Running on Empty

Humans, like automobiles, are not designed to survive the test of time. Maintenance must be performed, parts sometimes need to be replaced, and when that day of reckoning comes, our chassis are often dragged away and piled up in a field full of broken bodies.
While people are not machines, I contend that there are striking similarities between motorists and the cars they drive. Consider the photo that accompanies this byline. In automotive terms I might be described as a high miles clunker with noticeable body damage, modestly priced to sell, and open to any reasonable offer. My present vehicle, a 2001 Dodge Stratus, is indeed my four wheeled twin.
Presently, my primary means of transportation is having issues with its gas gauge. Regardless of how much fuel I have deposited into the car, my gauge readings appear to be more rumor than reality. One moment the little red meter stick shows full, the next I am trudging down Williamson Road with a one gallon spouted container in tow. Growing weary of these surprise hikes I attempted to have the car repaired, however, the problem kept coming back like a sack of White Castle burgers.
Over the years I have run out of gas a stunning amount of times. A prodigious collection of plastic red gas cans adorn my basement shelves. On one occasion, when a dry tank sent me on an impromptu journey, I was picked up in Jupiter, Florida by a Good Samaritan in a pick-up truck towing a bass boat. With no room in the cab, I placed myself behind the wheel of the vessel and pretended to navigate that boat straight down I-95 to the nearest filling station.
A week later, following a particularly hideous sales day, I noticed my fuel gauge rising and falling like the Dow Jones after an election and began to fear the worst. Thankfully, I spotted a gas station in the distance and prayed that fumes might carry me to the pumps. Sputtering as I entered the station parking lot, I felt the car give out underneath me. It felt like I had four flat tires! Not even I could be that unlucky. No gas and four flat tires?
Lurching through the lot I spied four fellows standing by the pumps, waiving their arms wildly and screaming in my direction. Were these service station attendants guiding me in for a landing? Were these gentlemen alerting me that my tires were flat? No, it turns out that these men were cement contractors who had just finished paving the parking lot and I was steaming through a full day of their work.
Anxious to see why the workers looked so upset, I parked, and placed my left foot out of the car to investigate. It became apparent to me that something was amiss when my foot sunk two feet down into the soggy cement. If my memory of high school Spanish class serves, one of the inflamed laborers made a very uncomplimentary remark about my mother and the other three were near tears.
Fearing reprisal for the destruction of their achievement, I tried to step back into the car and make a hasty get-away. When I lifted my leg to extricate my foot from the hardening goop, my shoe came off and was quickly sucked up in the thick jaws of the setting concrete. Forsaking my footwear for safety, I climbed into my vehicle and plowed through the ruined job, my victims aghast at what they had just witnessed. Ironically, the tire tracks formed a large semi-circle, a smile (if you will) in the decimated construction.
Like my listless, dry tanked alter-ego, I too have been struggling to keep running. Gassed and void of energy, it was suggested that I subject myself to the horrors of a sleep clinic to help discover the reason for my impending collapse. One restless night hooked up to an array of colorful wires gave me my answer. It seems that I stop breathing an average of forty-four times an hour when sleeping, which certainly explains why I stumble through each day like a tranquilized circus bear.
Next week they will strap a breathing device on my head which will make me look like a vacationing snorkeler who has been separated from his tour group. I am really looking forward to that and promise to provide pictures here if possible.
Until then, my twin and I will continue to wobble around Roanoke not knowing how much we have left in our tanks. I’ll be the one with a gas can in one hand and a five hour energy drink in the other.

The End Is Near

For most people, turning fifty-three years of age is NOT the end of the world. Aside from the usually body aches and thoughts of retirement, few of us fret over such a benign number. However, if your date of birth is December 12, 2012 (like mine) the ancient Mayans have predicted a rather serious kink in your birthday celebration.
According to the Mayan calendar the world will end on either December 12, 2012 or December 21, 2012. I am not sure why, but there is some debate regarding which date will spell the end of mankind. Was the Mayan prophet who forecasted our demise dyslexic, inverting vital numbers which will determine our fate? Either way, I wouldn’t make plans for New Year’s if I were you.
The Mayan calendar (which resembles a big old pizza with a face in the middle) stops on the year 2012 leading researchers to believe that this was the ancients’ way of telling us not to buy ripe bananas. Maybe they just ran out of paper? Maybe the guy who was chiseling the calendar in stone got a cramp and was sacrificed to the record keeping gods? I don’t recall these Mayans predicting a rise in gas prices or warning us about Bernie Madoff, so why should we lend any credence to their foretelling now?
Whenever any form of prognostication is being discussed, Nostradamus, the fourteenth century mystic, always seems make an appearance. Being dead for a few hundred years never seems to deter this chap from putting his visionary two-cents in. He too believes that the earth will cease on or near the Mayan’s prescribed date. For those of our readers who don’t get The History Channel in their cable package, Nostradamus’s method of divining the future was to stare into a bowl of water and envision events yet to come. Similarly, I have stared into a bowl of water many times in my life and have failed to portend any visions of the future. I have, however, bargained with a higher authority promising that I would never drink tequila again if, somehow, I was temporarily empowered with the ability to lift my head out of the aforementioned bowl.
Conceivably, Nostradamus could have experienced clouded conditions when foreseeing our impending doom. Suppose, one evening, Mrs. Nostradamus substituted a bowl of clam chowder in place of the prophet’s favorite tureen? A diced potato mistaken for the anti-christ might make quite a difference in the accuracy of his prognosis, I dare say.
Another apocalyptic theory, also pointing to December of 2012, centers around the alignment of planets on the prescribed day. Still another speaks of dangerous solar flares causing significant damage to our little blue planet. There is even a movie entitled “2012″ that depicts incredible disasters and the destruction of landmarks all over the globe, including in New York, which seems to always be obliterated in films of this type. Why do these Hollywood studios always pick on New York? Isn’t bad enough that New Yorkers have to live next to New Jersey?
In preparation for the upcoming annihilation, I have been giving some thought as to how I will spend my fifty-third birthday amidst the devastation. Rising at my usual hour (7 a.m.), I will shower, let the dogs out and turn on Headline News. If Robin Meade does not announce that the world is ending, I might have a bowl of cereal in celebration. I am a big fan of Robin’s. She often makes me late for work, my thoughts hopelessly lost in her loveliness. I once mentioned my unwavering passion for Robin to a friend who thought I had said Robin Reed instead of Robin Meade. While the “Dean of Roanoke Weather Forecasters,” is a fine fellow and a local icon, I have never found myself gazing into his eyes as he analyzes a low pressure system closing in on Covington.
Should Robin fail to deliver any good news, I will let the dogs back inside and relax in my recliner. I always said that I wanted to be buried in my recliner, remote in hand, and on that particular day, I just might get my wish.
Hopefully all of this nonsense will pass with a Y2K whimper, and the world will continue moving forward until another extinct civilization predicts an enormous global cataclysm. Just in case, I will be checking with Dairy Queen on the quick availability of an Armageddon-themed ice cream cake with fifty-three candles. There is no sense in waiting until the last minute.

