't play stickball and I had my limeade alone. But to my happy surprise, on my way out, Jan Soodak was coming in for a newspaper.

WAY BACK WHEN, NON-ALCOHOL VERSIONS OF A LIME RICKEY (OR LIMEADE) WERE POPULAR AT NEW YORK CITY SODA FOUNTAINS.  I'M SURE THEY'RE STILL AVAILABLE...IF YOU HAVE THE PATIENCE TO FIND THEM.

My chance meeting with Jan turned out to be a long, pleasant reminiscence of our past.  Unfortunately, he also told me about strange health symptoms that months earlier, forced him to cancel his much awaited try-out with a professional soccer team. Despite his disappointment, Jan remained upbeat as he bravely told me his dire news. Soon there after, he said he needed a transplant to survive. 

A couple of years after I moved to South Jersey, I learned that the transplant never came...and Jan died.

During the early stages of that conversation in front of the luncheonette, we touched on a lot of topics that all involved playing sports.  We agreed that we first met, (I was ten and he was eleven),  when my block challenged his gang, in street hockey.  Over the next twelve years, at different times before I left the area, we were teammates or adversaries, in countless basketball and softball pick-up games.

In organized sports, we became Golden Eagle teammates, on the John Wilson Junior High softball team.  For two years, we were rivals in Canarsie's PAL Roller Hockey League.  At Brooklyn College, Jan and I teamed-up again in the first of my back-to-back intramural floor hockey championships.  More interestingly, in the spring of 1970, we walked to our first Canarsie High School football try-out together.  Later, we became teammates on our school's first JV team and later on the varsity.

On the varsity, Jan (a senior quarterback) and I, (a junior guard) were second-stringers on a potent offensive juggernaut. That meant that we got a fair amount of late game playing time, in blow-outs.  We even scored a few touchdowns that year.  One memory in our 50-12 win over Wingate was Jan calling a quarterback sneak.  When I exaggerated my stance away from the center, Jan said out loud, (in addition to his signals for the rest of the team), "You better know what the f**k you're doing."  When I plowed my man into the defender next to him, Jan easily got the first down.

While we strolled down Memory Lane outside Goody's, we focused on our (shared)greatest moment.  The greatness happened after the JV, (Canarsie Junior Chiefs), lost our first three games.

OCTOBER - 1970,  (above) PRIOR TO OUR 8-6 LOSS AT HOME, IN SEAVIEW PARK, TO THE PIRATES OF TOTTENVILLE (STATEN ISLAND).  THIS IS THE ONLY JV PHOTO OF JAN (#17) AND ME (#72) TOGETHER.    (PLEASE NOTE: A NEPHEW OF JAN RECENTLY COMMENTED ON MY MAY 3, 2010 BLOG CALLED, "PATRICK CLARK;  #61 IN YOUR PROGRAM AND #1 IN OUR HEART,"  BY SAYING...HE NOW OWNS HIS UNCLE'S,  #17 JV JERSEY).


In those first three losses, we mustered only two touchdowns, (both scores came on defense).

BEFORE OUR SEASON STARTED, I HAD NICKNAMED JAN, "DANDY JAN," AS A TAKE-OFF OF ALL-PRO NFLer AND FELLOW #17 WEARER, "DANDY" DON MEREDITH.

When we had three losses under our belt, Jan a true leader, blamed our team's offensive, offensive performance on himself.  He told me, "Don't compare me with Meredith, I'm more like Harry Theofiledes."

ANOTHER #17, QB HARRY THEOFILEDES HAD SUCH A SHORT NFL CAREER THAT THIS IS THE ONLY INTERNET PHOTO I COULD FIND.  IN 1968, HE APPEARED IN FIVE GAMES FOR THE WASHINGTON REDSKINS.  HE THREW 20 PASSES, COMPLETED 11, FOR 211 YARDS WITH TWO TOUCHDOWNS.  HE NEVER STEPPED ON THE FIELD AGAIN BUT WAS ON THE NEW YORK JETS ROSTER FOR A SHORT WHILE.

The Canarsie Junior Chiefs fourth JV game was against Lincoln High.  We were told that the Junior Honest Abes were better than the teams we already lost to.  Plus, they had a monstrous, one-man wrecking crew linebacker named Sanford. A player from our varsity described Sanford as so tough that he chewed on nails and spit out nickels.  Maybe he was trying to motivate us when he added, "They better have an ambulance parked on the field because it'll be like a man playing against you babies." Speaking strictly for myself, I felt like the game was already lost.

