QUICK CALL GUINNESS...IT'S THE WORLD RECORD FOR SHORTEST FRIENDSHIP

My first craps dealing job (Las Vegas, January-April 1979), was an incredibly terrible experience.  If I knew how my three months at the Slots-A-Fun Casino was to turn out, I probably would have run back to Brooklyn after a few hours of dealing and taken the post office job...hey wait...stupid me...sarcasm aside, I should've quit the casino racket because if we assume I never went postal and murdered all my supervisors, I would have retired with great benefits fourteen years ago.  Geez, now that I think about it, even if I killed a boss or two and was a model prisoner...I might be "out" by now anyway...boy what a schmuck I was !!!

Slots-A-Fun, like the cockroach has survived down through the ages. It was still in operation when I drove by in 2009 and the last time I was inside (1991) that tiny shithouse still only had one craps table, eleven blackjack games and a Big Six wheel.  I hope the latter generation of dealers made-out better than I did because grossing $150.00 a week was pitiful, even for 1979 standards. 

MY FRIEND VEGA44 DEALT CRAPS THERE TWO YEARS BEFORE ME AND HE CLAIMS, I HAD IT EASY.  THIS MUST BE A CONTEMPORARY PHOTO BECAUSE IN MY DAY, ALL DRINKS WERE A HALF-A-BUCK..

Aside from the pay, the physical conditions were brutal too.  In the photo above, the craps table was just inside, to the right of the opening.  That meant that on cold days, (I started in winter), the stickman's back was freezing because it was outside the building, at the same time that heater blew hot air on his face. 

Another discomfort was the Riviera Casino's hotel tower across the street.  It was all-glass which meant on sunny afternoons (there were plenty of sunny afternoons) the reflection blinded the craps (base) dealers. 

If that wasn't enough, a taxi stand was next to the front door.  That meant that the fledgling craps staff was bombarded with savvy cabbies who came in to take a quick "shot."  These low-lifes were able to pick-up a few dollars by making false claims and purposely causing chaos, in order to take advantage of us.

Unfortunately, complaining about the money and the harsh conditions seems petty compared to the way we were treated. I hope they now have a Human Resource department because we were verbally abused by management whenever something went wrong, (and wrong happened several times each roll of the dice).  The work environment was so hostile that the turnover...through quitting and getting fired...was so high that hardly a day would pass without a new dealer starting.

The two main villains were Mr. Broderick Boyle and Willard LaFitte.  Mr. Boyle was the casino manager.  He hated losing and didn't care how bad he was perceived as he tried to profit from every aspect of the operation.  I really think, as impossible as it was, Boyle's constant anger was caused by his disappointment that every gambler didn't leave penniless.

Mr. Boyle, (in my thirty-four career was the only boss that insisted on being called mister), looked like Roger Ebert's evil twin.  When he got in your face to criticize you, his fiery bad breath (that stunk of decayed meat) seemed to singe your eyebrows.  His manical and delusional drive to have the casino fiscally sound meant keeping the place on a shoe-string budget.  He was so commited to this idea that he served as the relief floorman in blackjack and craps.  He also gave the bartender breaks, refilled the cigarette machine and once picked up a broom to sweep-up ice cubes when the porter was on his break. Luckily there was never a serious ruckus because Slots-A-Fun was the only casino I ever heard of that didn't have at least one security guard.

The one thing that truly made Boyle unique to all other bosses I know, is that he owned a quarter of one share in the joint.  So, he wasn't sweating someone else's money...he was sweating his own.

Boyle's yes-man was a sleazy, moronic, bastard named Willard LaFitte.  Willard a rural Louisianan was the lowest life form I ever met.  He was a craps dealer when I started but he undermined our boxman in order to steal his ($62.50/a day), position.  LaFitte was such a slug that he mocked the poor man after he suffered a nervous breakdown (on the job) in front of his wife and two pre-school daughters. 

LaFitte was fat,bald, ugly and always broke...from gambling. He was a white supremacist and hated everyone.  On the job, he made it a point to exaggerate any house advantage against the players.  Consistent with the movie "WILLARD" he was also a rat.  He reported all the dealer errors to Boyle and accused all of us, at one time or another, of NOT trying to beat everyone.

If that wasn't enough, he stalked and sexually harrassed female dealers.  He was such an awful person that I made my short story, "THE HEAT IS ON," a murder mystery and used him as the victim.  Trust me, the line of suspects would have wrapped around the block twice...and I would have been at the head of the line.

We knew Slots-A-Fun was a shit place to work, (my friends from the NEW YORK SCHOOL OF GAMBLING, CIRO THE HERO and JLOOPY worked there too).  But without experience or connections, it seemed impossible to reach out for a better job, (my friends had a big advantage over me, they worked different shifts and weren't exposed to Boyle or LaFitte).

The turnover in craps was so high that I never made new friends.  However, I started to hang-out with three male blackjack dealers outside work, (once a week we went to the El Cortez and had the $3.99 steak dinner and shot twenty-five cent craps).  Soon we graduated to Jai Alai at the MGM, (you may recall, I was with them when we got kicked out for using a big-shot's name to beat the fifty-cent admission fee).  When they all left for better jobs, I was on my own again.

