A swim in the Y pool may not be a walk in the park

I am training myself to walk again. It's no walk in the park.

I looked up "walk meaning" and found some leisurely reading.

It's a verb (I walked to school) and a noun (It was a leisurely walk). It's a word you hear on almost of every episode of "Law & Order:" "We can't just let this perp walk!" If he does, I'm certain he will walk quickly from the building most likely in the company of his attorney.

Walk is quite popular. A chart on Google Ngram Viewer shows that the popularity of walk is at an all-time high in the 2020s. It may not remain there judging by our unfit population, all in need of a good walk or even a not-so-good one.

This brings this post to me. I cannot walk. My body revolted and, judging by a photo taken in a hospital ICU, I was revolting afterward. "That's not me" I said when my wife showed me the photo of the old man on the gurney. He was obviously out of it. IV tubes snaked from his arm. He had been intubated and fitted with a feeding tube. You couldn't see the Foley catheter or the heart monitor but they were there amongst the jumble of sheets and blankets.

That was Sept. 9. I can walk now, sort of. I get around with a standard walker complete with tennis-ball feet and I also have a rollator walker with four wheels. I sometimes scoot around on an electric scooter labeled Buzz Around XL. When Chris and I go for a walk on the bike path, she walks and I scoot. Still, we call it a walk. I do. 

But I can't walk, not yet anyway. Over the past five years, I hurt myself in ways that blunted my walking mechanism. That's a silly way to put it. I sometimes tell people I am partially disabled. I did that the other day. Jeff escorted Chris and me on an introductory tour of the Ormond Beach YMCA. We joined and wanted to see what we were getting into. A lifeguard about my age but looking 20 years younger, showed me the chair they use for hefting people like me into the pool's shallow end. I explained that I was partially disabled and that I could walk down the five steps into the pool to join each morning's water-ex class.. I plan to walk unaided or maybe with a cane in the near future. I aim to be a walker again. It will not be a walk in the park and it hasn't been. Still...

The accountants who got us to the moon, July 1969 -- Part 3

Hurricane Dora hit a couple weeks into the new school year. The lead story in that morning’s News-Journal featured an illustration of a swirling Hurricane Dora with an arrow pointed right at Daytona. Still, our parents sent us to school. Midway through the day, the nuns made us pray for Dora to hit somewhere other than Our Lady of Lourdes Catholic Church/School/Shrine/Nunnery. They finally sent us home. 

My father evacuated us to the mainland. We went as far as a motel along U.S. 1. I spent the night listening to WROD 1340 on my transistor radio and tracing Dora’s progress on the tracking map I ripped out of the morning paper. At the window, I watched the gusts batter the palms.

The storm brushed by Daytona and moved on to St. Augustine and Jacksonville. We returned to our modest house in an Ormond Beach community designed for middle-class vacationers and now was temporary home to the migrating hordes of engineers, technicians, and accountants planning the moonshot. The hurricane had turned our house into a white cinder-block island surrounded by murky water. We turned our picnic table upside down to make a raft and poled across the backyard.

During the next couple years, we bought a house in Daytona and stayed put. The ninth kid was born. We visited the Jacksonville zoo and marveled at the city’s new shopping mall. In January 1967, right in the middle of Father Lopez Green Wave basketball season, my father announced that the need for accountants on the Apollo Moon Mission was coming to an end, at least in Florida. He could stay with G.E. but only if he agreed to be transferred to Cincinnati. He had a big family to feed. Other G.E. employees who declined to move to Cincinnati or Schenectady or Boston now were pumping gas or checking in Georgia tourists at beachside motels. 

The good news about him leaving is that he didn’t want to drive his 1960 Renault Dauphine to Ohio during the winter. Since I had conveniently passed my driving test in December, he was leaving me his car and chauffeuring duties for the ten people remaining at our Hartford Avenue house which was going up for sale on Monday.

Next: Cincinnati or bust?

A dry spell comes into the life of every blogger

It's been more than a month since I posted here. I guess I could say that I'm in the midst of a dry spell. That wouldn't be accurate. I've written some blog posts on healthcare and politics that bored me so much I couldn't finish. So, I turned my attention elsewhere. wrote five feature articles for Artscapes Magazine. I started a piece for Studio Wyoming Review on Wyofile. I revamped the last section of my historical novel and almost finished it. I discovered halfway through the last section that the narrative didn't make sense in its present form. Maybe I should have waited until I actually finished because finishing is the goal. But no -- I had to be different. I do have most of a final chapter, my third attempt. I have read about other authors who begin the book and write the final chapter so they know where they're going. Those are the same writers who outline the book before they write. They're called plotters.

Writers like me are called pantsers because we write "by the seat of their pants," making up the story as we go along. I believe I'm in that group due to my early training in daily and weekly newspapers. Sports reporting, especially, makes writers write down what they know because there is 20 minutes to deadline. It's a handy way to learn writing as you always have the score to fall back on. "Cheyenne Central shellacked Cheyenne South Friday night 52-0 to cinch its record at 10-1 and win a trip to the high school boys' football regional playoffs." All the 5Ws are in there. I used fun action verbs -- shellacked and cinch -- that aren't usually seen elsewhere in daily news writing except in election season. That lede gives you a gateway into the rest of the story that you will keep writing until time is up. Often the ending can trail off into noweheresville as you throw in stats or add a lame quote from the winning coach or quarterback. You're finished. On to the next game!

