Author Archives: gordonglantz

From Fantasy To Reality

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By GORDON GLANTZ

GordonGlantz50@gmail.com

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE – I’ve been giving a lot of thought to the Aaron Hernandez murder case lately.

And three names come to mind: Jimmy Graham, Jason Witten and Tony Gonzalez.

And no for the uninitiated – i.e. fairer sex – they do not comprise the legal defense Dream Team II, ready to swoop and rescue the accused Hernandez from a seeming lock for a life sentence in the alleged cold and calculated slaying of an “associate.”

With Hernandez in stripes, and teammate Ron Gronkowski on the mend from offseason surgery, the aforementioned comprise the other “elite” tight ends that suddenly move up the cheat sheets for the litany of fantasy football drafts that will be taking place next month.

Why, you may wonder, am I taking this twisted and demented view of the killing of a man?

Because, gulp, I am back in the game.

I pretty much gave up fantasy football around the time Sofia came into the world, but it turned out that itch I was feeling was not a mosquito bite.

The conduit for my old addiction, one I thought I had beaten, coming back to haunt me was Facebook.

I sent a private message to the guy who still runs my former league, the one I co-founded, and he said he wished he could get some of the clowns currently in the circuit to move along but, at present, there were no openings.

Part of me was disappointed, but another was relieved that I wouldn’t have to explain to my better half that I getting back into it.

Choosing to look on the bright side, I put this minor disappointment behind me.

But, as fate would have it, an old college chum, a Jewish guy who likes country music – we’ll call him Bucky Goldberg – messaged me saying his league had a spot open and asked if I was interested.

He added that he wasn’t sure if I had done the fantasy thing or not, but figured it was worth a try.

Ha, Bucky!

You’re talking to a draft-day specialist, perennial contender and multiple winning of championships here.

But also someone who doesn’t wear the pants in the family – a sad-but-true fact I had to reveal.

Peering out through the eye holes from the bag over my head, I told him I’d have to ask my wife.

With quivering knees, I submitted my application for approval, which she promptly stamped “denied” upon in the Gordonville Court of Common Pleas.

I didn’t even get the chance to argue about how I don’t do all the other things guys do – poker night, golf outings, shooting pool, bowling leagues, hunting/fishing trips, darts  etc. – while riding the hobby horse of life.

If it were a Democracy, the cruel and unusual treatment would have been unconstitutional.

However, upon appeal, I was granted tepid permission – but under the condition that if I became obsessed again, I would have to quit in the middle of the season.

In the middle of the season?

Quit?

Forgive her, she knows not of what she speaks.

In the judges’ chambers, we hammered out a deal.

I explained that we are in the age of hand-held devices – app-loaded cell phones and iPads – I wouldn’t have to spend hours on end following games online (I once spent three-plus hours following a San Diego Chargers game on NFL.com because I was in the playoffs, as per usual, and LaDainian Tomlinson held my fate in his hands).

At that point, I was granted one probationary season.

With that, I sprung right to action.

I contacted Bucky with the news, went right out and bought my first magazine to prep for the merciless act of drafting the rest of the league into submission and have played out D-Day (draft day, ladies) scenarios and strategies in my head.

I stumbled out of the starting gate, needing 129 tries to log onto the league website, but my team – “DaSopranos” (not my first choice for a name, but all the others were taken by someone in one of the leagues on the site that hosts my new league) – is now an official franchise.

I texted my good friend, the guy I co-founded the former league with, and secretly hoped he would sign on as consultant.

Instead, I got back “Ha Ha, have fun with that.”

My response: “The draft will be fun, probably all downhill from there.”

I was being modest. Barring injuries – I once had a player, Joey Galloway, pull up lame with hamstring injury minutes before a game (costing me a semifinal win) – it’s going to be a proverbial walk in the park.

The hope, though, is the years away have taught me to take it with a grain of salt.

Then again, salt is loaded with sodium.

And sodium is to blood pressure what tobacco is to lung cancer.