On a cold, stormy, February morning another new face appeared on my crew.   It was so raw outside that the usual hordes of customers never showed. For hours, we dealt to one or two people or stood dead (open without players).  During working moments, Willard was unnecessarily unkind to the new guy so he didn't speak much.  When Willard went on break, Henry Parnell opened up and we established a nice rapport.

Henry was from Buffalo New York.  I was familiar with the area and rattled off towns like Fredonia, Dunkirk, East Aurora and Kenmore.  Then I made him laugh when I said, "Did you know that Buffalo had more bowling alleys per capita than any other city?"  He said, "Well yeah, I did know, I'm on the pro bowler's tour. Well, I was, until I hurt my back. I was making decent money so hopefully I can get myself back together and do it again."

Our new friendship started to bloom as the rain let up to a fine mist.  Henry and I were the base dealers so we shared the same view of the occasional passerby.  One of them was a haggered bag lady with tattered, laceless sneakers.  She had poked her head through a plastic supermarket sack and was using it as a poncho.  This woman was also wearing a short dungaree skirt that helped display her unmistakable stream of urine splashing the already wet pavement. Unencumbered by Willard, Henry and I laughed like hyenas and joked about our shared perception that the female anatomy wouldn't allow the derelict to pee without losing stride.

We were still giggly when Willard returned.  The idiot desperately wanted to know why we were so happy.  Henry and I were on the same page, so like doctors from TV's, "M*A*S*H*" amid all the casino gore we were exposed to in the trenches...we kept our little slice of joy to ourselves.When we saw the effect of keeping the insecure ass hole in the dark, we exaggerated our giddiness.  Even when he asked direct questions or made demands, Henry and I talked in circles (as if we had rehearsed it). When players opened up our table, Willard was clueless and frustrated...and therefore dangerous.

"M*A*S*H*" LASTED ELEVEN SEASONS AND 251 EPISODES.  ALTHOUGH A LOT OF THE HUMOR WAS DARK AND RELATED TO THE  KOREAN WAR, THIS SIT-COM (DRAMEDY) WAS VOTED IN 2002, TV GUIDE'S 25th GREATEST ALL-TIME SHOW.  MY FAVORITE PART WAS WHEN LIBERAL-MINDED HAWKEYE PIERCE (lower center) AND TRAPPER JOHN McINTYRE TALKED CIRCLES AROUND CONSERVATIVE FRANK "FERRET FACE" BURNS (second from right).

We were about five hours into our shift when the sun broke out.  I was basking in the joy of having a compatriot on the game with me but I was also invisioning how to cultivate my man crush with Henry outside of work.

In no time, the crowds reappeared.  Two of Henry's players were middle age women.  These novice gamblers were both playing a dollar-fifty each on the "BIG SIX AND EIGHT."  They won a dollar and a half (even money) each time they won.  Then Henry committed a harsh Slots-A-Fun faux pas...he suggested that they could "place" the six and eight, (be bound by the same rules of winning and losing) and receive 7 for 6 odds, ($1.75 instead of $1.50).

This turn of events pleased Willard.  Bent on revenge, he ran and got Mr.  Boyle.  When Boyle comprehended that Henry had transgressed the unwritten law, he was (physically) pulled off the game.  The action continued with Henry's base vacant so Willard unprofessionally tossed payouts across the table from his boxman position. 

Boyle was yelling profanites and questioning both Henry's intelligence and the legitamacy of his parentage.  I was afraid to watch but I caught a quick glimpse and saw Henry wincing from bully's nuclear breath.  Boyle got so exasperated that this glasses were slightly askew as white, gauzy spittle formed at the corner of his mouth.  Then after a giant cleansing huff, in regard to casino percentages, he rhetorically uttered, "Piss-ant, do you know the difference between playing one-fifty on the Big Six and Eight and placing them for a buck and a half?"  Henry was supposed to be submissively quiet. Or plead ignorance and beg for forgiveness.  But Henry thought Boyle was as stupid as Willard LaFitte and called the prick's bluff, "Yeah I know the difference, twenty-five cents!"  Boyle screamed so loud that I was expecting a plaster shower when he proclaimed, "YOU'RE FIRED!"

Henry wasn't disgraced, he looked relieved as he walked away.  Then LaFitte croaked in his heavy Southern accent to Boyle, "And this thisy here one taint no better." Boyle turned to me and growled, "And you, you better stay on your toes."  I was smart? enough not to answer.

I was disappointed that a friendship with Henry never happened but I felt worse a few days later when I realized that I would never see him again...and I didn't.  I wonder if our choice few hours would qualify us for having the world's shortest friendship?

EPILOGUE - Due to Slots-A-Fun's limited resources, it had no system for extra dealers.  When Henry was fired, Boyle used creativity by closing the BIG-SIX wheel and using a dealer I never saw before, (Yung Yune), as a stop gap replacement.  

In 1979 Asian dealers were rare.  So because of my prejudice, I expected this forty-year old Korean to be an expert.

Mr.  Boyle switched-up the dealer rotation and put Yune as the stickman.  The first roll was a nine and Yune confidently said, "Nine, center field nine."  I was impressed, even if he was shaky in retrieving the dice, but I figured he had to be nervous.  So, perhaps I wasn't prejudice after...maybe I just could spot talent when I saw it.  Of course I was wrong.  The second roll was a seven and Boyle's wunderkind said, "Seven, center field seven."  Because Yune could barely speech English and was never exposed to craps before, he spend the rest of the shift on stick and saying "center field" in every call he made.