Ledes aren't always easy to come by in feature writing. You're lucky if some attention-grabbing quote or fact can be fished out of your notes. You really have to dig sometimes, depending on the pizazz of the interviewee. In fiction, I usually start with an image. In my novel, I wanted to put my two main characters on a train together. Nothing too exciting about a passenger rail car in 1919 Colorado, although there are train fans out there who might disagree. My characters, however, are so different that they clash in interesting ways that might (you never know) lead to romance somewhere in the middle of the book. It works for me. No telling if it will grab the interest of editors.

I began writing this because writing is something I am invested in. Not so politics and healthcare. I love to read and talk about those topics. Debate them, too, as long as its a two-sided contest. But tackling these topics rally requires some research. The Internet is key to that. I know which sources to turn to for facts and which to turn to for snark. I like both, so sometimes I turn to opinion pieces in newspapers such as the New York Times, Washington Post, and the Miami Herald. Carl Hiaasen of the Herald is the best columnist in the USA. I also look to conservatives mouthpieces such as the Wall Street Journal, Forbes, and others. For liberal snark, you can't beat Wonkette. I often wonder where Hunter S. Thompson would have plied his trade on the WWW. The Trump Era was made for him.

In conclusion, let me state that I needed to write and post something that interests me so I can move on to the next things. Finishing the novel. Watching the NFL conference finals. Eating lunch.

See you in the funny papers.

Part IX: The Way We Worked: Things To Do In Denver When You're Alive

Where do you look for work when you're new to Denver?

Ski shop? Sure. Colorado was crazy for skiing in 1978 and it was affordable too. Every Friday, Denverites piled into their big American cars and raced up the hill to big American ski areas such Vail and Breckenridge and Aspen. These skiers needed gear and there were plenty of places to get it. People flocked to the Gart Brothers Sportscastle on South Broadway. You could get anything sports-oriented there. Buy a new tennis racket and try it out on the rooftop tennis court. Test drive golf clubs at the driving range or skis on the ski machine. Gart Brothers always was hiring but preferred sales people with a sports background.

So, instead of working at a castle, Chris worked a few blocks down Broadway at a storefront selling ski equipment from a failed business. Neal, one of my father's Regis College buddies, owned the store. He put her to work, even though she had no ski experience, had lived most of her life in semi-tropical army bases in exotic locales such as Atlanta and Ethiopia. Colorado's Rocky Mountains were new territory as was sizing ski boots for bargain hunters with stinky feet. 

Colorado, then as now, was a place where young people came to mingle with other young people in the great outdoors. Denver, especially, was and is a sports town. My cousins were crazy for the Broncos, a formerly hapless NFL team that had played in its first Super Bowl in January '78. When they weren't cycling or kayaking or hiking or jogging or skiing, Denverites watched the Broncos. 

No surprise, then, that Chris and I both found ourselves in the sports biz. I covered high school sports for The Denver Post. I was part of the crew of correspondents that traveled the state, reporting on the exploits of the Brush Beetdiggers, Fort Collins Lambkins, East High Angels, and Monte Vista Demons (Colorado high schools go way beyond "Bulldogs" when it comes to mascots). Our charge was to chronicle each game, get the score right, and spell correctly the names of the standout athletes. This last one was important. Upset parents usually went right to the sports editor with complaints. He didn't like complaints. Check spellings, he'd say. And spare me the deathless prose -- save that for your novel. The joke was the every reporter had a novel a-brewing in his bottom drawer, right next to the pint of rotgut whiskey.

One night at a staff party at the downtown Holiday Inn, Denver Nuggets General Manager Bob King chatted with Chris and found out that she was looking for a new job. The conversation probably went something like this:

Chris: I work at a ski shop. I don't know anything about skiing.
Bob: What do you know about basketball?
Chris: Nothing
Bob: How would you like to work for the Nuggets?
Chris: When do I start?

Chris worked in the Nuggets front office for two years. She had the use of a pair of season tickets. I couldn't make much use of them because I worked most of the nights that the Nuggets played. My cousins were free on weekends so they went to the games while I watched 5-foot-4 girls play roundball in Evergreen and Colorado Springs. I sometimes filed my stories on ancient fax machines. When those didn't work, I called and dictated my stories from remote locations to meet the 11 p.m. deadline. On other nights, I covered hockey or wrestling or anything else that might sell newspaper subscriptions. I covered racketball, tennis, cycling, baseball, and motocross during my three years at the Post.

Meanwhile, Chris assisted the Nuggets through a winning with future Hall-of-Famers Dan Issel, Charlie Scott and David Thompson. It was a pleasure to watch Issel mix it up with Kareem Abdul Jabbar. Kareem was the superior athlete. But Issel made up for it in sheer grit. Nobody could fly like "Skywalker" Thompson. In a search for other highs, he almost sabotaged a brilliant career with his yen for cocaine.

In 1981, I landed a job as managing editor of a lifestyle weekly called Up the Creek. Chris grew tired of the sports world and switched to banking. Two of my sisters moved to Denver and worked as nurses. The cold got to them and they returned to Florida. Chris and I both entertained thoughts of moving back to Florida. Friends and family lived so far away. Chris's mother was diagnosed with cancer in 1980 and she made many trips back to Daytona. We were young and didn't mind taking cheap red-eye flights out of Denver's Stapleton for weddings and reunions and eventually funerals.

In retirement, we ask ourselves many questions. Looking back, what would I have done differently? There were scores of alternative lives I could have lived. One of a fiction writer's jobs is writing about alternative worlds, lives different from mine.

I still write fiction. Making stuff up satisfies a need in me. While I worked through various jobs, I kept writing. I have journals going back to 1972. I've published one book of short fiction, published a number of stories and essays in magazines and anthologies. I have posted weekly on my blog since 2005. I have written thousands of words, maybe millions. I am sure that I spent the 10,000 hours that Malcolm Gladwell in Outliers said I needed to be an expert in my field. Expertise did not lead to Stephen King-style publishing success. Still, I write. 