CONTEMPORARY LINCOLN FIELD.  LOCATED IN CONEY ISLAND, THE SCHOOL WAS BUILT IN 1929.  SOME OF ITS FAMOUS ALUMS INCLUDE; MARV ALBERT, NIEL DIAMOND, JOHN FORSYTHE, LOUIS GOSSET Jr. LEONA HELMSLEY, HARVEY KEITEL, HERBIE MANN, ARTHUR MILLER AND NIEL SEDAKA. 


The game was played at noon, on a grim Sunday, in mid-October.  During our pre-game drills, I was awestruck watching the Adonis-like Sanford strut through his warm-ups. Soon I noticed many of my cohorts who hadn't been swayed by his reputation, were suddenly just as psyched-out as me when they saw this bearded fifteen year-old giant's aura of invincibility.

Our varsity head coach coached the JV too.  However, he had other obligations that day and turned the reigns over to his second in command, running backs coach Stu Yaker.

Coach Yaker gathered us in the dingy visitors locker room for his final pep-talk. Maybe he was too new at it or perhaps I was so intimidated that I let myself get distracted.  I scanned the room's rusty, decayed and broken lockers.  Next to a leaky pipe, I saw paint peeling off the ceiling.  My gaze finally fixed on the cracked, opaque window and how the grayness of the day filtered through the little hexagon-shaped safety wires in the glass.

To make matters worse, our best athlete didn't show up.  We were about to "storm" onto the field when H. Minis (#83), (our fastest player...who at six-foot-three, could jump high enough to dunk a basketball), sashayed in.  Coach Y. was not pleased by his tardiness and lack of urgency.  He hastily organized a player's only meeting for the purpose of deciding if Minis should play or not. 

In the impromptu private meeting, one of the captains, (swayed by the idea of more playing time for his less talented cronies), demanded that Minis not only be kept off the field but to be permanently kicked off the team. 

Minis and I had been childhood friends.  Even though peer group and social pressures caused us to grow apart, I still appreciated the strong bond we shared in elementary school. Additionally, Minis was experiencing personal problems.  I never understood the specifics but, I knew he had a real job that got him excused from several practices.

Due to my allegiance to Minis, I didn't need a push to vote in favor of letting him play. However Jan Soodak took control, rebutted the captain's selfish motives and championed Minis' cause.  In a short speech, he eliminated the politics and bullshit and rallied the locker room (by a narrow margin), to allow Minis to play.

IN 2002, TO HELP HONOR HIS GRAMMA'S 72nd BIRTHDAY, MY SON ANDREW POSED IN THE SAME JV JERSEY I WAS WEARING WITH JAN, (see picture above).  ALSO, MY BOY IS HOLDING MY SENIOR JERSEY IN HIS LEFT HAND AND MY JUNIOR YEAR'S, IN HIS RIGHT. 

We charged out onto Lincoln Field and found the bleachers empty. JV games attracted few spectators, no cheerleaders and no band.  A handful of family, friends and curiosity seekers made-up the twenty-plus witnesses that rimmed the side lines.  To prove the insignificance of these games even the officials were unpaid volunteers in street clothes and the scoreboard was not used.

The game seemed like an instant replay of our previous three losses.  Our defense gave a worthy effort but our offense remained stymied. In the waning moments, we clung to the consolation of having muddled through without an embarrassing slaughter.

We trailed 16-2 when we got the ball back on our own thirty-five yard line with a minute and a half left in the game.  The attitude in the huddle lacked intensity as Jan called for a screen pass left.  I ran parallel to the line of scrimmage and knocked a defender on his back as DRJ (#7), caught the ball behind me and cut up field.  DRJ wove through the enemy secondary before being tracked down by Sanford, sixty-one yards later, (by far our longest gain...ever).

Jan immediately realized that with just one big play our entire season of futility was over. His resolve took a 180 degree turn and this confidence boost radiated through all of us.  He called a simple running play.  The line fired-out, our halfback N. Bitetto (#9), ran through a gap and into Sanford's arms, but he squirted free, twisted and lunged into the end zone.  That touchdown, our first EVER on offense, made the score 16-8. 

That one score was enough of a moral victory to have us all run off the field with our head's held high, as if we accomplished something.  But quarterback Soodak and flanker CHSCHIEF, (#85), kept everyone's emotions focused.  They helped us understand that we were still fighting an uphill, yet winnable battle.

In lieu of kicking a one-point, "extra-point," a team can "go for two points" by running one normal play, from the two-yard.  Since we didn't have a place kicker, we would have had to go for a two-point conversion under any circumstance.  Incredibly, we succeeded.