What's in a Name?
Have you ever Googled yourself? For those of our readers who are not computer savvy, please understand that I am referring to the Internet search engine site "Google" and not some un-savory action that might be considered offensive in the public arena. By simply typing your name into Google's search box, you can not only learn a great deal about people who share your name, but you can learn about yourself as well.

Among the legions of Jon Kaufman's throughout America are, the owner of a Baltimore Animal Hospital, a writer for the Wall Street Journal, an adventurer who arranges safaris in Africa, and the bass player for a Vegas lounge act called "The Laymen." Along with these active gents, there is also some local flavor provided by a person known by a similar moniker.

Last week I was approached by a person who asked if I was Dr. John Kaufman, the prominent Roanoke area Dermatologist. This was not the first time I had been confused with the good doctor. Upon moving to the Roanoke Valley area in 1983, it took me several weeks to connect phone service in my tiny Salem apartment, leaving my office phone as my only link to my home in New York. My friends, curious to see how I was faring south of the Mason-Dixon Line, tried to contact me by way of directory assistance and were told that the only listing for that name was a Dr. John Kaufman. What followed was a barrage of late night calls to my medical namesake from a group of drunken Long Islanders. When I later asked these friends why they didn't realize that Doctor Kaufman was a completely other person, my buddies explained that they though I might have trouble meeting girls (obviously, they knew me well) and that listing myself as a doctor in the directory was possibly my pathetic attempt to deceive the local females. Luckily, I later met Dr. Kaufman and found him to be a very nice and patient man. Previous to our meeting I had experienced nightmares in which the doctor had hunted me down and removed a mole from my nose with a rusty bottle-cap. Safe from my dreams, I was able to rest easy.

Years ago Dr. Kaufman's home apparently sustained a sizable amount of devastation due to a fire. I remember reading that there was somewhere in the neighborhood of fifty thousand dollars in damage to the property. The same day I was besieged by phone calls asking me about the flames that had ravaged my home. I explained to all of those concerned well wishers that my house was still intact and that in order for my residence to incur fifty thousand dollars worth of damage, it would first have to burn to the ground, then rebuilt, and then burned to the ground a second time.

Coincidentally, my sister Laura met Dr. Kaufman once while attending a medical convention. Upon noticing that the person before her was wearing a badge reading "Dr. John Kaufman- Roanoke, Virginia," Laura (amused by the coincidence) announced that she had a brother named Jon Kaufman and they he lived in Roanoke as well. I can only imagine the dread felt by the doctor, as the specter of me darkened his door once more. Laura reported the doc to be very pleasant and was seemingly painfully aware of who I was.




Cruising through the pages of people sharing my appellation, it became clear to me that I was likely a lower form of Jon Kaufman, a bottom-feeder far less accomplished than a great many of the same name. Google images even had a far better looking bearded fellow named Jon Kaufman who's photo was posted directly above my Roanoke Star Sentinel headshot, conjuring up a kind of "before and after" example often seen in advertisements for plastic surgery.

Apparently, it is easier being me than I thought it was. Some of us are downright successful! Perhaps there is hope for me yet? Maybe another Jon Kaufman will do something notably moronic and bump me closer to the middle of the pack?

A British playwright once wrote "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." Easy for him to say, I am pretty sure that he is at the head of the Google line of successful William Shakespeare's.

In Search of Comedy in the Sales World
Everyday is an adventure in the world of outside sales. Whether it is a customer assailing your lineage or hoping that a comet will strike earth the day before you are scheduled to spend some time with your boss, one never knows what challenges a new day will bring.

Generally a typical sales day falls into one of three categories; success, comic, frustration and the catastrophic. Ninety percent of a sales person's life is spent in category number three, frustration. The daily, soul dampening siege most salespeople endure equates to an average citizen allowing a bucket of fish guts to be deposited upon their head each and every time that person speaks. Success and catastrophe each carry approximately two percent of a peddler's days on the street, accounting for the occasional large commission check or, perhaps, the slow torture of "corrective action" administered by a micro- manager who lacks the sales skills to persuade Tommy Lee to add another tattoo.

What inspires most salespeople to return to the trenches and continue their daily march to the grave? The answer lies in those rare fleeting moments of comedy that infiltrate their day. To pause for a laugh amidst a stormy sea of rejection is always a welcome respite.

Once, a rookie co-worker of mine (let's call her "Katie") was asked to present a proposal to a large group and brought me along to the meeting for moral support. She was extremely nervous about the presentation and had stopped at home to eat something before the meeting fearing the possibility that her stomach might begin growling during her sales pitch. Surrounded by interested prospective customers, Katie took off her coat and launched into her proposal only to realize that, in her haste, she had forgotten to remove the frilly apron she had worn during her lunch to help guard her business clothes. What followed was a brief, awkward silence and a question from the audience as to whether Katie had whipped up some cookies to bring to the meeting. Everyone enjoyed a good laugh and the tension subsided. "Katie Homemaker" (as she was now known to the group), finished her presentation and secured the sale.

Years ago, in the early days of cellular phones, I was asked to travel to some rather remote areas to drum up business for this new and exciting technology. One such trip steered me up a long, winding dirt road where a group of loggers were seeking some sort of communication to their home base. Dressed in a three-piece suit I met the loggers atop a mountain somewhere near Gretna. Previous to exiting my car I saw something and caused me to pull my left foot back into the vehicle with great haste. Standing before me was a solid black, mutant German Shepherd mix the size of a small horse. Normally I have no fear of dogs, but this brute was clearly sizing me up as an appetizer. When the loggers came over to greet me the beast ran off into the forest and I slowly emerged from the car. I engaged the loggers with the usual talk about price and coverage until I felt something pushing into my back, nearly knocking me over. I slowly turned to investigate this disturbance and found the black dog standing behind me holding a dead, bloody raccoon in his mouth, offering the carcass to me as a kind of gift! The loggers noticing the look of horror on my face fell over each other laughing, commenting that the dog must really like me to bestow such a thoughtful token. As you might imagine, my dry cleaner gave me the oddest look when I brought that suit in to be cleaned. It was as if he was trying to remember my features just in case he was prompted to describe my likeness to a police sketch artist.

Another appointment brought me to a small farm near Salem, when the wife of an elderly farmer called me about a cell phone for her husband. Unable to reach him when he was out in the fields, the woman wanted a phone that would be loud enough for her hearing impaired spouse to heed over the rumble of a tractor engine. I explained that I could provide a portable phone that vibrated and that if her husband kept the handset in his chest pocket, he would be able to "feel" the call. Sold on the feature, the woman set up an appointment for me to meet her husband and bring him a phone.

The following is a brief one act play depicting my conversation with the farmer.

Scene: A small farm in Southwestern, Virginia. A nattily attired salesperson rings the doorbell of a farm house. The farmer answers the door.

Farmer: Good morning young fella.

Salesperson: Good morning sir, I am Jon Kaufman from GTE.

Farmer: You say you want something to eat?

Jon (puzzled) No sir, I am from GTE the mobile phone company.

Farmer: Son why would I want to mobile home, when I live right here in this farmhouse?