I had a number of jobs in the second half of my working life. Two of them managed to consume 30 years in the blink of an eye. I will write about them in upcoming posts. 

Front Rangers combine the love of art and sports

As we say farewell to August and say hey to September, my thoughts turn to fall. And that's not just because my wife Chris and I watched our first college football game last night, Clemson vs. Georgia. And how about those Pokes? It is one of the reasons, though. The Denver Broncos open their regular season Thursday night. They play the Baltimore Ravens, the team that eked out a win over the Broncos last year to go to the Super Bowl and beat San Francisco. The Broncos are spoiling for a fight. Maybe they'll settle for a win to launch the season which may include a trip to the Super Bowl in New Jersey.

New Jersey?

Denver Post sports columnist Vic Lombardi has been painting porn mustaches on posters of Ravens' quarterback Joe Flacco that the NFL plastered all over Denver in advance of Thursday's opener. There's nothing that says "Die, you gravy-sucking pigs" like a porn mustache. Still, it's nice to see street art combined with a love for the game. Two of Denver's major industries are arts and sports. In that order. Opera fans are less likely to wear hundreds of dollars of merch, yell wildly and puke on your shoulder during Sunday performances, even if it's Wagner's entire Ring Cycle. But opera and emo rock and theatre and book sales and art museum visits all contribute as much to the metro area's GNP as Broncos and Rockies and Avalanche and Nuggets. You could look it up.

So what's happening in September other than football?

Cheech Marin of Cheech and Chong fame comes to Laramie this week to open an exhibition at the UW Art Museum. Marin is one of the world's foremost collectors of Chicano art. He also will be on hand for a tour of the exhibit and a public lecture.

Marin will speak about art at 4 p.m., Friday, Sept. 6, in the Wyoming Union Ballroom, followed by a book signing. The title of his talk is “Chicano Art: Cultivating the Chicano Future”. On Saturday, Sept. 7, at 10:30 a.m. he will give an informal gallery walk-through at the UW Art Museum. Both programs are free and open to the public.

Another multicultural event, with a twist, will take place on Tuesday, Sept. 3. As it says on its Facebook page, the PhinDeli Coffee Shop will open at the old mini-mart and gas station at Buford along I-80.

Buford PhinDeli Coffee Shop will serve Free Super Clean Filter Coffee of Vietnam to everyone who visit from Sept. 3rd, 2013.

Will this first Vietnamese coffee shop in the U.S. create a tidal wave of interest or will it just be a flash in the pan? I plan on stopping by to get some Free Super Clean Filter Coffee. 

Speaking of coffee.... At the Cheyenne Farmers' Market on Saturday, I discovered that Cheyenne now has its own coffee roaster. Higher Grounds Cafe & Roastery is located at 15th St. and Thomes Ave. downtown. It's open from 7 a.m.-5:30 p.m. weekdays. I plan on going by to check out some of its Ethiopean varieties -- and smell the coffee roasting. 

I wrote the other day about the Casper College Literary Conference Sept. 13-14 and its fine offerings. I won't repeat myself. Check it out here.

The same weekend, writer Sherwin Bitsui, who grew up on the Navajo Reservation and now lives in Tucson, will stage a public reading of his work at UW. It will be in the Wyoming Union Senate Chambers at 7 p.m. on Friday, Sept. 13. 

BeatGrass helps kick off the Freedom's Edge Brewing Company's Forever West Fest Friday, Sept. 6, at 7 p.m., in Cheyenne. Drink locally made craft beers and enjoy locally made bluegrass. 

The band Gooding is very proud of its Wichita, Kan., roots. They should be. I spent some of my formative years in Wichita and look how I turned out. Gooding will be in Cheyenne Sept. 3 for a financial literacy presentation for students at Central H.S. The band will play Sept. 7 at Midtown Tavern. You can catch their funky homemade video here. I like the fact that the band brags about using a real woman and actress from Wichita in the video instead of an anorectic model from who-knows-where. Very real. Very cool.

Finally, the Pokes return to Laramie Saturday to play Idaho. Let's see how they fare playing a non-ranked opponent on their home field.

Demtoberfest Oct. 15 in Laramie

Wonder what the Germans think of all these variations on Octoberfest?

Looks like a fun event to add to the Gorby speech 3:30 p.m. Friday at the Auditorium-Arena, basketball madness Friday night, the homecoming parade Saturday morning with historian Phil Roberts as grand marshal and football on Saturday afternoon. Homecoming weekend in Laramie!

Coming soon to reality TV: jousting

Is jousting the next big thing on reality TV?

That's what people were saying over the weekend at the 35th annual Scottish-Irish Highland Festival in Estes Park.

"Jousting is the next big thing on reality TV."

That's right. Jousting, as seen in movies such as "The Adventures of Robin Hood," "A Knight's Tale" and "Court Jester," is making a comeback.

Here's an article in New York Magazine about the History Channel's proposed jousting show:

The History Channel is taking a cue from Game of Thrones and putting together a jousting-competition series, Full Metal Jousting. "It's sixteen guys and they're gonna knock the crap out of each other," vows the show's executive producer. Fully armored competitors will charge at each other on horses "bred for warfare," and "someone's going to get hurt." If that sounds appealing, and you're "proficient with horseback riding while simultaneously performing physical activities requiring hand-eye coordination," then this is the casting notice of your dreams. Last summer, the New York Times wondered if jousting was "the next extreme sport," and now it seems the answer is "well, sort of."