The score was 16-10 as Coach Yaker gathered us during a time-out.  After a ton of rah-rah stuff, his exact quote was, "Does anyone know what an onside kick is?" 

An onside kick is a specific type of kick-off.  It is designed to avoid giving possession of the ball back to the enemy.  Usually, this desperate ploy is used by a losing team near the end of a game. The rule is, after a kick-off travels at least ten yards, it is a free ball...and whoever recovers the ball, (similar to a fumble), gains possession.

Due to limited funding, our JV only practiced once a week.  So this rarely used tactic was never rehearsed by us.  C. Avitto, (#8), responded to Coach Yaker's question like an inspired kid answering a question in school.  He enthusiastically raised his hand and his exact quote was, "I do coach!  And I CAN do it!"

ON FEBRUARY 7, 2010, IN SUPER BOWL XLIV, NEW ORLEANS SAINTS COACH SEAN PAYTON, SHOCKED THE INDIANAPOLIS COLTS AND THE FOOTBALL WORLD BY OPENING THE SECOND HALF WITH AN ONSIDE KICK.  HIS STRATEGIC GENIUS, (THE FIRST ONSIDE KICK PRIOR TO THE FOURTH QUARTER IN SUPER BOWL HISTORY),  CHANGED THE MOMENTUM OF THE GAME AND LED TO AN IMPRESSIVE AND PROBABLE WIN.

Onside kicks, especially from an inexperienced player, tend to be soft taps into, "no man's land." The result looks like a demolition derby as eleven players from each team crash together, in a frenzied attempt to recover the ball.  That's what I was expecting as I watched from the near side bench.

I was directly behind Avitto as he took a diagonal path to the ball.  To my surprise, the kick was a classic, skip, skip, pop-up.  Along the far side line H. Minis jumped, snatched the ball and raced, untouched for a game tying touchdown.  BUT NO!  The volunteer referee correctly disallowed the kicking team (us) from advancing an onside kick.  But we were awarded possession of the ball, forty-five yards from more paydirt.

Jan, the eternal optimist, didn't think a total comeback win was abstract or implausible.  But his Harry Theofiledes opinion of himself centered on his awareness that he did not have a howitzer for a throwing arm.  So by being a realist about his shortcomings, instead of trying to throw an expected bomb into the teeth of a prevent defense, Jan confidently called another screen pass to DRJ.  We didn't get the same rich success as the previous sixty-one yarder but we got down to Lincoln's twenty-five yard line.

Jan called our last time-out.  While we were in our huddle, the referee said, "Boys, I'm letting you and Lincoln know, this will be the last play of the game."  Jan was left with no other choice but to go for broke.  By NFL standards, the twenty-five yard line is almost close.  But to "Dandy" Jan, twenty-five yards was the high end of his throwing distance range. So, in the era before the phrase, "Hail Mary," came into popularity, all he could do was give the ball, the old heave-ho...and pray.

The offensive line gave Jan plenty of time.  When the pass was released, I disengaged my defender and watched the ball's high arcing, wobbly flight and lame duck descent.  In the right side of the end zone, all I saw was a school of white-shirted, ball-hawking piranhas, waiting to feast on the apparent interception.  Then suddenly from out of nowhere, like a single, dark blue, killer whale at the Sea World show, Minis leaped between the waves of defensive backs.  He reached over their greedy out-stretched hands and snared ball like a tasty fish-food treat...TOUCHDOWN !

We were happily shocked to tie the score at 16-16.  Lincoln was stunned!  But Jan knew there was still work to be done.  He huddled us together for the two-point conversion and swiftly called a quarterback sneak.  We charged up to the ball...our rivals were back on their heels.  Off a rarely used quick count, the Canarsie Junior Chiefs all surged forward. 

I was tangled in a heap of bodies as I heard the final whistle.  In the surreal next three seconds, I was disoriented as I tried to free myself from the mass of humanity.  The first thing I saw when I was freed from the pile-up, was the referee's hands and fingers pointing, straight up.  I saw the hulking figure of Sanford which had obliterated Jan's #17 jersey stand up.  That's when I pieced together the significance of Dandy Jan's torso, straddling the goal line.

To this day, I'm not certain whether I got more satisfaction over the unlikely finish to our first win, 18-16...or how upset Sanford was and seeing other Lincoln players actually cry.

Jan was the first friend of mine that died.   It's too bad that during our last conversation in front of Goody's, I forgot to tell him that I saw him on the TV highlights...it would have brightened that part of our chat.  But I'm glad we got to rehash our first organized football victory...because I like telling that story and by telling it, it helps keep my dandy memories of Jan alive. 