Jon (feeling like he had somehow been transported back in time and deposited into and Abbott and Costello sketch). No sir, I spoke to your wife about a cell phone.

Farmer: I am not interested in selling my home.

(The farmer steps back and shuts the door.)

Curtain.

It is little stories like these that keep me beating the bushes for sales. You never know what is behind the next door. Fellow salespeople, take heart in these trying times, you are not alone out there. Somewhere a comic moment waits to brighten your day.

Love at First Byte

The relationship between human and machine is a delicate one. Regardless of the contraption, people tend to bond with inanimate objects, often assigning names and mortal characteristics to the widgets which spur their devotion.

Until recently I had never developed an affinity for a daily tool which aided lifestyle. Never have I grown an attachment for an automotive vehicle, in fact, my wife Janet refers to me as "Jon the Car Killer." Over the years I have managed to obliterate every car I have ever owned, destroying engines, transmissions, electrical systems and anything else that might turn bad under the hood. To me my car is a machine that transports me from point A to point B, a soulless, nameless future victim of my neglect. Add the well known fact that I can't take a spin around the block with losing my way and you can understand my hesitance to personalize anything with four wheels.

All that changed when Carmen entered into my life.

Carmen was my very first GPS system, a benevolent chaperon who gently guided me to places I would have never dreamed of reaching on my own. My feelings for Carmen were both passionate and genuine and, over time, blossomed into an emotion even more beautiful, even more rare, dare I say it, could it be love?

During our salad days, Carmen and I would glide the through the countryside, bereft of worry, reaching each destination without incident. Then, as suddenly as our affair began, things began to sour. Carmen became aloof, often failing to remind me of critical turns in the road, propelling my being into the unknown with only my wits to guide me (i.e. unarmed). One afternoon, during a routine drive, Carmen experienced a kind of latitudinal breakdown, hysterically repeating "RECALCULATING, RECALCULATING, RECALCULATING, RECALCULATING," until I nearly propelled us both off of Windy Gap Mountain! Something was amiss, had gotten too close too fast? Could there be someone else?

Returning home, I engaged Carmen in the driveway and suggested that it might be best if we saw other devices. Following the usual screaming and tears that follow any break-up (my eyes are still a tad puffy), I decided to pass Carmen along to my son Will, who, much to his dismay, had inherited the "Where the heck am I, and how did I get here?" gene which has plagued countless generations of Kaufman males. Clearly, it was time for the two of us to move on.

Like many lonely hearts, I sought refuge on the Internet, scouring sites for a new travel mate. Still reeling from my ill fated romance, I carefully browsed through the electronics sites searching for "Ms. Right-turn." Disheartened and ready to accept a life of solitary travel, I nearly called it quits, deciding to check one more site before turning in for the evening. That is when I first saw her. Sleek, bright, dressed in 3-D color, and on sale, the Garmin Nuvi 205 was a smoldering sliver of satellite technology that set my bruised heart aflutter. Immediately I placed the order and when my new device arrived, I could barely recall Carmen's name. I felt ashamed, yet strangely excited. Once the batteries were fully charged, I began to explore my new companion's menus and features.

In addition to the usual voices available on all GPS systems, I discovered that my Nuvi could also accept downloads featuring celebrity and other voices. Launching my browser (not a euphemism), I rushed into a site and purchased the voices of Arnold Schwarzenegger, Yoda, Stewie from "The Family Guy" and a female voice named Jill.

Funny at first, the sitting Governor of California, became tiresome, rudely calling me a "punk" each time I failed to turn at the proper time. Yoda was difficult to understand due to his inverted sentence style, scolding me with the phrase "Turn you did not, lost we are!" Similar to his character on the show Stewie is just a mean little cuss who had no patience for my on-road bungling as well, demanding "DO AS I SAY, YOU IDIOT!" with every wrong turn. If I wanted to hear that kind of debasement I would have brought Will along for the ride.

This brings me to Jill. Jill was one of two female voices available and, candidly, I am more used to a woman yelling at me in the car than an action movie star, a wrinkly old puppet or an ill-tempered talking baby. The other female option was named Sadera, advertised as Jill's hot-blooded sister. Sadera's profile carried a red stamp touting "illicit material," along with provocative photo. Given my struggles with navigation, I decided to pass on Sadera and forgo any possible distractions she might inspire. Jill was my girl.

Immediately, Jill and I were a perfect match. Her soft voice eased me through every inter-section and, when I began to wander aimlessly, Jill would quietly purr "Baby, did you lose you way again? Let's get you moving in the right direction."

Finally a machine that understands me! Recovered from my brief assignation with Carmen, I have undeniably found my wayfaring soul mate. It was love at first byte.

Alternatives in Retirement

Getting old is a frightening proposition my friends, and with each passing day comes another reminder of what lies ahead. Every morning I look into the mirror and wonder "who is this relic before me with grey hair growing out of his ears?" Sadly, my fading reflection does not answer, staring back at me with the same anguished expression that I project.

A few weeks ago I traveled back to my native Long Island to visit with my sisters (Eve, Laura, Emily and Sally), nephews and nieces for a few days. During a Saturday luncheon (arranged by my younger sister Sally and held in her home) the table conversation got around to the subject of age and retirement, a topic which had not previously been discussed within this particular group.

Laura mentioned that she had recently received an email about a woman who had conceived a novel retirement choice, offering an alternative to the standard assisted living option. The woman suggested that one could simply live on a cruise ship for the rest of one's days, enjoying the benefits that these sea-faring hotels have to offer. She would have a nice view of the ocean from her sea-side room, feast on the endless number of buffets aboard, meet new people every fourteen to sixteen days, and visit the ship's doctor for any pressing medical needs.

"This plan was brilliant", I thought picturing Janet and I on an endless voyage. Never again would I need to worry about cleaning my room (actually I rarely worry about that anyway), running to the Getty Mart for milk and beer, or have to pay personal property tax on a car which has been sitting idle in my driveway for three years. When it came time to shuffle off this mortal coil and join the choir invisible, a few stewards could guzzle a cheap bottle of wine in my honor, mutter a brief prayer or a bawdy maritime-themed limerick and hoist my lifeless mass overboard, avoiding that whole funeral and graveyard scene.

As the afternoon became evening, the Kaufman siblings began to explore other retirement options, perhaps more suited to our lifestyles. Rather than spending the rest of our lives chewing Dramamine and smelling like halibut, several of us thought we might try a similar approach to the cruise tactic, but on land. Perhaps a senior friendly, warm climate location like Las Vegas would suit?

Imagine a tribe of sibling retirees establishing squatting rights at the Bellagio! Many of principles created in the cruise model would still apply; Huge buffets, nightly entertainment, lavish surroundings and bus loads of white-haired nickel-slot playing friends arriving daily. We just trade sand for waves, that's all! The five of us could pool our Social Security money every month, select a family member to drop a bundle at the casino and, BOOM, we all receive free lodging and a complimentary bottle of champagne courtesy of the management who generally takes a shine to incompetent gamblers. With a little bad luck we could outlast Wayne Newton's run on the strip.