EPILOGUE - II  - I just googled Henry Parnell's real name.  And guess what, today, he's a high profile member of the Las Vegas bowling scene.  If I get the time and brass balls, I will try to connect with him and let all you know if it's a strike or a gutter ball.

SEIZING THE BIRTHDAY MOMENT

When a young man realizes that he has found the right (long term...forever) girl, his perception of yours, mine and ours changes drastically.  In my case, rather than wait for a special occasion or lend my future wife the money to get a car, I stepped up and bought one for her.

Thirty-two years ago, after living together only a few months in Las Vegas, I took the automotive plunge.  A positive off-shoot of her having personal transportation is that in an alien environment, she suddenly had the autonomy to explore her own independence and fulfill internal growth.

To send this win-win proposition into motion, we scoured the classifieds and mapped out a route to see three, used Ford Mustangs.  The first was grape soda-colored with a filthy interior.  Unlike the cheery description, the car had mismatched, bald tires and its many dents looked like it barely survived a war zone. 

The second was unprofessionally repainted all white and had a cracked windshield.  The creepy owner was jumpy, like he was on something so we weren't buying his...even before we found out it was missing the jack and didn't have air-conditioning.

The third, (a 1974), was a shiny, clean fire engine red baby with a white vinyl roof.  The car had a souped-up engine that turned heads and made strangers smile as we roared by. The flaws included, a missing hub cap, a small scar that looked like someone pushed their thumb nail into the vinyl roof and the block letters of F-O-R-D were scrambled to spell, D-O-R-F.  It also had two pad locks that were needed to hold down the hood...but that actually looked cool.

The car drove well and was only slightly more expensive than the other duds.  After some fancy haggling on my part, I got two-hundred off the price. 

The Mustang was Sue's first car and she loved it. A few days later, we took a short road trip, (twenty miles) to Red Rock Canyon.  I was telling a friend about our outing and he said, "Red cars are unlucky.  Also, it's a proven fact that cops give more speeding tickets to red cars than all other colors combined."  Rather than argue that nonsense I added, "Next week we're going a little farther (sixty miles) to the Valley of Fire." He said, "I never heard of it."  I said, "If you never get out of town and explore (the under an hour away getaways like Lake Mead or Mount Charleston), you may as well be a prisoner on Devils Island."

SPRING - 1981,  VALLEY OF FIRE NEVADA. THIS IS THE ONLY PICTURE WE HAVE OF THAT MUSTANG. HEY RBOY, YOU MIGHT NOTICE, I BOUGHT THAT SHIRT AT WDW, THAT MEANS, IT'S AS OLD AS THE CAR.

My point about Devils Island was justified because Vegas is isolated in the middle of the desert.  So if you never venture out, the town is so ensconced in the gambling culture, (slot machines in the supermarkets, the dry cleaners etc.), and nearly every neighbor is associated with the casino business that it isn't a luxury to turn your back on "the excitement" for a few hours, it's a necessity.


I ADDED MY UNIQUE BEAUTY TO EVERY VISIT TO THE VALLEY OF FIRE.

When given a choice, we left Las Vegas a lot.  Sue and I took many out-of-town friends to these places but even though the Valley of Fire was furthest away, we went there the most because it seemed like the Mustang knew the way, all by itself.

WHETHER DOING SERIOUS COMMUNING WITH NATURE OR CLOWNING AROUND, THE VALLEY OF FIRE WAS OUR FAVORITE DESTINATION.

Another day trip was Hoover Dam.  I took the tour twice and swore to never go through it again.  Nevertheless, most tourists want to at least see the outside.

HOOVER DAM IS ONE OF THE USA'S CROWNING ACHIEVEMENTS.  TO PROTECT IT FROM TERRORISM, A NEW, GENIUS ENGINEERING FEAT, A BYPASS BRIDGE WAS RECENTLY COMPLETED.

So unless Sue and I had visitors jones-ing to see the dam, the closest we got was Lake Mead.

I ALWAYS LOVED A GOOD ADVENTURE.  I RENTED SPEEDBOATS ON LAKE MEAD TWICE WITH FRIENDS BEFORE SUE WAS IN MY LIFE...SO I KNEW THE ROPES WHEN WE DID IT TOGETHER.

Even when I was a kid, my imagination took me to far away places.


SUMMER - 1959. BUDDY'S AMUSEMENT PARK ON UTICA AVENUE IN FLATBUSH BROOKLYN.  PART OF MY HIGH-FLYING FANTASY WAS TO HAVE MY BIRTHDAY PARTY THERE.

I'm a simple man and I don't like being fussed over.  I can be happy just driving into the wilderness.  I do appreciate the finer things in life but I'm not materialistic.  When it comes to gifts, Sue's famous quote about me is, "What do you buy for a guy that has nothing...and wants nothing." 

So because I want so little, Sue usually gives in to my folly...even if it sometimes makes her nervous.

NOVEMBER - 1991 QUEBEC CITY CANADA.  SUE THOUGHT I WAS CRAZY FOR POSING IN THIS CURIO SHOP, GIVING THE "HONEYMOONERS" RACCOON LODGE SECRET, "WOO-WOO" SALUTE. 