LOUIS C. MONEY AND FORTUNATE FINN

It was five minutes before midnight, on Wednesday May 4th when the squawk of the police radio stirred one of "New York's Finest," Louis C. Money.  During his nearly six years on the force, he had digressed into a well-accomplished goof-off.  On quiet nights these, he liked to nap in his prowl car, in the secluded alley, between Great Jones Drive and E Street.

The sleepy officer opened one eye and disregarded his dispatcher's call because it was for another unit.  He yawned and stretched before turning down the volume and checking the time.  Then he set aside his last doughnut and brushed the crumbs and powdered sugar off his bulbous belly from the half dozen he "muscled" from the bagel store owner. Money took the last swig of his now cold coffee and tossed the Styrofoam cup out the window.  After a deep sigh, the malingerer decided to stay put in his oasis for another few minutes, as if to start the new day (Thursday), right.

The policeman lit his last Camel and flicked the spent match and empty pack onto the already littered pavement.  He took a long drag and stared off into space as his mind wandered from one grim topic to another.  He agonized the longest, on losing his part-time job earlier that day, (as a security guard at the bank on Texas Avenue).  Money was fired without warning when his boss caught-on to his extended, unsanctioned breaks, at Off Track Betting (OTB). 

IN 1970, OTB OPENED AS A LEGAL HORSE BETTING PARLOR IN NEW YORK CITY.  AT THE HEIGHT OF ITS POPULARITY, (LATE 80's), SEVERAL HUNDRED LOCATIONS WERE SCATTERED THROUGHOUT THE FIVE BOROUGHS,  IN DECEMBER 2010, OTB CEASED OPERATION, DUE TO LACK OF PROFITABILITY.

While Money continued to milk every gold-bricking moment, he removed several losing, OTB tickets from his wallet, tore them in half and tossed them into the gutter. All that was left of tangible value in his bill-fold was his decrepit, "lucky" two-dollar bill...and three ones.  Then he spotted the edge of his son Kevin's photo, under a divorce lawyer's business card.  A lump formed in Money's throat when he remembered that his estranged wife (Karla) had filed for a restraining order which would prevent him from coming into his Kindergartner's class, to attend his boy's Cinco De Mayo-themed, birthday party.

To fight the regret, Money perked-up for a second when he recalled his greatest victory at the track.  He once won twelve-thousand on a trifecta at Aqueduct and that nest-egg, gave him the confidence to propose.  His bubble of happiness burst seconds later, when he realized that he only won because his friend who placed the bet, screwed up the numbers and accidentally bet, 8-7-6 instead of 7-6-5.

Louis C. Money's expression soured when he thought of his two nicknames.  Around the precinct, his brethren sarcastically called him "No-Money" because he was always broke and trying to borrow.  And his in-laws began calling him "Lou-Zerr" shortly after his expensive honeymoon.  That's when he squandered the little he had left on the ponies and started his downward spiral, into heavy-duty debt.

Before getting back on the job, to ease his boredom, Money wished he had the next issue of, "THE DAILY RACING FORM." He wanted it so bad that he closed his eyes and his body trembled.  It would have looked like he was meditating or having a seizure as he summoned all his powers of positive thinking to produce it. Then he looked out from his squad car and was actually disappointed that his faith didn't magically have one appear in the street.

ESTABLISHED IN CHICAGO ILLINOIS, (1894), "THE DAILY RACING FORM," IS STILL ACTIVE AS A TABLOID NEWSPAPER PROVIDING STATISTICAL INFORMATION ON HORSE RACING.

Money was not a religious man but during financial swoons, he prayed long and hard...just in case.  He was not smart either and was famous for poor decisions that weren't well-thought through.  So it was common for him to take a careless plunge after convincing himself that the law of averages was on his side and that he could not POSSIBLY fail again.

Of his many get-rich-quick schemes, the worst was a multi-level marketing (pyramid), fiasco.  It required him to buy thousands of dollars of an off-brand, car engine fuel additive and encouraging friends (soon to be ex-friends) to do the same.  That stupidity was the final straw that caused Karla to leave him after he lost their down-payment on her dream house.

Money didn't believe in the para-normal either but in his most desperate moments, he wasted salary, time and energy, in palm readings, the occult, horoscopes and numerology.