Naturally there are some holes in this "Vegas invasion." After a while, we would no doubt be summarily tossed from hotel grounds forcing us to seek shelter elsewhere. Considering the amount of hotels in Sin City, our wandering tribe might be able to stretch our adventure out for a few years, but what then? Reno and Atlantic City would certainly have caught wind of our flock of geriatric nomads and ban us from properties as well.

No matter how we sliced it, it seemed as though the specter of old age still yawned before us. I see my sisters as I have always seen them, not as aging women, but as the same beautiful, funny and intelligent people I grew up with. Although we spoke of our twilight years, I could not help but feel a burst of youth that afternoon, for as long as we all age together we will remain as we always were; a family.

The next morning, the man in the mirror was smiling back at me. Thank you Eve, Laura, Emily and Sally!

Bad Trip, Dude
I am not a big fan of summer. Width challenged people (like me) normally don't fare well in toasty climates, often producing enough perspiration to drown a small child. Aside from my prodigious glad secretion, I am apparently considered quite a delicacy in the insect world, providing a veritable buffet for anything that hovers. There is no way for me to escape the horrors of the season, not even when on vacation.

In the past, Janet, Will and I have experienced a mix bag of family summer excursions. Like most families, all of us have specific stipulations when negotiating family getaways. While Janet considers any location north of the Mason-Dixon Line a frozen, inhabitable wasteland, Will is game for any destination as long as he can bring a friend along to buffer the strain of being with his parents twenty-four seven. Boarding an airplane is not an option for me (fear of being identified by my dental records), limiting our options substantially.

Frankly our luck has been quite thin when attempting family travel. One year we drove half-way to Myrtle Beach and were turned back in Laurinburg, NC due to adverse weather conditions. The following summer we made another run at Myrtle, but our vehicle gave up the ghost in Burlington, NC. The next year we voyaged to Disney World (successfully avoiding most of the deadly state of North Carolina), only to snap a timing belt twenty miles outside of Orlando. This short list of failed treks pale in comparison to the time Janet and I endeavored to leave the country and canter off to Mexico.

Employed by a since failed communications outfit, I (along with my peers) was presented with a free, all expenses paid five day holiday to Playa Del Carmen, Mexico, a lovely resort area on the Yucatan peninsula. All meals, drinks and activities were covered in the package and Janet and I preparing excitedly for the charter flight that would carry us to paradise. Note: Although I often sprout chicken feathers when air travel is mentioned, the miser in me found this "free everything" concept too difficult to overcome. Dramamine was purchased and my dentist was notified (just in case).

On the day of the flight, we would drive down to Raleigh, NC and depart from the airport with the rest of our charter group. I thought "North Carolina AGAIN, what kind of fiendish trap have they fashioned for us this time?" Nervously, I put the car in gear and set off in search of Raleigh.

The first leg of the trip went smoothly as I traversed 220 South and cruised by Greensboro. Swearing that Raleigh was west of Greensboro, I turned on to Interstate 40 and proceeded to ignore every road sign I passed and Janet's assertion that we were going the wrong way. Finally, when I saw a sign reading "Knoxville 78 miles", I exited the road and began to swim in my own aforementioned exudation. The flight was scheduled for departure at 12:30pm, my dashboard clock read 11:05, and we were at least two hours from Raleigh. Those wicked Carolinians had managed to impede my progress once again, this time by cleverly moving Raleigh to the eastern side of the state!

Janet remained completely calm as slammed my head into the dashboard. Janet, I might add, is the best person in the world to be with during a crisis. In battle, you would want Janet sitting next to you in a foxhole, conversely, in case of war I am designated as a hostage.

Barreling down the road at break-neck speed I weaved my way through traffic as my business cohorts tried to delay the flight. Russ, a quick-minded, jittery fellow with the disposition of a Poodle, raced to the check in counter and began to stall. Russ told them that I was elderly and was on my way to the terminal in my wheelchair. Failing do be moved by Russ's story, the crew began boarding the passengers. Not to be deterred, Russ spun another tale, this time I was of Mexican national and I was traveling my homeland to see my dying Jose brother for, perhaps, the last time. Boarding continued without delay and Russ was getting desperate.

Janet and I were closing in on the airport when the crew closed the doors of the aircraft and prepared for take off. Russ, my hero, determined to "leave no sales manager behind" sprang from his seat, dashed past a group of flight attendants, spotted an open cockpit door and parked himself in the pilot's seat! Presently, a stunt like that would have earned brave Russ in a first class suite at the Guantanamo Hilton, yet he remained behind the controls until security was summoned to the plane. Back on the road, Janet and I had reached the airport grounds and began jumping speed bumps "Dukes of Hazzard" style, I dropped poor Janet off at the gate off with eight pieces of luggage and sped off to the parking garage.

We boarded the plane to the catcalls of everyone aboard and Captain Russ was released by his captors, shaken, but uninjured.

In a few weeks Will, Janet and I are planning another trip. Steering clear of the dreaded state of North Carolina, we are heading to our nation's capital for a few days of sightseeing and relaxation. If the Department Homeland Security decides to raise their terror alert rating a notch or two during that time period, you will know why.

Lost at Home

Every family has a member who is the essential cog in the household machine. My mom was that person when I was growing up. Through any crisis situation my mom remained steadfast, without even a hint of panic. Though she often would strike a Machiavellian pose, professing that she "rather be feared than loved," Mom was in fact a soft-hearted matriarch who loved her brood unconditionally.

On several occasions, my mother was briefly hospitalized with chronic lower back problems, leaving my father, sisters and I to fend for ourselves in her absence. Although a palpable void was apparent to all, everything ran rather smoothly until Mom's return.

Like my mom, my wife Janet is the captain of our family vessel and similar to my mom, she runs a tidy ship. A former gymnast who spent years hurling her body hither and yon, Janet also has issues with her lower back which will require surgery within the next few weeks. Unlike my mom, who had four brilliant and capable daughters and a loving husband with an abundance of household skills to keep the boat afloat, Janet has only me, my son and three goofy hound dogs to bridge the gap until she regains full mobility.

Adrift in uncharted waters and void of any domestic skills, Will and I struggled to decide which one of us was proficient enough to step up and fill Janet's shoes. (Note: Had our dogs been blessed with opposable thumbs we would have invited them into the conversation, however, we felt that we had to draw the line somewhere.). We proceeded to compile a list of "Pros and Cons" describing our strengths and challenges, opting to explore this matter scientifically.

My list of "pros" included age and experience and we agreed that Will's "pros" were youth and strength. So much for the short list of positives. The discussion regarding our weaknesses became a lengthy volley with each candidate recalling tales of the others inadequacy.

Being male, the first topic we debated was food. Clearly (I thought) I would have an advantage in this category. Aside from a few dishes he can actually create, Will's culinary experiences normally begin with our hungry boy shouting his order at an electronic menu, and ends by driving to the second window for pick-up. Pulling from his historical data bank, Will then reminded me that I was the guy who once set himself on fire while making spaghetti. This was a difficult point to dispute as I had nearly incinerated myself when the bottom of my t-shirt touched the stove eye as I reached for pasta in the cabinet above. As flames rose towards my chin, I discovered the true function of our sinks sprayer attachment (I always wondered what that thing was for) and doused the inferno inches from my beard. Will 1 Dad 0.