Sue's greatest birthday idea was on my fiftieth.  From the outside looking in, it looks like her creativity took her, Andrew and I to Manhattan but her search on EBAY landed us a trip to Spamalot.

WE'VE SEEN A HANDFUL OF BROADWAY PLAYS BUT WE WERE NEVER SO ACROSS THE BOARD PLEASED THAN WITH SPAMALOT....THANK YOU AGAIN SUE, FOR THINKING OUTSIDE THE BOX.

In June 2010, I tested Sue's patience when I insisted on a brief detour, on the way to our cruise departure.

ONE OF THE REASONS WHY CRUISE LINES MAKE YOU COME RIDICULOUSLY EARLY BEFORE BLASTING OFF, IS SO YOU CAN SCRATCH-OFF BUCKET LIST ITEMS, IN THE NEIGHBORHOOD.

So when I think back to my twenty-sixth birthday wish, Sue had no problem with the idea of us getting out of town (Vegas).  I decided to go hiking on Mt. Charleston.  In honor of being the birthday boy, we agreed that I got to drive Sue's super hot...yet super cool Mustang.

WE HAD A REALLY GREAT DAY.  I COULD HAVE STAYED IN THE NICHE I CARVED OUT FOR MYSELF...FOREVER.

The only blight on that birthday was that the car's "idiot light" went on just before we got up there.  Before gallivanting through the woods, I wanted to check the anti-freeze level or at least add some water into the radiator.  But I didn't have the pad lock key for the hood on my keyring.  I shrugged it off and stupidly figured we'd be okay for the twenty-five minute drive home.

The temperature gauge needle stayed around three-quarters of the way into the danger zone the whole way coming down the mountain.  I coasted as much as I could and the needle seemed to stabilize. We were on level ground, ten minutes from home when the needle became flush to the far end of the red zone.  Seconds later, a slight grinding sound in the engine started.  The proverbial jig was up...before I could play it safe and pull over, I heard a loud clap...and the four-month old Mustang lost power.

The smell of a seized engine is not pretty.  Also, when we returned with the key and opened the hood, the milky color of the normally inky motor oil signalled that a new engine was needed...and never pursued.

THIS YEAR, SUE WENT BACK TO BASICS.  DR.  ATKINS CAN'T KEEP ME AWAY FROM MY FAVORITES FOREVER.  I ATE THE CENTER ECLAIR FIRST AND WAS "HAPPY STEVE," THE REST OF THE DAY.

In retrospect, our red Mustang never got a speeding ticket but that friend was right, the car was unlucky.  That seizing the moment incident remains one of my most embarrassing escapades especially, considering that it happened on my birthday.  But a million years later, it's greater fodder for Sue and I to share a good laugh over.

I think it's that laughter that solidifies our relationship. After all, there comes a time when a girl realizes that she has met the perfect forever man.  I'm pretty sure Sue has found her's because what she gives me, money can't buy. 

Unfortunately for me, today I re-learned the validity of the old saying; if you snooze, you lose.  I woke up this morning with a hankering for my other two pastries.  But apparently, gremlins came in the middle of the night and ate both the "HAPPY" and the "STEVE," eclair.  I'll round up the usual suspects but even if I catch the knave(s), I'll never get back the eclairs.

So much for the warm afterglow of the day after my birthday.

THE BROOKLYN FRENETICS

I once vented to a pit boss friend in Las Vegas.  He said, "What do you want me to do about it?"  I shrugged, "Nothing...I'm just saying..."  He said, "I'm willing to listen when you want to get something off your chest...but if you don't have a solution...then you're complaining...and nobody likes a complainer."  With that in mind, what I am doing in this blog is venting...because I do have a solution...and it's brilliant.

Don't be mislead by all the sports-speak...this blog is about money, BIG money.

Where do you stand on the; which came first, the chicken or the egg debate?  I never got involved...but when I was nine...way before I knew about copyright infringement laws...I thought it was stupid to have two baseball teams named after socks.

At the turn of the twentieth century there weren't many team ideas to violate.  You would think that a bright owner would want to cut-out his own niche even if he had to hire a public relations officer or an advertising agency to capitalize on what would later be called, his cleverness.

Regardless of which came first, naming your sports team (business) after hosiery...doesn't strike fear into the heart of an opponent.  So copying an existing moronic idea and making your team a second team emblematic of socks, is asinine.  This acute lack of imagination is laughable. Hence the white or red color of those socks is purely insignificant. 

For the record, the Chicago White Sox originated in 1901 as the White Stockings.  They changed their name to the White Sox in 1903.  The Boston Red Sox also started in 1901...as the Red Stockings.  So the decision-making genius in Boston should be ashamed for not creating an individualized identity when the name was changed (1908) to the Red Sox.

THIS LOGO WAS WORN ON THE 1908 BOSTON'S RED SOX UNIFORM SOCKS.

Of course both sox teams are weasels because the original Cincinnati Reds named them self the Red Stockings in 1876 (before officially shortening it, in the 1890's).  So both sox are guilty of name stealing.

In my early teens, I used to watch Canadian Football League games on TV.  Strangely, they had two teams called the Roughriders.  The Ottawa Rough Riders (two words) were named in 1898.  To the confusion of many and attracting ridicule to the CFL, (a league with only eight...or sometimes nine franchises), a new team from Saskatchewan took the Roughrider name (one word), in 1924. 