A PYRAMID SCHEME,  IS A NON-SUSTAINABLE BUSINESS MODEL THAT INVOLVES PARTICIPANTS PAYMENT OR SERVICES, PRIMARILY FOR ENROLLING OTHER PEOPLE INTO THE SCHEME, RATHER THAN SUPPLYING ANY REAL INVESTMENT OR SALE OF PRODUCTS TO THE PUBLIC.

A few minutes after twelve, Officer Louis C. Money resumed work.  He put his cruiser in drive, turned on his searchlight and slowly examined every crevice in the blackened alley. Suddenly, the dispatcher's voice crackled, "Car fourteen, respond to a possible 505 in progress, at the Pentagon Stock Tower." 

Money grabbed his radio's microphone and said, "One-four, on the way.  What's up Paddy?" 

"Night watchman didn't report in at midnight and isn't pick up the phone."

In a short time, Money arrived at the scene.  He shined his spotlight at the front door and reported back to headquarters, "Nothing out of the ordinary at the main entrance.  I'll circle around back and investigate the rear."  At the back, he saw a glint of light between the door jamb and the door.  He reported his findings, asked for backup and kissed the two-dollar bill in his wallet for luck.  Money got out of the police car.  He drew his service revolver and readied his flashlight before reluctantly advancing to the five-storied warehouse.

He pushed through the ajar door.  Inside, the only thing that broke the silence was his soft foot steps.  The ground-floor was dominated by an empty garage, a loading dock and a set of huge elevators that could transport trucks upstairs.  Money tip-toed to the lit reception area up front and its adjacent business offices.  He heard dim country-western music and inched towards the louder sound of Johnny Cash.

Money was at a bad angle to see inside the outer office.  The coward chose to linger there in the hope that his back-up would arrive.  When they didn't, the image of his son's party later that day flashed through his mind as he pounced across the threshold with his weapon ready to fire.  At the secretary's desk, he discovered the night watchman slumped over, his throat slashed. 

A quick scan of the bloody crime scene revealed that there was something wrong with the victim's right hand...all his fingers were mangled.  In his left hand, there was a white, #2 pencil with its point snapped off.  Under his left forearm was that day's, "DAILY RACING FORM." 

Money was not a good policeman but he was savvy enough to avoid tampering with evidence.  But, he was swayed by the mystic arrival of the paper and rationalized that fate was on his side.  Plus, his curiosity to get a scoop from the corpse's racing notations, got the better of him.

Money kept a diligent ear open for his back-up as he gently slid the newspaper out from under the weight of the dead man's arm.  On that page, he found a single semi-circle was drawn around one item.  Money guessed that the guard was murdered while completing the circle.

He flipped through all the pages and returned to that semi-circle before realizing that it was on the fifth page, around the fifth horse, in the fifth race...and was the only mark, in the entire booklet.  The mounting coincidences involving the number five didn't strike him until he saw that the horse, Fortunate Finn was going off at five-to-one...even the unknown jockey's names, Edgar and Mills, both had five letters.

Louis C. Money took these developments as a sign of Divine Intervention.  It never crossed his mind to hunt-down the perpetrator(s).  He didn't even call the station house.  Instead, his mind raced, to find a way to bet this, "lead pipe cinch, lock of a lifetime." 

The phone system at Pentagon Freight Forwarding had five out-going lines. Money decided to call Lefty, his bookie, from the last one.  His bookie would know he didn't have two nickels to rub together, so he had to come up with a plausible way, to make the bet on credit. 

Before dialing the telephone, Money shut off the watchman's transistor radio as the headline news story featured President Nixon. While the phone rang, he looked down at the decedent's deformed right hand and wondered, if they called him Lefty too.

The bookie picked up and Money said, "I want a thousand on the nose.  On the number five horse, Fortunate Finn in the fifth, at Santa Anita." 

The bookie said, "Okay Lou, but you gotta pay up front." 

"Lefty, you know I'm good for it..."

 "No you ain't...you gotta bad history and there's no percentage in me chasing down, dead beat cops." 

"How's about I drop off my Caddy, the registration and title...the whole shebang...as collateral, at noon." 

"I don't want that puke-colored heap for grand." 

"Lefty, it's worth over two...and it's kelly green." 

"Kiddo, right now you got no action, capisce? I hear it in your voice that you're all hyped-up.  I say, cool off...and if you don't come to your senses, see me tomorrow.  And to prove I have a heart, maybe, I'll let you have five Benjis for the car." 

Money said, "C'mon, make it five hundred and fifty-five and you got a deal!" 

Lefty said, "Whatever?" 

Money heard screeching brakes outside and said, "See ya."