For awhile there -- 400 years or so -- jousting had fallen out of favor. Guys kept getting killed and some of them were the knights and nobles who made up the majority of professional jousters. It would have been O.K. if the rabble was getting killed. They were, after all, expendable. But when the King of France (Henry II) had a broken lance puncture his brain -- a fatal wound -- that was enough. 

No nobles in the lists Saturday at Fairgrounds Stadium in Estes Park. There was a guy who was a martial arts champion from Utah and a young man from Texas whose father is in the Pro Rodeo Hall of Fame. But no Earl of Cumberland or Sir Ulrich von Lichtenstein of Gelderland. 

There were lots of cameras. Handheld cameras, cameras buried in the ground, cameras embedded into the tips of lances.

It was fun watching fully-armored men charge each other on horseback. Lances shattered. Jousters fell to the ground.

This will make great reality TV.

Now only if we can get Snooky fitted with armor, a lance and a big horse...

Happy happy joy joy in WY and MT

From the New York Times ArtsBeat blog:

The “pursuit of happiness” map compared the ratio of arts, entertainment and recreation establishments to the total population. On this map, people in Wyoming and Montana apparently are bursting with joy. The high ratios in those states, however, are more of a result of their small populations than glee. 

Excuse me, NYT, but I'm feeling pretty gleeful right now, even though I am just one of a small cohort of Rocky Mountain residents. You will note that Southerners are a disgruntled and sour lot which probably leads to the superiority of its literature.

For details, go to http://artsbeat.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/08/09/what-digital-maps-can-tell-us-about-the-american-way/

Colorado Rockies get desperate as another season tanks

This is the most ridiculous promotion I've ever seen. Rockies Faith Day? Why not call it Rockies Sucking Up to Churches Day? Or maybe New and Interesting Ways to Fill the Ball Park as the Rockies Choke Day? Maybe Rick Perry could conduct the opening prayer?

Weird.

If this is a trend, sign me up for Rockies Flying Spaghetti Monster Day.

Go to http://mlb.mlb.com/col/ticketing/faithday.jsp?partnerId=aw-5951796513581239158-1070

Role-switching and the ADHD family

I can’t help noticing that Frank S. and I are the only members of the male gender posting on the easy to love but hard to raise blog. That’s cool – and not entirely unexpected.

I’m the writer in our family. My wife Chris has ADHD and learning disabilities. Oddly enough, she’s had the jobs that require the most organizational skills. Banking, for one. Supervisor at the local YMCA for another. When I come into the YMCA to exercise or to pick her up for lunch, it seems as if all 8,000 members are there at once. Chris is flitting around the place, attending to member and staff needs. I stand there, amazed, wanting to flee the chaos to the quiet safety of my car. How does she do it? Her ADHD helps her multi-task, yet it also contributes to flittering. I’m standing still, sometimes because I’m depressed and other times because I’m thinking up clever blog posts like this one.

We complement one another.

We’re also a bit of an anomaly. As we’ve seen on this blog, it’s usually the adult male in the relationship who has ADHD. Most diagnoses of childhood ADHD are in boys. Hyper-boys grow up, meet lovely and competent women, sweep them off their feet and into marriage.

My friend L is married to H. H is a psychologist and L has all the traits of an ADHD boy grown into a hyper-adult. He’s a Brainiac but never quite reached his full potential. Wherever he goes, he leaves a trail of chaos in his wake. When all of us lived in Maryland, L said he was coming over the make me a gourmet birthday dinner. He’s a good cook and it gave all of us a chance to hang out.

Later that evening, Chris and I surveyed the kitchen. Every pot and pan in the kitchen was dirty. Red sauce stains were on the walls on the floor. Empty spice containers littered the counter like empty beer cans after a frat party. The stove was still on and cabinet doors remained flung open.

“The meal was good,” I replied, surveying the damage.

“Never again,” said Chris.

After that, we ate out with L and H.

We also were in an Adult ADHD Support Group. The men and one woman (Chris) was in the support group while the women (and one guy – me) shared our horror stories. He never graduated from college. He forgets to pick up the kids from school. Can’t keep a job. He leaves a terrible mess when he cooks dinner. And so on.

This was 1995. The Maryland suburbs that ring D.C. are made up of some of the best-educated people in the U.S. Liberals, mainly, just like me, an out-of-place Westerner. The women were strong and had careers in business or medicine or government.

But even in the closing decade of the 20th century, three decades into the women’s movement, the men were still considered primary breadwinners. So when they have ADHD, they not only struggle with inattention and hyperactivity, they also are underachievers in an overachieving world. And it’s not just their spouses who notice. One of the first questions asked in D.C. is about your work. My buddy L worked at home as a freelancer. Later, he was also a stay-at-home dad. I saw the strange looks that other men gave him. I guessed their thoughts: you’re not even a lobbyist? Remember that this is a place where you can get into policy wonk discussions at any time and any place.

One fine spring day during a clean-up hike of the Potomac with the Cub Scouts, one of the other dads found out that I worked at the National Endowment for the Arts. He was a conservative think-tank lobbyist and proceeded to tell me all the reasons the arts shouldn’t be government funded. Another adult leader chimed in that the arts were crucial and deserved even more federal funding. We were engaged in a lively debate when one of the Scouts came up and told us to get back to work. We looked at each other sheepishly and then returned to the task of picking up Snickers wrappers from the historic trails along the Potomac.