Cleaning was next on our list, a chore foreign to most men and Will and I are no exception. If not for Janet, our home would be considered a bio-hazard and would condemned by the City of Roanoke if the Sherriff's deputies could fight their way past a twenty foot ball of dog hair to serve the subpoena. Recalling that Will had once tried to help his Mom clean the house by firing up a gas-powered leaf blower in our living room (and setting off all of our smoke alarms in the process), it became clear that I would be manning the mop and vacuum. Will conceded his case without rebuttal. Will 1 Dad 1

The next topic considered was dog care and maintenance. To our pack Janet is the sun, the moon and the stars. The dogs see Will and me more as temporary boarders, occupants in the postal vernacular. Responding only to their mother's voice, Shiloh, Roscoe and Mya will often turn a deaf-ear to anyone who tries to summon their presence, opting to await official word from the top. Hounds are rarely in a hurry which is precisely the reason I love them. In comparison my dogs make me look "dynamic!"

Will argued that he would be a better choice for this detail due to his standing in the household chain of command which is as follows..
1. Janet
2. The dogs
3. Will*
4. The fish
5. Me (I used to occupy the sixth slot until the lizards passed away).

*Will was in the number two spot until age five, when he jumped on the back of Tara (our since departed Coonhound) and rode her around the house like Roy Rogers.

We quibbled on through the night about who would handle Janet's work during her convalescence yet, in the end, agreed on only one thing. We concurred that neither one of us could handle half of the stuff Janet does on a daily basis, and that the scope of her work stretches from the obvious chores to the little unseen tasks that both of us have either never considered or have always taken for granted.

Relax and recover Janet, with a little luck and a metaphorical can of WD-40, the family machine just might survive the calamitous care of your two favorite men, however, I bumped up the homeowners policy just in case. Rest well.

Mr. Celophane
For the most part, I have lived most of my life "under the radar." As a child I was so painfully shy that I managed to miss twelve straight Junior High School Spanish classes without being marked absent. To borrow a title from the musical "Chicago" I was "Mr. Cellophane." Last week, all of that changed.

While visiting my wonderful father-in-law Hank in the hospital, I noticed a nurse looking at me in a rather strange way. She wore a searching expression, her brow furled as if she was trying to solve a difficult puzzle.

"Where do I know you from?" she asked, tightening a blood pressure band around Hank's upper-arm.

"Well, I am in the hospital quite often," I responded, having slept on at least half of the gurneys in Roanoke over the years.

"No, she answered," wagging her finger in my direction, "I know, you're the guy who wrote about his dog Roscoe in the newspaper!"

Folks, I was floored. My face was awash in a deep blush. This was the first time that I had been correctly identified in public by someone I had not previously met. The sensation was both exciting and confusing. Throughout the years I have often been mistaken for other people but rarely recognized as myself.

Many years ago, while traveling to Florida to visit my Mom, a lovely young woman approached me in the Fort Lauderdale airport terminal, threw her arms around my neck and exclaimed "Kenny, it is so nice to see you, where's Lucille?" We momentarily enjoyed a lingering embrace, (or at least I did) then separated. Begrudgingly, I explained that I possessed no information as to Lucille's whereabouts, and although my name was Jon, she was more than welcome to address me as Kenny, Larry or any pseudonym that struck her fancy. Embarrassed and apparently disappointed, my mystery greeter withdrew and deserted me at the baggage claim.

Wherever I go I am either mistaken for someone's Uncle Hobart, or seem to be completely invisible. When traveling for business in Parkersburg, West Virginia with my friends Tom and Angelique, we stopped in a local eatery for a bite prior to a sales meeting. When the three of us entered the establishment (together) the perky hostess directed herself towards Tom and Angelique inquiring "Table for two." My two befuddled business partners turned their heads to the left as if to make sure that I was, in fact, still standing next to them, as I glanced into a nearby mirror to verify that I was present as well. Later, when the meals arrived, my plate was the only one missing, as was the waiter's tip when it came time to settle up.

How can someone be so eminently forgettable?

I take some pride in my ability to recognize people and remembering their names. It's important, although I nearly lost my summer job one year for failing to visually verify a musical celebrity. As an employee of Jones Beach Theatre in Long Island, New York, my job was to serve as an usher for the musical concerts staged at the venue. Boasting an impressive line-up of acts from a variety of musical genres, the theatre hosted everyone from Blue Oyster Cult to Mel Torme that summer.

My best friend Neil, a tall, well muscled fellow who worked as a security guard at the front gate of the theatre fell ill one evening after consuming fourteen pre-performance cocktails. As any good friend would, I volunteered to man Neil's post while he revisited his last five meals. Security was light that evening as the headlining act, The Benny Goodman Orchestra, appealed to an older crowd. Neil told me that all I needed to do was look menacing (me?) and everything would be alright.

Everything was going very smoothly, until, just prior to showtime, an older gentleman raced up to the gate and blew right past me. Not known for my speed, I was able to capture the gate crasher just before he reached the backstage entrance. Blocking the door, I asked for the man's ticket. The man explained that he did not have a ticket and that he was with the band. Determined to represent my fallen friend Neil, I argued with this fellow for several minutes, until the backstage manager brushed me aside and escorted the man inside. Later, I glanced inside the theatre and recognized that same old man playing his clarinet on stage, it was Benny Goodman, and I felt like a dope.

To the friendly nurse who correctly diagnosed my identity, it was nice to meet you and I appreciate the kind comments about my writing. Thanks to this angel of mercy, I no longer feel translucent, and that blip on the radar screen is the same boy who refused to let Benny toot his flute without a ticket.

Baseball Magnet

Gary Wayne Fitzgerald, a senior second baseman for the Patrick Henry High School baseball team is in the midst of a record setting season. While fellow infielder Yates Sayers flirts with batting .500 for the Patriots, his teammate Fitzgerald attacks his job one bruise at a time, gaining his fame the hard way.

In thirty-six plate appearances this season Gary Wayne Fitzgerald has been hit by a pitch an amazing twelve times. Struck with the second pitch he saw this year in a scrimmage verses William Byrd High School, Fitzgerald has managed to survive only two games this season without getting plunked, carding two multiple contusion contests during his unpleasant streak.

The modern day Major League record for H.B.P. (hit by pitch) belongs to former Red Sox outfielder Don Baylor, who was drilled thirty-five times during the 1986 season. Baylor set his mark while appearing in 154 games. Keeping that in mind, if Fitzgerald were to play 154 games at is current pace he would obliterate Baylor's record with an agonizing 168 body indentations! Fitzgerald would more than triple the all-time record registered by Hughie Jennings of the Baltimore Orioles in 1896, and that's back when they played the game with what amounted to a ball of yarn, an object far gentler than the current hardened projectile used today.

A frequent witness to this bludgeoning, I began to ask myself, "What makes Gary such a desirable target for every pitcher in the Valley?"