Money hustled to the rear entrance and ushered in a sergeant, three other cops and the warehouse owner. Money reported, "I secured the building.  I took the elevator to the top floor and worked my way down." 

The owner whispered to the sergeant, "The elevators are shut off at night." 

The sergeant's right eyebrow arched as he ordered two officers upstairs and the third to the office.  Then the owner said, "Where's the night watchman and the custodian?" 

Money stammered, "Custodian?  I-I-I was upstairs and didn't see him." 

The cop in the office called for them.  The sergeant told the owner wait right there but he followed them anyway. Money tried acting surprised when he saw the body.  The owner turned, winced and went into his private office.

The sergeant said, "We tried calling you on the phone."

Money shrugged, "I was upstairs...I probably couldn't hear it." 

"But the dispatcher said the line was busy..."

Before Money could conger-up an excuse, one of the policemen from upstairs came running in and said, "The janitor is in the locker room, his throat's been..."  He saw the dead security guard and gulped, "slashed."

Seconds later the owner came out and said, "I've been robbed and Friday's payroll is gone too!"

At the precinct, Money spent five hours that morning being interrogated by his lieutenant.  The proceedings were finally over at 10:00AM. At that point, he was informed that he was suspended pending further investigation and was asked to forfeit his gun and shield.

Two hours later, in civilian garb, Money was all smiles as he entered Quint Coyle's Tavern and said to the bartender, "Lefty's expecting me."  The barman pressed a button and Money pushed through a door to the back room. Lefty was there with a brutal-looking collector named James.

Lefty didn't look up and said, "Louie, you still wanna go through with it?"

Money jiggled his car keys, extended the title and registration and crowed, "I'm parked by the fruit stand, I'll be back for it and my $27,750.00, tomorrow."

The goonish henchman smirked when Lefty said, "Einstein, check your math, you only stand to win twenty-seven hundred and fifty bucks..."

Money blushed as he gave up his car and said, "Umm, uhh.  I knew that.  I was jus' kiddin'."

On the way out Money wanted to shake hands but Lefty refused, "I ain't no gentlemen and we ain't friends.  If you lose, I don't want the whole fuzz department up my ass.  So don't even think about charity or begging for special favors." 

James smashed his fist into his palm and said with a sickening grin, "Ya know, the hand represents all the elements on earth." 

Money said, "Heh?" 

James admired his freshly buffed fingernails and said, "Yeah, the four fingers are for fire, water, air and the land...and the thumb, is the spirit."  Money quivered as he thought of the night watchman's hand.

MONEY PICTURED HIS OWN HAND MUTILATED AND SAID,  "IF I LOSE,  I WON'T CAUSE YOU ANY TROUBLE."

James opened the door as a cue for Money to leave.  The disgraced policeman was passing him as James said, "Five is the symbol of the Man-God.  Jesus had five wounds on the cross...five is the number of grace...don't risk your fingers."

At 2:00PM, all that was left in Money's wallet was his two-dollar bill when he showed up at his son's school.   Karla controlled her rage as the dutiful father slapped palms with his son before handing the delighted birthday boy, a chintzy pinwheel with a five-pointed star.

In private, Money tried to tell his wife how everything is going to be all right.  He apologized for the time he pushed her down and for his "meaningless," violent threats.  She had heard so many variations of the same nonsense and tuned him out.

Karla ducked out for a minute as Money resigned himself to eating tacos and happily looking on at the festivities.  A little later, Karla and the teacher were organizing the Pinata game when two uniformed men in blue, appeared at the door.  They caught Money's attention and signaled him into the hall.

Money ranted at the police and struggled with them while getting handcuffed.  He was locked-up over night.  Late the next morning, Money walked back to his efficiency apartment and drank his last beer for breakfast.  He was so excited that he couldn't wait to call Lefty, collect his winnings and get his life back in order. 

When noon finally rolled around he called Lefty and confidently said, "So how did my five-to-one shot Fortunate Finn, the number five horse, do in the fifth race?" 

Lefty said, "He came in fifth."

THE TRUE SUPER BOWL

The granddaddy of all football games is starting in a couple of hours.  I'm sure it would be exciting to attend but I'm sorry to say, I haven't been to a live, professional football game in almost thirty-one years.  Even worse, I've only been to four, ever!