When I first met Chris 33 years ago, I was drawn like a hummingbird to her beauty and her vivacious nature. She was the lively one; I was the laid-back one. Later, she uncovered her learning disabilities and ADHD. I uncovered deep wells of depression. We discovered them, I should say. Some of it came about after the birth and toddlerhood of our son Kevin revealed his ADHD. It took us decades to unwrap all of these secrets. We didn’t do it alone – and it’s an ongoing process.

Cross-posted to easy to love but hard to raise.

A river of depression runs through it

During today's Super Bowl, I'm going to think a bit about depression. I know how debilitating depression can be. But rarely do I give any thought to professional athletes struggling with the very same malady. Brendan McLean wrote a fine post for the NAMI blog, "Football: A Mind Game." In it, he tells the tales of two NFL players: Terry Bradshaw and Ricky Williams. The jocular Bradshaw doesn't show it on air, but he experienced bouts of depression throughout his career. He treated it himself with alcohol. As we know from novelist William Styron ("Darkness Visible") and TV news commentator Mike Wallace, there comes a time when alcohol no longer works and you have to face the beast. Here's how Wallace described it:

At first I couldn't sleep, then I couldn't eat. I felt hopeless and I just couldn't cope and then I just lost all perspective on things. You know, you become crazy. I had done a story for 60 Minutes on depression but I had no idea that I was now experiencing it. Finally, I collapsed and just went to bed.

Brendan quotes these stats: men are four times more likely than women to commit suicide and half as likely to seek help. So, when the breakdown comes, it can have a Hemingway end or something better. Bradshaw found help in therapy and antidepressants. The taciturn Ricky Williams smoked pot and got busted out of the NFL. He finally found some relief in yoga and meditation. The Denver Broncos' Kenny McKinley committed suicide before the 2010 season.

So, spend a few minutes thinking about the mental health of the athletes out on the field. Forget about pity. Empathy is what's called for. Just think, "It can happen to anybody..."  

Read Brendan's column at http://blog.nami.org/2011/02/football-mind-game.html

Final word on the subject

I have delivered eulogies in churches and funeral homes. I've attended too many services and burials, a hazard of aging.

I have never officiated at a memorial service on a softball field. As I think of it now, almost a week later, I realize it may have been one of the most spiritual memorials I've ever attended.

My brother Pat was remembered at a memorial at home plate of softball field number three in Fred Lee Park in Palm Bay, Fla. It was Monday, Dec. 13. The park was deserted when we arrived. Not much softball is played in December, not even in central Florida.

Pat's wishes were clear. Cremate his body. No church service. No ministers or priests. No prayers. This former altar boy and product of Catholic schools had soured on religion. He and I had many talks over the years about fundamentalist Christian crazies. We also discussed the depredations of the Catholic Church. He was tougher on the church than I was. I stayed in it longer than he did. In the end, we both agreed that it wasn't worth it.

The congregation, if you choose to call it that, sat in the metal softball stands. Pat was a coach so he was in the dugout most of the time. When attending a game, he crouched in the grass outside the fence on the third base line. He didn't like the behavior of some parents. They yelled at the refs and kids on the opposing teams. Pat hated this kind of low-rent behavior. He had a temper, and he wasn't above contesting a bad call. But he loved his daughters and he liked the girls they played with. He didn't think it was right for big burly men to yell at skinny twelve-year-old girls playing a game.

On this day at the softball field, the only voice for awhile was my own. And then Pat's daughters Maggie and Erin read their own eulogies, the cool north wind attempting to snatch their words away. Pat's friend, Coach Bill, spoke about their days on ball diamonds all over Florida. Coach Bill's daughter, one of Pat's former players, spoke. Then Roger Ross spoke. Roger was our neighbor in Daytona Beach. Pat helped him land a job as engineer at the Harris Corp. Rounding out the speakers was Pat's nephew, Ryan Shay. Ryan's a communications major at University of North Florida and it was clear he knows how to communicate.

Pat's four years in the Air Force led to his long career at the Harris Corp. The memorial ended with the folding of the flag and Taps, performed by the honor guard from nearby Patrick AFB. The bugler's notes lingered in the air as the folded flag was handed over to Pat's widow, Jean.

We then traveled to Pat and Jean's house for the wake with family and friends. We told stories around the bonfire.

These remembrances that I've posted over the past week are my way of mourning. I'm a writer. How will I know how I feel if I don't write it down? Someone famous once said that.  

Can Progressives be REAL sports fans?

Phoenix Suns wear "Los Suns" jerseys for Game 2 of NBA playoffs. Christian Petersen, Getty Images

Can Progressives be sports fans? Real fans, not just bowtie-wearing George Will-style life-is-like-baseball-and-vice-versa fans. I mean real fans, those who follow their team's ups-and-downs, cheer wildly when they win and suffer publicly in defeat.

Another question: can sports teams be politically active for Progressive causes? Professional teams are corporations and, as corporations, must be politically savvy. They cannot afford to piss off potential fans, especially rich ones who buy skyboxes. Rich fans who buy skyboxes tend to be corporate titans with similar business interests. They speak the same languages -- money and conservative politics. These traits were put on public display with news that the owners of the Arizona Cardinals NFL team were backers of the awful Arizona anti-immigrant law. The Phoenix Suns offered a counterpoint when its players wore "Los Suns" jerseys for their NBA playoff game on Cinco de Mayo. Two amazing things about this: 1. it was the owner's idea; 2. it actually happened. Thus, a pro sports team is now on record opposing a loony right-wing law, even though some of its ticket holders are undoubtedly loony right-wingers. It is Arizona, right?