Does he stand too close to home plate? Not really. Does he lean towards the ball when he swings? He does, but no more than anyone else. Was Gary the first guy out in elementary school gym class when dodge ball was contested? Unlikely, Gary sports a quick arm and the soft hands of an experienced second -sacker. Do opposing pitchers have some kind of personal vendetta against Gary? Most of them don't even know Fitzgerald and, if they did, they would no doubt find him to be the very genial, intelligent fellow whose teammates and coaches hold in high regard. Then what is it that makes Gary a home for errant pitches?

To find my answer, I sought those closest to this phenomenon.

Coach Aaron Haigler cannot understand why stray pitches continue their assault on his second baseman. "It's really crazy, chuckles Haigler "My uncle holds the career HBP at Franklin County High School with about eight or ten and that's over four years. Gary is on a whole other level."

Pitching Coach Ryan Loose describes Fitzgerald as "a ball magnet." Parents of PH players slump in their folding chairs and cringe every time the ball collides with the indomitable Gary, yet the one least concerned about these frequent pulverizations is the man his teammates call "G-Dub," Gary Wayne himself.

When asked what thoughts go through his head when a pitch is headed directly for him, Gary's answer might shock many of us.
"I think don't move" said Fitzgerald, "I think, get on base and help the team."

When most people (including myself) would run, dive or close their eyes and wince, Gary makes a conscious decision as if it were a reflex. When given the choice between himself and the team, Fitzpatrick chooses the team, every time.

Please understand that I am not suggesting that Little Leaguers should serve themselves up as human sacrifices for the love of the game or the benefit of their team. What Gary brings to his teammates is his own courageous sense of community, an inspiring, black and blue reminder that one selfless act breeds another and that twelve such acts can bond a team.

Gary graduates this summer and the Patrick Henry coaches need not scout the Valley's emergency rooms for a possible successor to Fitzpatrick's battered crown. Austin "Goose" Dillard, the heir apparent and future first baseman for the Patriots, brings quite an impressive resume as a pitcher's piñata. During the improbable 2006 Roanoke City Dixie Boys All-Star team run to the state championships, Dillard was pelted by six pitches during a twelve game stretch, earning him the summer moniker "Bull's-eye." Impressive numbers certainly, but far from the type of consistent anguish on which
Fitzgerald hangs his crutches.

"Sure it would be cool to own a school record", offered Dillard when asked about chasing Fitzgerald's mark in 2010, "But I would much rather break a record that doesn't break me first, if you know what I mean."

Another player will man second base next year for the Patriots, but Gary Wayne Fitzgerald will not be forgotten. Each time ball meets batter at Patrick Henry's Edwards Field and the cry of "WE'VE GOT ICE" can be heard from the home team's bench, thoughts of G-Dub the Ball Magnet will resonate throughout the dugout, and somewhere Gary will be rubbing his shoulder and smiling.

King of the Wild Frontier
According to the "Adventure Travel Report", one third of American adults have gone camping in the past five years. I am not one of those Americans; in fact, I am part of the six percent of American adults who, according to the same source, has "no interest in camping whatsoever."

Blessed with a comfortable home and the joys of indoor plumbing, I am hard-pressed to grasp the benefits of sleeping outdoors under a nylon covering. Perhaps it is my up bringing? In Brooklyn, New York "camping" consists of tossing an old mattress on the fire escape and counting the gunshots until you fall asleep. In the borough of Manhattan camping is not an elective activity and is often know by another name; homelessness.

Born south of the Mason-Dixon Line, my son and wife enjoy the outdoor living and relish the rugged challenge of the pioneer days. Each year they seek to convert me to the simpler life, free of ESPN and The History Channel, and filled with fresh air and woodland creatures. For a person who considers a Motel 6 without the availability of complimentary shampoo "roughing it", this foray into the forest is just too large of a leap.
Does that me any less of a man? Probably, but so does losing an arm in a bear attack, right?

Several years ago I proposed a compromise to my intrepid family members, offering to sleep under the stars in our very own spacious back yard in Roanoke City. We would indeed be camping although the venue would be a mere forty paces from my beloved recliner. Begrudgingly they agreed to my plan hoping this baby-step might lead to a more remote camping location in the future. A tent was pitched, food was prepared on an open flame, and, following a cozy evening by our outdoor fireplace, we bedded down in the wilds of Windsor Avenue.

With four goofy hound dogs joining us in the tent, accommodations were a bit tight until everyone found a place to lay their head down for the night. Sleeping three abreast, a debate ensued between Janet, Will and I as to who was to sleep in the middle of our make-shift bed. Knowing that extreme discomfort and the close proximately of my forty-eight inch HD television would soon force me to abandon the tent once the other two were asleep; I gallantly volunteered to serve as the bologna in this tepee torpedo sandwich.

Amazingly, I was able to fall asleep quickly within the cramped confines, only to awaken (ironically) to answer the call of nature. Due to the snugness of the sleeping arrangement I had turned over on my stomach and had fallen asleep on both of my arms, which were completely numb and useless. I began to roll around the tent desperately trying to get myself in a sitting position, to no avail. As Janet, Will and the dogs slumbered; I inched towards the front of the tent on my stomach and attempted to open the zipper flap with my teeth. My thrashing had awakened Belle, our youngest Bassett Hound, who took the opportunity to slather me with kisses as I tried to free myself. Eventually, I was able to get on my knees and pull the zipper up with my teeth despite Belle's sloppy encouragement.

Toppling into the yard I knew that I had to get to my feet in a hurry for nature's call was now becoming a frantic scream for urgency. Somehow, by the grace of the camping gods, I was able to rise to my feet, yet the progress of my impending pants disaster was becoming more and more difficult to impede. Stumbling towards a nearby tree my limp arms dangling by my side, I turned around and attempted to remove my pants by rubbing myself against the tree in much the same way as a bear scratches its back. If the "America's Funniest Home Videos" crew were on site they would have written me a check for $10,000 right there on the spot! Following some vigorous and determined scraping, my somewhat frayed trousers settled around my ankles, the dam burst and the flood waters arrived in torrents. I wondered if Daniel Boone had ever faced such biological adversities when blazing through the Cumberland Gap. Regaining the blood flow to my arms, I returned to the softness of our den couch and watched Sportscenter, shaken but dry.

As you might imagine, there is little to no chance of my return to the great outdoors in the foreseeable future. For now, I am happy to be in the minority, joining my fellow six percent anti-campers in the quiet comfort of our own homes.

Guide to Business Travel
The life of a road warrior is a lonely one. All over this great country of ours, sales people criss-cross the landscape daily, desperately scouring the market for receptive customers. In these trying economic times, journeys such as these are often fruitless, providing more pie in the face than change in the pocket for intrepid peddlers like me. Regardless of the futility that awaits, the optimist who resides deep within me (several floors below the pessimist who owns the building), sees these excursions as an opportunity to hone my skills as a seasoned traveler.

My office is a red Dodge Stratus with collision impressions on both sides of my rear fender. The driver side blemish is a souvenir from Salem, where a small yellow pole impeded my backwards progress while fiercely protecting a vulnerable fire hydrant, leaving me dry but dented. The second imprint came courtesy of my son Will who backed into a building when leaving a local restaurant. For the record, many people have bumped into the building in question as witnessed by the numerous scars on its outer façade. Will, however, was probably the first sober person to run afoul of this inviting obstacle in recent memory.