SUPER BOWL XLVI, PITS THE GIANTS AGAINST THE PATRIOTS.  I'LL WATCH THE GAME AT VEGA44'S HOUSE BUT I DON'T CARE WHO WINS BECAUSE THEY ARE MY SECOND AND THIRD LEAST FAVORITE TEAMS.  THE ONLY SCENARIO WHERE I WOULD EVER ROOT FOR ONE OF THEM WOULD BE IF THEY WERE PLAYING THE MUCH HATED COWBOYS...(aka, THE JUNKEES OF THE GRIDIRON).  THEREFORE, IF THE COWBOYS WERE PLAYING THE MARTIANS...I'D ROOT FOR THE MARTIANS.

 It's hard to imagine but in my entire life, I've only attended one playoff game...but it was baseball.  I remember the circumstance well.  I was at Brooklyn College (BC) with a friend and his two friends. An hour before game time, we heard there were still "good tickets" available and impulsively decided to cut class.

DESPITE MISSING A CRUCIAL REVIEW IN UNDERWATER BASKET WEAVING-101, I STILL GOT THE "C," AND EVENTUALLY GRADUATED BC...ON TIME.

The Mets were playing the Cincinnati Reds, (October 9, 1973) in the National League Championship Series.  That day, we could have eliminated the much heralded, "Big Red Machine," with a win.  So it was shocking that with so much riding on that single game, (the other major storyline was, Pete Rose had beat-up a Mets player the day before), that we could walk-up to the box office and get seats.  The Mets were heavy underdogs and of course, when I went, they annoyingly lost, on a Pete Rose homer in the twelfth inning, (but won the next game and went to the World Series).

The three things I came away from that game were, the Mets did better without me in attendance, Pete Rose had a haircut like Moe from, "THE THREE STOOGES," and despite 50,786 fans in Shea Stadium...the twenty-four, half-inning breaks, were enough to keep the lines for the men's room manageable.

On the other hand, the lines to the bathroom are never manageable at football games.  I learned this lesson early when my school trip in third grade, (December 14, 1963...three weeks after the Kennedy assassination), was to the antiquated Polo Grounds, (the New York Jets lost to the Buffalo Bills, 19-10). It would be the last pro game played there before that old rattle trap was torn down.

LOCATED AT WEST 155th STREET IN MANHATTAN, THE POLO GROUNDS WAS BUILT IN 1890, AS A...GROUNDS FOR POLO...DUH!  THEREFORE ITS ODD CONFIGURATION WAS CRAZY FOR BASEBALL...AND BEST KNOWN FOR ITS CAVERNOUS, 505 FEET TO CENTER FIELD.  NO HOME RUN EVER MADE IT THAT FAR BUT MOST OLD-TIMERS REMEMBER WILLIE MAYS' SENSATIONAL, OVER THE SHOULDER CATCH OFF VIC WERTZ IN THE 1954 WORLD SERIES...IT WAS A CRAPPY FOOTBALL VENUE TOO .

During the preceding summer, I had been to the Polo Grounds, (Mets games), twice with my dad.  I was eight, so for security reasons, he always escorted me to the men's room.  But on the school trip, I was left to my own devices.  So during the only break in the action, (half time)...I joined a polar stampede version of,  "The Great Oklahoma Land Rush," to the urination station.  A mere 6,526 people attended the game because it was nineteen degrees, the field was frozen and the Jets stunk. Nevertheless, it seemed like every one of them, went to pee at the same time.

IN 1963 THE HOME ATTENDANCE FOR JETS GAMES TOPPED OFF AT 22,000.  LINEBACKER LARRY GRANTHAM ONCE SAID, "THE CROWDS WERE SO SMALL THAT IT WAS EASIER FOR THE FANS TO INTRODUCE THEMSELVES TO THE PLAYERS."

The Polo Grounds had another feature that required my dad to be my wing man. From beneath the stands, a narrow, rickety catwalk led to the washroom.  The slightest vibration made me feel like I was on one of the rope bridges with wooden slats, from jungle movies.  I didn't have a fear of heights but looking down at the spectators below was completely out of the question. So, bravery had nothing to do with my motivation to solo across this span...that's how bad I needed, "to go."

The situation got worse because the line was out the door.  I was ready to explode as I inched closer to relief.  Then between the huge (adult) overcoat-clad bodies, I caught a glimpse and remembered the immense, white tiled latrine on the floor that I was expected to do my business in.

At the head of the line, elbow to elbow with men, I was afraid that I'd fall into the golden canal.  Harsh voices, using angry sounding words that I was unfamiliar with, threateningly "encouraged" me from behind.  I tried, but nothing came out.  It was a sad case of performance anxiety.  I was embarrassed when I failed to launch and soon relinquished my spot.  Seconds later, I was dying to go all over again.  Luckily, even with the putrid stink, I survived...when a drunk vacated the sanctuary of a lockless stall.