CFL ACTION FROM 1924, THE TORONTO ARGONAUTS VERSUS THE OTTAWA ROUGH RIDERS.

Upon closer examination, the management of both teams are worms because Ottawa, after the 1924 season, changed their name to the Senators. Therefore, Saskatchewan showed zero originality by adopting the pre-existing nickname.  Then Ottawa made things worse by restoring the Rough Riders and creating this curious duplication, five years later.  But wait...they are both stupid because the whole Canadian identity is lost by naming their teams after an American, Theodore Roosevelt and his 1898 regiment from the Spanish-American War.

The National Football League had the interesting case of the Chicago Cardinals. From the 1920's, they successfully competed in the same city as the Bears.  However, by the 50's, their status diminished badly after they won only thirty-three games, (in that decade)...causing the bottom to fall out of their fan base.  The team was staring down the threat of being disbanded but chose instead to relocate.  Coincidentally, they picked a city (St. Louis) that already had a baseball team called the Cardinals.  Rather than turn their back on their dismal past, they retained the nickname.  Part of their rational was...are you sitting...the Chicago Cardinals were name after the color "cardinal'...not the bird.

I think it would be fun to name my own team.  It would give me a chance to show my ingenuity and perhaps set-up a marketing strategy to sell my team's licensed mechanise.  If I had a team in Georgia and I wanted a pork slaughterhouse to sponsor me, I'd call my team, the Macon Bacon.  The Arkansas Razorbacks and Lehigh Valley Iron Pigs are named after swine too but I'd never be accused of stealing their idea.

If I was really cutting edge and starting a co-ed team in either Mississippi or New Jersey, I could call them...the Jackson Jills.

MY JACKSON JILLS TEAM COLORS WOULD BE EQUALLY BLUE AND PINK.  THIS TEAM IS FROM PORTLAND OREGON...I WONDER IF THEY'D BE WILLING TO TRAVEL TO JERSEY?

I say there is a fortune to made off a cool team name, a great mascot and selling team apparel.  At this time, there is expanding Hispanic heritage and awareness in our country, so to name a team in central Florida, the Orlando Cepedas would be a marketing bonanza. 

At least the fans of my teams would understand that greed a meaningful reason was the inspiration of the team nickname.

If I was to concentrate on my native New York, I could demonstrate that few people know how their team's name was derived

Did you ever ask yourself; what the hell is a Knick? The New York Knicks are really the Knickerbockers.  That name is so dated that hardly anybody realizes that it represents New Yorkers of Dutch descent from the 1600's...who wore a style of pants that were rolled-up to the knees.  These pants were called Knickerbockers, (or knickers).  Soon, all New Yorkers of Dutch descent were called Knickerbockers and in time, all New Yorkers were commonly called that.  So if Knicks fans frown down at team(s) being named after hosiery...they can make a case that the Knickerbockers are not named after pants...they are named after people...in strange pants.

THE ORIGINAL NEW YORK KNICKS LOGO (1946-1964) FEATURES "FATHER KNICK" WEARING KNICKERBOCKERS AND DRIBBLING A BASKETBALL.

Did you know that the New York Yankees were called the Highlanders until 1912.  When they moved from Hilltop Park, (a ball field at one of the highest points in New York City), they progressed to the Yankee name, (an American). They were doubly progressive because the name Americans had already been used.

More recently, the New York Mets joined the National League when they expanded to ten teams in 1962.  Not everyone knows that the name Mets, is an abbreviation for metropolitan, (someone living in a big city).  But because the term "Met" doesn't stand on it's own, it comes off as arbitrary or even worse, ridiculous.

The Los Angeles Dodgers left Brooklyn after the 1957 season.  For the uninitiated,"dodgers" pertain to moving aside quickly.  Or using trickery or cheating, to avoid something...which is an apt name for oft-stereotyped Brooklynites. 

The team name (since 1884) was also supported by the Charles Dickens street-wise character from, "OLIVER TWIST," Artful Dodger. When the team moved out west, the Dodger brand name was retained in "La-La Land" mainly because it was a connection to their successful history...and to a lesser extent, the name is also cool and unique.

IN THE LEAN YEARS, THE UNOFFICIAL NICKNAME OF THE TEAM WAS, "THE BUMS."

Interestingly, the term dodgers is an abbreviation.  It comes from the necessary skill that people from Brooklyn developed...to dodge trolley cars.  In the 1800's, a vast network of trolley tracks crisscrossed Brooklyn (as well as other parts of New York City).  An individual who wasn't nimble or paying attention risked being flattened at a busy intersection.  This situation was ignobly pointed out in Caleb Carr's novel, "THE ALIENIST," when men at a bar overlooking the treacherous sharp trolley car curve at Union Square, bet on which people wouldn't make it across the street.

Today, common sense would lead us to think that the poor choices of team nicknames in the past would breed an abundance of intelligent, shrewd and profitable names. But I'm afraid...such is not the case with the NBA's Brooklyn Nets.

Today's Brooklyn Nets, under the name the New Jersey Americans, were an original 1967 upstart team of the American Basketball Association, (a rival league, competing against the NBA).  Due to a comedy of errors that booted them out Manhattan before the first game, they played their home games in the Teaneck (NJ) Armory.  They made the playoffs that year but were forced by more brainless circumstance to desperately relocate to the Comack Arena, on Long Island.  When that facility was deemed unsuitable for ABA safety standards that first home game was forfeited to the Kentucky Colonels, (2-0).