Here are a few paragraphs about the Suns' decision by Michael Wilbon, sports columnist for the Washington Post:

Instead of embracing a convenient neutrality that might have helped the bottom line with a great many locals who favor a new law that requires local police to check the legal status of suspected undocumented immigrants, Suns owner Robert Sarver called the law "flawed" and "mean-spirited" and asked his players what they thought of wearing "Los Suns" jerseys during Wednesday night's playoff game. Depending on your point of view, it was either an act of support for the Latin community, whose members feel targeted by the law, or an act of defiance toward those in the larger community who are angry over illegal immigration in a border state and rail at any dissent.

The folks here who wanted, at worst, silence picked the wrong team. The Suns locker room has too many independent thinkers, too many activists, too many players whose experiences and sensibilities are, thankfully, a lot broader than most of their neighbors. Sarver's players not only had no problem wearing "Los Suns" jerseys, they felt, to a man, pretty much the same way he did, damn the backlash, and were quite willing to say it. And there was plenty of backlash. Suns Coach Alvin Gentry, an hour before Game 2 against the Spurs tipped off, pointed to his computer, referring to the angry e-mails from folks who wanted the players in lockstep with the state's misguided new law.

Big-time college sports teams, particularly BCS football, love rich alum who buy skyboxes and sink tons of money into the university, usually in the sports programs -- but not always. Coddling rich conservative patrons of its sports programs was behind the University of Wyoming's refusal to let sixties radical Bill Ayers to speak on campus last month. Good to know that your state's only university considers building a few more skyboxes more important than freedom of speech.

What kind of politics are on display at NFL games? The Star-Spangled Banner, military aircraft fly-overs, tributes to veterans, Honor America Day, etc. Sports team wear their conservative politics openly when they name their stadiums after corporations. That's one conservative corporation wearing the banner of another conservative corporation. A wolf dressed in wolf's clothing.

When U.S. Army Ranger Pat Tillman was killed in Afghanistan, Arizona State University and the Arizona Cardinals fell all over themselves celebrating his sacrifice. On Sunday, September 19, 2004, all NFL teams wore a memorial decal on their helmets in honor of Tillman. One of Tillman's former teammates was Broncos QB Jake Plummer. He wanted to continue to wear the Tillman decal through the rest of the season just like his former Arizona mates. The NFL said no, that Plummer's helmet would not match those of his Bronco teammates. So Plummer grew a beard and long hair to celebrate the pre-Army Tillman.

He was indeed a brave and principled man who gave up big football bucks to join the Army. Then we discovered that the Pentagon covered up the fact that Tillman was killed by his own men. Tillman had become outspoken in his disenchantment with our overseas misadventures. The public celebrations of heroism evaporated into the mists of history.

What would happen if the NFL declared "Man Enough to Wear Chartreuse" day. Pro rodeo marks "Man Enough to Wear Pink" days to declare its support in the fight against breast cancer. But "Man Enough to Wear Chartreuse" day would mark the struggle for LGBT Equal Rights. How many NFL players and rodeo bareback riders would support that? How many NFL fans would complain, making loud empty threats about turning in their season tickets?

As a prog-blogger with a healthy skepticism, I simply cannot engage in unbridled hero worship. I'm a fan, but a jaundiced one (and I don't even like yellow). I am happy that University of Florida's Tim Tebow was chosen by the Denver Broncos in the NFL draft. I plan to buy a No. 15 Tebow Broncos jersey and wear it publicly. Will Tebow become another Hall-of-Famer like the legendary John Elway? Elway is a Republican, conservative enough to spurn a post-Super-Bowl appearance at the Clinton White House. Tebow is a conservative, a fundamentalist Christian anti-abortion crusader. I am on the opposite end of that issue, as I've written here before. Tebow has enough guts to declare his views publicly on a Super Bowl ad. I'm man enough to support his NFL aspirations. Until he fails and is traded to the Dallas Cowboys. Sure, Tebow is a Gator. But a dedicated Denver Broncos fan cannot cheer for the Dallas Cowboys, no matter whom the quarterback is.

A real fan, Progressive or not, has scruples.

"Play Ball!" -- and remember the sport's complicated history

My sister Eileen in Orlando sent me information about an Negro League Baseball exhibition at the University of Central Florida. She also sent a link to an Orlando Sentinel article about Orlando's strong ties to the Negro Leagues and to Jackie Robinson. Two years after breaking Major League Baseball's "color barrier" in 1947 with the Brooklyn Dodgers, Robinson played an all-star game at Orlando's segregated Carter Street Park. This was 10 minutes away from the whites-only Tinker Field. "10 minutes, a thousand miles and a thousand years," as Negro League player and civil rights pioneer Nap Ford once described it.

Twenty years later, I was playing basketball against teams from segregated high schools throughout central and north Florida -- including Orlando. You'd think history would move faster than that. Sometimes it just has to play catch-up. Jackie Robinson broke the minor league baseball color barrier in 1946 in Daytona Beach, where I played b-ball at Father Lopez High School. The town's baseball field is now called Jackie Robinson Ballpark.

The exhibition, co-sponsored by the National Baseball Hall of Fame and the American Library Association, is "Pride & Passion: The African-American Baseball Experience." Read the Sentinel article by Joy Wallace Dickinson at http://tinyurl.com/yafdk5r

I'm not one who sees baseball as a metaphor for all things. But baseball in the 20th century did reflect the realities of American life. And not just in the South.

The University of Wyoming is hosting an exhibition about the history of the semipro baseball league that featured teams from southeast Wyoming, northern Colorado and western Nebraska. Nicknamed the "sugar beet league," it was made up of agricultural workers who worked the fields of the Great Western Sugar Company. Here's info about it, from a UW press release:

The University of Wyoming's Chicano Studies Program will host a public event April 1, celebrating Hispanic contributions to baseball at both the regional and national levels -- a start to the Major League Baseball season.