Rarely, clean outside or in, my insightful sister Eve once compared my vehicle to the inside of a women's pocketbook. The interior is generally packed with a hodge-podge of debris which my family and passengers wade through upon entering. It is in this rolling pile of refuse where sales are normally born and often go to die.

After twenty-some years of traversing the Mid-Atlantic countryside, one tends to develop a few helpful procedures to ease the discomfort of the daily sojourn, devising ways of feeling at home regardless of one's location. Allow me to pull back the curtain and provide a glimpse into what I like to call "Jon's Guide to Creative Business Travel."

For any traveler, the subject of clean and accessible rest rooms is a universal theme. To me, filing station facilities often resemble the set from the original "Saw" movie. To spot a dismembered corpse in one of the stalls would almost be anti-climatic in such places. This is why I recommend hotel lobby restrooms as a highway accessible alternative. The benefits to such rest stops are obvious. Lobby restrooms are; rarely used, always clean and, if you are feeling particularly daring, you can even grab a complimentary copy of USA Today on your way to "powdering your nose." The trick to this gambit is to breeze past the front desk with a purposeful look on your face, and then exit the premises through a side door once your mission is complete. It works every time, just act like you belong. Caution: Stopping to sample the continental breakfast is pushing the limits and is considered bad form.

During my travels I prefer to frequent less familiar eateries, shunning fast food whenever possible. Discovering a concealed jewel on the road seems to elevate my spirits when sales are scarce. One of my favorite haunts is Poogie's, an all you can eat country buffet in Danville. From the road Poogie's looks like a greasy spoon that might seat a half a dozen thin truckers at a time. Indoors is a pin-neat dining room and sumptuous food. Their southern fried chicken would force the Colonel into a hasty and unconditional surrender. Locating such restaurants adds interest to the outing and allows me the feel of a culinary Vasco De Gama, searching the wild for nourishment and adventure.

A delightful meal on the road can, however, create other issues for the traveling sales person. Following a loving jaunt, or two, or three, through Poogie's buffet line, the blood in my brain embarks on a trip of its own, hoping to get a whiff of that sweet potato soufflé as it settles like the Edmund Fitzgerald at the bottom of my belly. Nearly unconscious and unable to operate heavy machinery, I gently steer my vehicle to that shady spot I had came across during my pre-meal reconnaissance. Please remember that it is critical to case the surrounding area for a resting place before you chow down, you don't want to end up in a ditch with barbeque sauce on your chin.

Twenty minutes into my peaceful slumber I am stirred by the chiming of my trusty BlackBerry. I awaken feeling fat, refreshed and ready to take on another afternoon of sales indifference.

Although you probably don't notice us, there are a lot of sales people out there, knocking on doors and cold calling businesses. Often our sales targets are surprised, yet rarely delighted to see us. Be kind, we mean no harm, and if you should spy a lone sedan parked beneath a spreading oak in the middle of the afternoon, tread lightly, reclining inside might be a person like me, sleeping off lunch and dreaming of sales success and clean bathrooms.

Multiple Births
Why ask for trouble?

Lately I have noticed an increase in news stories regarding multiple births. These unsettling reports always seem grab my attention as if a smarmy carnival barker has spied my curiosity and has begun to slowly reel me into his sideshow. Although twins run in my family, my sisters and I have (so far) successfully dodged the double-barreled bullet, managing to produce, or in my case, help produce, but one offspring at a time. Please don't misunderstand, I love my sixteen year-old son Will with all of my heart, but if there were two of him I would surely be broke, exhausted and alternately signing my paychecks over to Food Lion and Progressive Auto Insurance.

By now, you may have heard the bizarre tale of the California woman who gave birth to octuplets, thus answering the prayers of every tabloid editor on the planet. Eight babies! I'm not an expert at this kind of thing, but isn't that considered a liter? Imagine the confusion in that home! My Mom had some difficulty getting all of my sibling's and my names straight, often calling role before reaching the right handle, and there were only six of us!

Thirty years ago I had the opportunity to coach identical twins and gained first hand knowledge of the havoc they can inspire. Their names were Brad and Chad. I will refrain from revealing their last name out of respect for their long-suffering parents. These boys were lunatics and their reputation as hooligans in my hometown was that of legend. At age ten, when I had the privilege to coach them, they were just beginning their reign of terror.

Brad and Chad were nearly exact replicas of each other. They walked, talked, ate, and spoke identically. The difference in the two could only be ascertained on the baseball field. Brad was a wonderful hitter, but could not catch a ball if it was covered with industrial glue. Chad was a gifted infielder but could not hit a piñata with a boat oar. Through some odd generic disaster authored by the scornful baseball Gods, together they equaled one very good ballplayer.

Previous to a night game in mid-May, Chad arrived at the field looking pale as a rosin bag. He explained that he was suffering from the flu and that Brad was at home unloading everything that he had eaten for the past two weeks on the kitchen floor. With only eight players in the dugout, I pushed Chad into quarantine on the far side of the dugout instructing him to stay away from the other players. Sick or not Chad had showed up and would have to play or the team would forfeit.

I batted Chad first in the lineup so he could return to the bench quickly after his usual weak at-bat; however, to everyone's surprise he lined a double into the left-centerfield alley and scored a run later in the inning. As he crossed home plate Chad grabbed his stomach, dashed past the dugout and bolted towards the restroom behind the grandstand. When the inning ended, Chad emerged from the men's room and staggered out to the field.

Following each inning Chad would dart directly to the bathroom after he hit or after he came in from the field, looking more death-like with each trip to the commode. Despite
his appearance Chad was having a career day at the plate, driving in three runs and scoring two. At the end of the fifth inning Chad was late coming back from the bathroom and the umpire allowed me some extra time to retrieve him and escort him back to the field.

When I reached the facilities, I could hear some scuffling as I opened the men's room door. Inside I found Chad feverishly switching uniform tops with his brother Brad, who had been hiding in the restroom since the game began. The twins had been planning this for months. Brad would arrive at the field in Chad's uniform (knowing we were the visiting team and would be batting first) and hit for Chad. Brad would then run to the bathroom, switch jerseys with Chad and Chad would play the field until it was time to hit again, when Brad would take over. The shear genius of the plot was stupefying.

Shocked and a little embarrassed, I alerted the umpiring staff to this clever charade, and threw myself on their mercy. Naturally, my heartfelt speech praising the boys for pooling their talents to help the team fell on deaf ears and we were forced to forfeit the game. I have never coached twins since.

Not all twins are as daffy as Chad and Brad, but many pairs that I have met do tend to carry an air of mischief about them. Do you suppose that Tiki Barber has ever considered sleeping in and slipping brother Rhonde past the Today Show producers one morning? Hey, perhaps that has already happened? Only Roanoke's most famous twins know for sure.