THE UNPRESTIGIOUS FRANCHISE BEGAN A NOMADIC EXISTENCE THE FOLLOWING YEAR AND MOVED TO LONG ISLAND.  TO MAINTAIN AN IMBECILIC AIR, THEY CHANGED THEIR NAME TO THE NY NETS.  AN IMPULSE OF BILE SHOT IN MY MOUTH AS I RECALLED THAT THEY CHOSE THAT NAME ONLY BECAUSE IT RHYMED WITH ESTABLISHED NEW YORK TEAMS...THE JETS AND METS.

The Nets briefly moved in the right direction when they acquired the legendary Julius "Dr. J." Erving and won ABA championships in 1974 and 1976.  In 1977 without Erving, they merged into the NBA and moved back to New Jersey.  During the next thirty-five years, a  legacy made up of long periods of losing and misfortune made the Nets the laughing stock of the NBA, (the negativity was briefly forgotten when they managed to make it to the NBA finals, in both 2002 and 2003...only to lose).

This year, the team moved to Brooklyn.  The beautiful Barclay Center in Downtown Brooklyn was built for these tradition cellar-dwellers so fresh start with a renewed vigor was expected.  But I was profoundly disappointed.  This move was their chance to shed their history of awfulness and rise up and become their own unparalleled entity...but they failed miserably.

Their first gaff that will further entrench them as a non-NBA power was retaining their incredibly inane Nets nickname.  Second, at a time when licensed team apparel is a tremendous money maker, they went with a lackluster logo.

UGH !  DID A MIDDLE-SCHOOLER WIN A CONTEST?  WHO MADE THE DECISION TO USE SUCH GENERIC ARTWORK?  TAKE YOUR PICK, BOTH DULLARDS SUCK.

To prove I'm venting and not complaining why wouldn't they use something like this.

BUT FAR WORSE THAN THE LOGO AND BLAND BLACK AND WHITENESS...THE ROOT OF THE PROBLEM IS THE NETS NAME.

Luckily current Nets owner Mikhail Prokhorov wasn't around in 1968 when the name Nets was chosen because it rhymes with Jets and Mets.  If given the same opportunity, he might have reflected on his Russian lineage and called them, the Nyets (with the "e" backwards).  Oddly, considering where they are and where they've been,  the Nyets might have been a suitable name after all.

On the other hand, I'm positive if hip-hop master Jay-Z became the Brooklyn Nets owner there would have been a trendier (better) team name, logo and color scheme.

If he would have put me in charge...I would have found a name that befits the borough that welcomes people to town with a sign that quotes Jackie Gleason's, "How Sweet It Is" and wishes them farewell with a "Fuhgeddaboudit," sign.

THOSE TWO SIGNS TRULY ENCAPSULATE MY OLD HOME TOWN FROM CONEY ISLAND TO DYKER HEIGHTS, BEDFORD-STUYVESANT TO SHEEPSHEAD BAY AND FROM GRAVESEND TO CANARSIE.

Brooklynites are from a tough, hardworking, kinda dumb and kinda smart stock.  They might seem like they can't be bothered because they are always be in a hurry...but don't be fooled, they have their shit together enough to recognize an injustice and are willing to stand-up for a worthy cause...not necessarily their own.  That is why I would never dream of demonizing Brooklyn with disparaging team nicknames like; the Hitmen, Uzis, Carjackers, Crack Whores or Sons of Sam. 

I prefer to hearken back to the Brooklyn Trolley-Dodger spirit but with a contemporary, frenzied, yet likable flavor.  My brilliant solution would have been to name the Nets, the Brooklyn Frenetics!  The team would be revitalized and I'd cash in on a boat load of money from merchandising.  Plus, the old-guard purists could still call those losers, the Nets, (fre-NET-ics)...but I wouldn't...not even if I was getting carjacked with an Uzi pointed at my head.

BOSTON STRONG AND THE RUNNER'S "HIGH."

The marathon is the pinnacle for recreational athletes.  For the average Joe, training, competing and ultimately completing this hallmark of fortitude, is an incredible accomplishment. These races place regular citizens, side-by-side with hardened veterans, as they seek prevail over their own sufferage, in over 500 organized venues worldwide.  The higher profiled events attract tens of thousands of global participants, a tremendous amount of spectators and heavy media attention. 

THE GRUELLING MARATHON IS A TESTAMENT TO LONG DISTANCE GAIN OVER PAIN AND THE WILL TO IMPROVE UNDER ADVERSE CONDITIONS...AND NEARLY ANYONE CAN PUT THEM SELF IN A POSITION TO DO IT.

Some marathons, as well as smaller sister races and larger triathlons, are also fund raisers that benefit worthy causes and charities.  Running-races work on different levels and become feel good experiences and a win-win proposition for so many. That is why last month's misguided targeting of such a humanitarian function as the Boston Marathon, is so dreadfully sad.

THE ONLY TIME I WAS EVER IN BOSTON WAS 1967.  MAYBE BECAUSE THE MIRACLE RED SOX CAME CLOSE TO WINNING THE WORLD SERIES THAT YEAR, I ALWAYS HAD AN INFINITY FOR THAT TOWN.