Adrian Burgos Jr., University of Illinois associate professor of history and author of "Playing America's Game: Baseball, Latinos, and the Color Line," will give a public lecture about sports promoter Alex Pompez at 5 p.m. in the Wyoming Union West Ballroom in Laramie. Pompez helped hundreds of young baseball players from the Caribbean make the leap from sugar cane fields to major league ball fields.

Following Burgos' lecture, Gabe and Jody Lopez, finalists for the 2009 Colorado Rockies Adult Hispanic Leadership Award, will open in Ross Hall their exhibit "From Sugar Beet Fields to Fields of Dreams: Mexican/Spanish Contributions to America's Favorite Pastime."

The exhibit documents the history of the Rocky Mountain Semipro Baseball League, which got its start among Hispanic agricultural workers in the 1920s and quickly spread throughout northern Colorado, southeast Wyoming and western Nebraska.

"It was dubbed the ‘sugar beet league' because it came out of the Spanish colonies built by the Great Western Sugar Company beet field laborers," says Ed Munoz, UW Chicano Studies Program director.

A reception and book signing will take place in Room 109 of Ross Hall, where books by Burgos and the Lopezes will be available for purchase.

"Mexican baseball teams helped solidify Chicano communities during the 20th century," Munoz says. "They provided a break from hard work in the fields or on the railroad and they also served as social and political outlets for the players and their fans."

Through research, the Lopezes have located information about Wyoming baseball teams in Albin, Bitter Creek, Burns, Carpenter, Casper, Cheyenne, Cody, Creston Junction, Hanna, Laramie, Lusk, Newcastle, Piker Spring, Pine Bluffs, Rawlins, Riverton, Sinclair, Superior, Torrington, Wamsutter, Wheatland, Worland and Yoder. The exhibit will be expanded to include some of this information.

"We invite the players and their families to the exhibit to relive their playing days," Gabe Lopez says. "We want to hear their stories."

Event sponsors are the Wyoming Humanities Council, the UW Office of Diversity, Multicultural Affairs, Sigma Lambda Gamma, MEChA, Associated Students of UW, the Social Justice Research Center and KOCA 93.5 FM La Radio Montanesa.

FMI: Contact the UW Chicano Studies Program at Chicano_Studies@uwyo.edu or 307-766-4127.

Photo: The 1943 Cheyenne Lobos played in the Rocky Mountain League.

Welcome to spring training -- origins of Arizona's Cactus League

Douglas McDaniel writes an intriguing article for the Phoenix Performing Arts Examiner on the origins of the Cactus League. Very timely as Major League Baseball starts spring training in Arizona and Florida. Read the entire article at http://www.examiner.com/examiner/x-2040-Phoenix-Performing-Arts-Examiner~y2010m2d27-Spring-training-brought-civil-rights-legacy-to-Arizona

When baseball "broke the color barrier," there were all kinds of ripple effects. Arizona hasn't always been the most hospitable place for non-white people. Those migrating across the border aren't always welcome, unless they're mowing golf courses or washing dishes at your favorite Mexican restaurant. Arizona voters turned down a 1990 MLK Day proposal. The NFL yanked the 1990 Super Bowl out of Arizona. In 1992, state voters finally recognized the evil of their ways and okayed the MLK Day holiday. The Super Bowl finally came to Sun Devil stadium in 1996.

In the 1940s, economics and nice weather and a few pushy individuals such as Bill Veeck made the Cactus League happen.

Florida, on the other hand, was definitely a part of the Dixie South. I just finished listening to a PBS series about the very slow dissolution of the color barrier at NASA during the 1960s. Some of the NASA employees interviewed cited Cape Canaveral as the worst place for a black employee. Worse than Huntsville, Alabama? Well, Huntsville had a long-standing federal presence. The military had been integrated since 1948 and many had been stationed in Huntsville. Scientists and researchers had been coming to Huntsville from all over the world. Houston, home to the Johnson Space Center, was at least a big city where blacks and white occasionally mingled.

Brevard County, Florida, was not so enlightened. An African-American town was obliterated to make way to launch facilities. "Separate but equal" was still in effect at schools and restaurants and the workplace.

I grew up one county to the north. Volusia County was home to the Daytona Speedway and the World's Most Famous Beach. Blacks couldn't go to this famous beach. They had to go to Bethune Beach, or N----- Beach as it was known to Crackers. Sundown laws kept blacks off of the beach side at night. Schools were segregated through the 1960s. The KKK was active into the 1970s and may still be.

How did black players on MLB teams fare in Florida? Did they have to stay in separate hotels and eat at separate restaurants? I don't know the answer to those questions. But I plan to find out.

To view a hilarious mockumentary on "The Old Negro Space Program," go to http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=T6xJzAYYrX8

In Memoriam: William Neal

William "Willie" Neal was the youngest of 18 Wyoming delegates to last summer's Democratic National Convention in Denver. A skier and biathlete, he was an enthusiastic participant in both the state convention in Jackson in May 2008 and at the big show in Denver.

But this sad news came over the wires yesterday:

FORT FAIRFIELD, Maine -- Police are investigating an accident that killed a Wyoming biathlete while he was roller-skiing on a northern Maine road.

Police told WCXU-FM that 20-year-old William Neal of Jackson was training with a friend in Fort Fairfield at 8:30 p.m. Sunday when he was struck by a vehicle driven by 18-year-old Eric Lunquist of Fort Fairfield.