Dodgertown
For baseball fans, spring training is a time of hope, a fresh start for teams that perennially dwell in the cellar and for those who fell just short of the mark during the previous season. However, for the people of Vero Beach, Florida there will be no hope, for the former spring home of the Los Angeles Dodgers there will be no baseball this year.

Lured by a lucrative offer including a brand spanking new training facility, the Dodgers will report this spring to their new venue in the city of Tucson, Arizona, a short hop from their California home. Unable to entice another major league team to adopt the complex, Dodgertown will fall silent this spring, a vacant memorial of the games past glory.

The day after Christmas, my wife, son and I loaded up the car and made the long journey to Vero Beach for a baseball camp/tournament, sponsored by Under Armor and staged by The Baseball Factory, an organization which specializes in helping coach and train high school aged players who aspire to play college ball upon graduation. We were told that this four day event would be the last baseball contest held at Dodgertown. When we left, the doors of Dodgertown would be closed, perhaps forever.

Growing up as a fan of the New York Mets, I had never been to Dodgertown and, frankly, never really thought of going. The Dodgers moved to California from Brooklyn the year I was born and I never developed a love for the team that skipped town while I was developing my pitching delivery in my mother's womb. Yet my inner baseball historian was shaken and awakened by the prospect of walking the same grounds once graced by Jackie Robinson and Sandy Koufax.

What I found at Dodgertown was both beautiful and sad. The fields are beyond the wildest dreams of anyone who has ever raked an infield. The father of one of the players remarked that if his lawn in Staten Island looked like any of the fields at the facility, he would "protect it with a shotgun." If there is baseball in heaven then the fields must be modeled after Dodgertown. My wife and I spoke to two of the groundskeepers who were still primping the turf as if the World Series were to be played at Dodgertown the following day. The older of the two gentlemen was finishing his forty-second year on the complex grounds crew, the younger man had grown up helping his bad build pitching mounds since he was nine years old. They spoke of the days when the players used to stay in an old army barracks, sans air conditioning, and rest beneath the palms between drills. We were treated to an hour-long history lesson covering the fields, the Dodgers, and the lives of the grounds crew. Through this wonderful walk through the unwritten archives, I noticed an underlying sadness, it was hard to miss. Like so many of us lately, these great folks would be losing not only their jobs, but a cherished piece of their past as well.

Cooks, wait-staff, administrative workers and housekeeping employees would all meet similar fates. Everyone went about their work as if it was business as usual, player rooms were spotless (until the teenaged occupants returned from the fields covered with dirt), and meals of the highest caliber were served. Two hundred players from all over the country were treated like big leaguers by a staff that never failed to smile despite their impending unemployment



Amidst the suppressed sorrow of the Dodgertown staff, sixteen compiled baseball teams were battling each moment on the field. The instruction was second to none and the seminars and guest speakers carried the spirit of the camp through the night once the stadium lights were dimmed. Will's teammates were from New England, New York, Florida, Nebraska, Virginia, and California, all focused to perform. Competition and emotions were high.

I am not sure the players were aware of what was happening around them, and maybe that was a good thing. A piece of baseball history was coming to a close, a sixty-year love affair between a team and a town was now over, yet the joy of baseball continued on as the tournament wound to its conclusion.

Will's team had the honor of playing the final few outs of the event in a game that stretched into extra innings. Short of pitching, Will (a catcher by trade) volunteered to throw the final frame. The count was two balls and two strikes with two outs, when Will coaxed a soft pop-up to shortstop which was gloved by a lanky kid from Courtland, New York for the final out. It would be the last out recorded at Dodgertown.

The game ended in a 5-5 tie and players smiled as they shook hands. Teammates said their goodbyes, exchanged phone numbers and packed-up their gear.

The few days spent in Dodgertown were special in many ways. I met a group of hard working people whose pride never faltered for a second despite their situation. Each element of this historic site remained perfect right up to the last moment and I felt privileged to share that moment with them.

Leaving the grounds I thought of all of the great players who perfected their game on those very fields and the young players I had just seen working towards that same goal of perfection. This parallel seemed to be the perfect end for this small slice of baseball heaven. I even think the ghosts of Dodgertown might have approved.

Real Food No More
Folks, today I write to you from the infernal regions of weight reduction's deepest pit. According to my medical advisory staff, I am to be interned in this smoldering abyss for the remainder of my stay on earth or until I shed fifty or more pounds of junk-food induced fat, which ever comes first.

This all started with a phone message from my doctor's office informing me of some "abnormalities" in my latest blood test. Abnormalities, what does that mean? For a hypochondriac like me, saying that there are "abnormalities" on my blood test is like telling a normal person that they have but a few hours to live and that they must spend those last fleeting moments in traffic court.

All of you must know a person who reads a health article in a magazine and is thoroughly convinced that they suffer from the described affliction. That's me. In fact, when reading such material I often feel myself manifesting the common listed symptoms as I tremble through the text. By the end of the discourse I have become a flinching, drooling, feverish, bedridden invalid frozen by fear. Upon hearing the news of my imminent demise, I insisted (pleaded) for an immediate appointment.

Following a sleepless night, I drove to the doctor's office and walked "The Green Mile" into the waiting room. Avoiding any medical magazines, I reached for the safety of a recent copy of "People" only to find an article on Patrick Swayze and his courageous bout with cancer. Quickly, I retreated to my overstuffed chair (sans reading material), and began to perspire.

Once freed from the waiting room, I was deposited into a small examination room with colorful diagrams of internal organs adorning the walls. Moments later the doctor arrived and got right to the point. In her estimation, my cholesterol number would make a great bowling score, but needed to come down dramatically. My triglycerides measured off the scale, eclipsing my SAT score from 1976. The doctor looked more worried than I did and that had never happened before. Solemnly, she handed me a sheet of paper which described foods that I needed to start eating and ones that I would need to cut out of my daily diet. EVERYTHING I eat was on the "must go" list. My fear transitioned to depression in the time it takes me to wolf down a bag of mini donuts (my personal best: 1 minute and 47.3 seconds.*milk aided).

No ribs, no hot dogs, no spaghetti, no salami. NO SALAMI! From age five to age twenty-five all I ate was kosher salami. I would have named my son Salami, but who needs that kind of pressure? My sisters would send me salami care packages through the mail when I first moved to Virginia, thinking that I might perish without a frequent visit from Hebrew National. NO SALAMI! I wanted to lie down in the middle of Campbell Avenue and wait for Valley Metro to roll over me.

Since receiving the bad news, my dining life has been predictably miserable. Nightly, I nuke low calorie frozen dinners, which appear yummy when depicted on the box, but, in reality, taste only slightly better than the box itself. Janet and Will have been supportive, encouraging me to stay with the eating program and exercise more often. Honestly the only part of my body that is in top physical condition is my right forearm which is frequently summoned to raise and lower my recliner's leg rest.

As I embark on this life sentence, I recall the day a six year-old Jon asked his mother "Mom, is there salami in heaven?" Holding back a giggle, my Mom put down her dish rag, put her hand on my shoulder, glanced skyward and said "I'm not sure who handles the catering up there Jon, but I'm sure they have everything, even salami." So at least I got that going for me.