I LOOKED THROUGH 80 GAZILLION GOOGLE PHOTOS AND NONE DID THE POLO GROUNDS' TROUGH URINAL ANY  JUSTICE.

I went to two more Jets games, (1965 and 1977).  In both cases, I was savvy enough to go potty way before (after) half time.

The last NFL game I went to was on November 15, 1981.  My wife Sue and I were living in Las Vegas and we flew up to San Francisco, to see SLW.  To spice up our visit, he got us 49ers tickets, for a game against the Cleveland Browns.

*JOE MONTANA LED THE 49ers THAT YEAR TO THEIR FIRST SUPER BOWL CHAMPIONSHIP.  DURING THE REGULAR SEASON, THEY WON TWELVE OF THEIR LAST THIRTEEN GAMES, (OF COURSE, WE SAW THE 15-12 LOSS TO THE BROWNS).  *MONTANA WOULD GO ON TO WIN ALL FOUR OF HIS SUPER BOWL APPEARANCES WITH SAN FRANCISCO.

Tons of rain hit the Bay Area, in the days leading up to our game. On that Sunday, we woke up to a raw, breezy, drizzly morning. Even worse, we found out that the Candlestick Park parking lot was closed due to flooding.  The TV news urged ticket holders to use public transportation. 

SLW drove us to a special service bus stop, at a strip mall in San Leandro...in his black, 1959 Volkswagen Bug. When our bus finally came, the dampened three of us shoved our way in and further discomforted the other packed-in sardines.

When we got off, we could see that the empty parking lot was underwater.  However outside our gate, makeshift accommodations were made for about fifty side-by-side buses.

SUE WAS NEITHER A FOOTBALL FAN OR A LOVER OF INCLEMENT WEATHER. SO SHE GLADLY RELEGATED HERSELF TO WANDERING AROUND WITH THE CAMERA OR MAKING HOT CHOCOLATE RUNS IN THE FIRST HALF AND BEER RUNS IN THE SECOND HALF.

The 49ers were the hottest team in the league.  They were expected to shellac the Browns but the wind, rain and poor field conditions helped keep the score down.


  I LEARNED THAT IT WAS BAD JUDGEMENT AT HALF TIME, TO TRY TO GET PICTURES OF THE PLAYERS.  ALSO, I'LL HAVE TO ASK SLW WHAT HE'S HOLDING? 



 Early in the fourth quarter, my beverage intake and the psychological trauma of the liquefied elements took their toll on my bladder. The game was getting exciting so rather than miss any of the building excitement, I made a childish decision to squirm in my seat rather than take care of my business.

The 49ers got the ball back with a minute and a half to go.  A sudden squall dropped sheets of sideways rain on us as I jibed Sue, "If they drive at least thirty yards and kick a field goal, we're going to overtime..."  It was one of the few times she ever physically abused me.


WHEN SUE MUSSED ME UP, IT WAS TWO YEARS BEFORE RALPHIE IN, "A CHRISTMAS STORY," WAS WARNED THAT HE'D SHOOT HIS EYE OUT, IF HE GOT A RED RYDER BB-GUN.  OF COURSE MY MANHOOD REQUIRED ME TO LIE ABOUT MY FACIAL INJURIES AND SAY, "THE 49ers WENT INTO THE SHOT-GUN AND IT BACKFIRED ON ME."



In the closing seconds, Joe Montana indeed led the team into field goal range but another player's stupid personal foul penalty, ended any hope of even trying to tie the game.  When the final gun went off, I bolted to the men's room.  I think all 52,000 people were ahead of me.  I was forced to use, "PLAN-B."  Through my yellowing eyes, I told Sue and SLW that I'd meet them outside and ran down the ramp.  I remembered the sea of buses outside and made it my mission to find nirvana between them. 



AT THE BACK OF THE SECOND LAYER OF BUSES, I FOUND A CONVENIENT CLUMP OF BUSHES.  IT WAS IN THE PRIVACY OF THIS EDEN-LIKE SETTING THAT I PREPARED TO END MY DISCOMFORT. 



A nanosecond before releasing, "the hounds," someone appeared in my peripheral vision.  My mind went into damage control and like a sluice gate clamping down on my urine valve, I painfully shut down my waterworks. At the point of exhaustion without spurting even a drop, I turned to face the expected arresting officer.  Instead, it was Sue focusing the camera. After a good deal of friendly two-way profanity, I used the parking lot floor as the true super (toilet) bowl.