I hope the authorities can both literally and figuratively piece together the motives of these weak, impressionable weasels.  They randomly killed, maimed and injured so many innocent people...and psychologically rattled an incalculable number of others.  Far worse, such nonsense solidifies the awful truth that this is a new reality for today's generation. But the runners won't give up, spectators will continue to support this sport and the resiliency of the Bostonians will never waver.

This contemporary courage can be traced to the fabled long distance run of 490 BC.  During the Battle of Marathon, Pheidippides, a Greek soldier who survived the fighting was given a message of the victory, to take back to Athens.  He ran non-stop, 26 miles and 385 yards to deliver the good news.

LUC-OLIVIER MERSON DEPICTED PHEIDIPPIDES GIVING HIS MESSAGE BEFORE COLLAPSING AND DYING.

The modern day marathon was an original Olympic event in 1896.  Symbolically, perhaps in honor of Pheidippides, it is saved for last.  And maybe his story is what inspires so ordinary marathoners to invest so much time and energy in preparation, to test their endurance and risk various injuries...even death.

I've been told that there is a runner's "high."  I can attest to all of you that I never experienced any euphoria from jogging or any other form of exercise.  I asked my niece (an avid runner) about the runner's high.  She joked that the high is only an excuse to "carb-load," the pre-race pizza and spaghetti...and free doughnuts afterwards.

On the other hand, my crime novelist friend CHARLIEOPERA said, "I never ran far enough to get a high from it.  But I do get a weight-lifter's high.  While improving during work-outs, I get a feeling of invincibility which spurs me on to bigger and better things." 

My wife Sue is also a gym rat and she has also ran several ten kilometer (mini-marathons...10K equals 6.2 miles).  She said, "Running is like the song, it hurts so bad but feels so good."

"THE TURKEY TROT," NOVEMBER 1983, AT CAESAR'S PALACE, GRAND PRIX RACE TRACK, LAS VEGAS NEVADA. YOU CAN'T PUT A PRICE TAG ON THE PURE JOY OF SUCH A PERSONAL ACCOMPLISHMENT. 

I saw no reason to come out of retirement and join in on the Turkey-Trot fun.  I hadn't done any running since my high school football days and the mere thought caused my thigh to spasm. Instead, I chose to be a cheerleader flunky by following Sue around the course and taking pictures.

I GOT ENOUGH  GRATIFICATION JUST BEING AROUND SUE'S AURA OF SATISFACTION.

Between leaving Nevada and moving to New Jersey, Sue continued running in New York.

SUE'S MOM JOINED THE CHEERING SECTION, OCTOBER 1984, AT THE MARINE PARK 10K, IN BROOKLYN.

While in Atlantic City, Sue continued running through the countrified setting of our community.  She urged me to join her as she communed with nature while getting healthy.  But I always turned her down.  In November 1985, Sue said she was going to sign-up for the Thanksgiving, 10K Fun-Run on the Atlantic City boardwalk, (sponsored by  the Tropicana Casino).

I was working nights and the race started at 9:AM.  To her surprise (and mine), I decided to be part of the support team, (our friend BAYSTONES came too). Then to everybody's shock (mine too), I decided to run.

The Fun-Run was on a chilly, breezy Saturday morning.  I was on four hours sleep (back then that was a rare catastrophe...today that's normal and four times a week) but I vowed that if I put my heart in it, I can do anything...once.

BAYSTONES CAPTURED MY SMILE, SIX SECONDS INTO THE RACE...BECAUSE I WAS RUNNING COLD TURKEY (PARDON THE PUN) I WASN'T GRINNING TOO MUCH THE REST OF THAT DAY.

In the middle of the throng that gathered at the starting line, Sue suggested that we run together, (later, we found out that 301 people signed-up.  I don't know exactly how many of them actually started the race). Rather than be an albatross around Sue's neck, I said that I didn't want to weigh her down and insisted that she run her own race. 

From the opening gun, I kept up with the pack.  I soon realized that I was getting caught up in the excitement, so I toned-down my jack-rabbit start.  A few blocks later, at the Golden Nugget, (the last casino), I lagged far behind.

I really didn't set any goals...other than finishing the race without harming myself.  So I trudged along at a turtle's pace...which is faster than a slug's pace.  Down beach, the course included the next town, Ventnor.  I found a quiet voice inside me and prodded along while entertaining myself with pleasant thoughts...unrelated to the task at hand. 

An eternity later, way up ahead, volunteers behind yellow emergency tape were guiding the few stragglers in front of me, off the boardwalk.  By the time I got near that point, the first of the ardent runners were coming up the ramp, retracing their steps and heading back.  The race route took me onto the city street.  It was there that hordes of mini-marathoners zoomed by me, included Sue, in the opposite direction.  Soon after crossing into Margate, (the next town),  more emergency tape and a bunch of freezing kids waving American flags identified the halfway mark and the U-Turn back.

In my mind, I was still doing all right as I neared the ramp to get back on the boards.  My appreciation of the friendly, encouraging volunteers evaporated when one of them commented, "Hey buddy, you're in last place!" Not only did that remark sour me but a budding blister on my left heel and the pain of a side-stitch began gnawing at me. 