Police Chief Joseph Bubar said the cause is under investigation, but that alcohol is not believed to have been involved.

Officials said Neal and his training companion were associated with the Nordic Heritage Ski Center, a training center in Presque Isle for biathletes. The biathlon is a winter sport that combines Nordic skiing and rifle marksmanship.

Willie interned for U.S. Sen. John Kerry this past spring. While there he worked on environmental issues. Neal was also the founder of “Cookies 4 Climate Change,” a non-profit organization whose mission is “to promote awareness and activism among youth about the dangers of climate change, and to be an organization that makes the transition into a more environmentally friendly lifestyle more financially feasible.”

We'll miss you, Willie. You were an inspiration to all of us. We send our condolences to your family and friends.

Surf Wyoming: Greg Noll in Cody

What is Greg Noll's van doing in Cody?

Mr. Noll catching the nightly rodeo? Mr. Noll riding the bucking horses in the nightly rodeo?

Ride 'em, Greg.

My third surfboard was a Greg Noll Bug. Short, but not too short. Probably better suited to SoCal surf than the mushy Daytona waves of mid-summer.

B-ball adds zip to a cold, snowy spring

This time of year, all talk is about basketball. Sweet Sixteen, college women's hoops, NIT -- and that's all on the college side. NBA is in the midst of its season. And high school hoops tournaments are being held (or have been held) during March all across the land.

Chris and I just watched the Kansas-Michigan State men's game. Michigan State won in the final two minutes. I was rooting for Kansas. All that tradition -- Naismith peach baskets, Phog Allen, Larry Brown, Roy Williams, three NCAA men's titles, including last year. Michigan State also has a bit of tradition going for it in the form of Magic Johnson and at least one men's b-ball title. MSU is in, KU is out of the running for a repeat.

Michigan State was down by 13 points at one time tonight. But the team battled back. That's the great thing about b-ball. In a good game, neither team is ever hopelessly behind. There were a few blow-outs the past couple days (poor Arizona) but tonight's game was a battle the entire way.

There are some of you out there (Bob P!) who are happy that the Missouri Tigers made it to the Elite Eight but Kansas did not. All I have to say to you is "wait 'til next year."

And let's hope that the Florida Gators find their Sweet Sixteen stamina next year.

Camping not just for "nerdy families, nature geeks and Boy Scouts" any more

CNN says this:

With the economy in a slump, camping seems to be grabbing a new foothold in the travel industry. Once considered by many to be an activity for nerdy families, nature geeks and Boy Scouts, sleeping outside in a tent has become chic -- likely because it is so much cheaper than paying for a hotel room.

The activity also strikes a new chord with Americans who want to get back to basics after an era of excess and overspending.

Outdoor camping's popularity jumped 7.4 percent between 2007 and 2008, according to a report from the Sporting Goods Manufacturers Association. Overnight backpacking is up 18.5 percent, the report said.

Here's a response from an ex-Boy Scout nature geek who has a nerdy family that loves camping: "Huh?"

Camping is not an alternative to a hotel room. There are camping trips and then there are hotel trips. When we spend the weekend in the mountains, we camp. When we stay overnight in Denver or travel to Tucson for spring break, we stay in hotels. Campsites are notoriously scarce in Denver's LoDo. You could bring your tent and camp down by the river. But the neighbors may not suit you.

I should take umbrage at these camping johnny-come-latelys. However, umbrage is also in short supply during these tough economic times. So I welcome all these new campers, many of them bound for the wilds of Wyoming this summer. If Bernie Madoff and his diamond-encrusted Hummer pulled up next to our campsite in the Snowy Range, I wouldn't tell him to take a hike. I'd invite him on a hike. What better way to know a person than to guide him on a jaunt over a rocky trail that rises 3,000 feet in two miles? If he's made of stern (but not Bear-Stearns) stuff, he'll make it to the summit. When we arrive, we'll admire the view together. When he turns his back, I'll vamoose, leaving him there in solitude to ponder his many crimes. I'd go back a couple days later with some bread and water.

We kid Bernie.

While camping, you can leave behind all of those economic concerns. Some rookies may worry that they won't have enough money to buy the latest camping gear. Don't let that trouble you. My old pal Dave touts "celebrity camping." You and your friends pile into a jalopy and head for the hills. Reaching a vacant campsite, you back up the car, unload comfy chairs and the beer cooler, and proceed to get "as loaded as a celebrity." Come nightfall, you can throw your sleeping bag (if you remember it) by the fire (if you have the wherewithal to make one) and sleep the sleep of the contented. Or you can just pass out in your camp chair.

Most of us prefer a less minimalist aproach. Besides, we're too old for such foolishness. We car camp, sure, but we also bring the proper equipment. Here's a partial list: tent, sleeping bags, air mattresses, camp stove, matches, food, beverages, cooking utensils, eating utensils, clothes, ponchos, books, journals, bug spray, dog. Optional items include iPods, although they are usually allowed, otherwise there will be a constant mosquito-like whining in my ear from a 16-year-old.

Definitely not allowed on any camping trip: RV, TV, ATV, guns, fishing poles, other fancy stuff. I have nothing against fishing, but killing any fish or fowl will again bring torrents of teen vegan whining into my ears. I liked to fish when I was a kid but do that no more. Now camping is for cooking, hiking, watching wildlife, sleeping under the stars and conversation.

Spending time with my nerdy family -- that's what it's really all about.

It's a cold windy day in Wyoming, but...

I'm a long way from Gainesville, but still get to celebrate the Gators' win Thursday night against Oklahoma.