On the boardwalk, my plight worsened because I saw zero racers in front of me. The situation seemed to be spiraling out of control when the invisible, whistling gale that pushed me forward in the first half, now frostily bit my face and held me back.  That wind-shear caused my left eye to tear-up as a sharp stabbing pain intermittantly invaded my shins. Motivated by survival, (to hurry up and get out of the harsh conditions), I dug deep, stopped hobbling and picked up my pace.

Trust me, despite the increase in speed, I was hating every second of this torture. I was calling myself a stupid idiot for getting involved as I scanned the blank, never-ending horizon in the hopes of seeing nirvana...the Tropicana and the finish line. 

Through blurry vision, instead of seeing what I wanted, I saw a mirage.  And what I thought I saw...was a single runner several streets away.   I rubbed my eyes, blinked twenty times and squinted.  That's when I realized that I wasn't seeing a phantom hallucination, it was a real person.  I decided to make things interesting.  I made my move, in search of my own victory.

My aching body was telling me to stop but I was locked-in to the concept of passing this solitary somebody.  I could finally see the casinos as I charged to within a block of my quarry.  I soon realized by the lilac windbreaker tied around my foe's waist that she was a woman.  She was moving in slow motion, (slower than a snail's pace), as I chugged by her and found out she was elderly.

The fact that she was old did not diminish my contentedness.  A little victory is still a win! But sometimes in life when we fulfill our dreams too easily, another challenge falls in our lap.  I was crossing from Ventnor back into Atlantic City when I looked ahead and a few streets up...I saw another runner.  I could see, my rate of speed would not be enough but a vigorous blood lust exploded through my weariness.  Somehow, I found another gear. This person still had a sizable lead on me as they slowly proceeded in a listless gait past the Golden Nugget. 

I could see the finish line two streets beyond my unsuspecting adversary. I was already gasping for air as I rose up from my fatigue and awareness that I'd have to pay the pain piper the next day.  From a two-block deficit, I once again cranked it up another notch and went full throttle, (if sprinting is proportional...to a true runner, I was probably going only slightly faster than a canter).  But to me, I was tearing ass and believed that I could overtake one more person...and win.

My innards were burning as my normal feebleness begged me to quit.   But I seized the moment and knifed through the gusts of a bitter headwind like a gazelle on a mission from God. A half block from the finish, I was making up ground with each stride.  It was then that I realized that my ambling opponent was a heavy-set girl.  Simultaneously, she turned around and was surprised to see me scampering towards her.  In defense of her position, she took off.  I was not to be denied my imagined trophy.  I summoned my last bit of reserve energy and made a mad dash. I swooped down on her.  We were neck and neck with ten yards to go as she inched back ahead.  But with one last burst, I surged forward and galloped past her at the wire.

A LOT OF PEOPLE SIGNED-UP BUT DID NOT RUN.  MANY OTHERS STARTED BUT DIDN'T FINISH. WHEN BAYSTONES INFORMED THAT I CAME IN 77th OUT OF 79 FINISHERS, I TOOK TONS OF PRIDE IN MYSELF...EVEN IF I BEAT AN OLD LADY AND A GIRL WHO WAS OUT OF SHAPE.

This race was not about me.  I was an after thought.  The true winner was Sue.  She not only came in third but in a brief ceremony, she was awarded a medal.  What made her win sweeter was that it was presented to her by the Tropicana's most notable casino host, National Hockey League Hall-of-Famer, Phil Esposito.

PHIL ESPOSITO (1943-PRESENT) WAS A POOR SKATER WHO LIKE A MARATHON RUNNER, PERSEVERED WHILE CONCENTRATING ON HIS BRUTE STRENGTH AND DETERMINATION TO BECOME ONE OF THE ALL-TIME GREAT SCORERS.  HIS CAREER, (1963-1981), STARTED WITH THE BLACKHAWKS, FINISHED WITH THE RANGERS BUT IS BEST KNOW FOR HIS MIDDLE 8+ SEASONS IN BOSTON.

It's too bad that the actual photo of Esposito awarding Sue (and the medal itself), couldn't be found at press time.  Because he, like the hard-working, long suffering city of Boston, (Red Sox fans)  represent the essence of sticktuitiveness. 

In sorrow, they will mourn the dead, dismembered and those injured in the Boston Marathon bombings. But afterwards they will heal.  They will not be crushed down by the depraved indifference of this heinous and cowardly act of terrorism.  This attitude proves how insane the bombers were because they overlooked the fact that the strength and resolve of the people to go on, will only intensify.

JEFF BAUMAN WAVING A "BOSTON STRONG" FLAG (above) LOST BOTH HIS LEGS DURING THE PATRIOT'S DAY BOMBING AT THE BOSTON MARATHON. HE PARTICIPATED IN YESTERDAY'S PRE-GAME CEREMONY TO SUPPORT ALL THE VICTIMS, HIS HOCKEY TEAM AND THE CITY.

This mentality is tied together with the "runners high" and is especially shared with marathoners. This point is evident by another bomb victim who lost her leg and vowed to return to running with a prosthesis.

I still won't run but I frequently experience a "writer's high."  Most people can't relate to it because it seems so abstract to think anyone can be at a keyboard all day...but once the creative juices flow...like Dr. Frankenstein in his laboratory, food, rest or inane entertainment are all valueless to me. 

I'll have to text CHARLIEOPERA to see if there's a correlation between his weight-lifter's high and writing?  If not, I might still be typing this blog until tomorrow.