And the cheerleaders say: Give me an Oy. Give me a Vey. Oy … Vey. … Oy … Vey …

Welcome To American History Z

By GORDON GLANTZ

Gordonglantz50@gmail.com

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE – Welcome, class, to American History Z.

Kind of has a nice ring to it. “X” is already taken by the phenomenal movie starring Edward Norton, and “Y” implies we don’t know, when we do.

Plus, “Z” indicates a bottom line, the isle of last resort.

History, unlike a skew viewed of the truth, cannot be changed.

It is the Hotel California. You can check out anytime you like, but you can never leave. It’s always there.

Here at Gordonville U., we don’t hang the 10 commandments in public places. But that doesn’t mean we don’t adhere to most.  We do, but with some additions and subtractions.

The key subtraction is the Sabbath and keeping it holy. We’ll gladly take that trade in exchange for: Thou Shall Not Pervert History, which is kind of akin to bearing false witness.

The reasoning is simple. You are bound to repeat history, and are committing a gargantuan sin by spreading ignorance to future generations.

We find the most egregious offenders in the wicked world of political views, but it seems that those on the right – the Party of No – seem to have the market cornered.

Twitter and Facebook allows for an instant window into their mind set, and I’m seeing serious lies.

Perhaps they are joking with some of this misinformation, but given that the most on right are of ill humor, it is highly unlikely.

Let’s start simple, with the semi-regular crapola from the right about how Abraham Lincoln freed the slaves and that he was a Republican. Again, a sick and twisted perversion, to which I sentence these transgressors to 40 hours of American History Z (no predatory student loans required).

Yes, Honest Abe belonged to a political party called Republican, but it does not resemble today’s Republican Party.

If it did, they would genuflect in front of him instead of Ronald Reagan at each presidential convention.

But quietly, in the dark world that is social media, they use this nonsense to pounce on the gullible like trout on the first day of fishing season.

Lincoln was a liberal, a progressive. Doesn’t exactly sound like someone who would advocate voting to repeal Obamacare 6,551 times instead of getting anything of substance done.

The change in platforms came when the country went to Hell in a hand basket on the Republicans’ watch (Calvin Coolidge, Herbert Hoover) and a new Democrat with a new deal, Franklin Deleno Roosevelt, enacted policies to dig the country out of The Great Depression and to the precipice of victory in World War II.

From that point on, it was Democrats – not Republicans – who picked up the dropped and tarnished baton of Lincoln and carried it toward a hopeful finish line by making Jim Crow an outlaw. It was the post-FDR Democrats who sought to feed the hungry, clothe the poor and give shelter to the homeless.

But the misinformation pipeline does not end there.

I came across another feed about the year 1913, which apparently is becoming a battle cry among the “Don’t Tread On Me” types that misspell the signs they tote at Tea Party gatherings.

That was the year the 16th amendment – i.e. income tax – was ratified (it was actually introduced in 1909).

I know they resent being taxed to share services with their fellow Americans, while remaining blind to the fact that the real issue is that the wealthiest among us – left (Democrat), right (Tea Party, as the GOP is on life support) and indifferent (Independent, Libertarian)  don’t pay their fair share.

That’s part of the debate; part of the two versions of the truth and the real truth lying somewhere in the middle, which is theoretically healthy.

The fact vs. fiction, where History goes on trial for its life, is the attempt to say that America was totally awesome up until then — which it probably was for White Anglo-Saxon Protestants of the male gender. For them, as bosses and industrialists, it was all hunky dory.

Not for most women, blacks, steel workers, coal miners and Catholic/Jewish recent immigrants of the time.

The post I saw – from an entity called the Comical Conservative – claiming that we still had schools (check out the literacy rate and how long the average child attended) and colleges (for the rich and famous). They say there were roads (we quickly out-grew what we had then, and they know it), vast railroads (in lieu of airlines, since the Wright Bros. were only 10 years removed from making a plane fly at the speed of a paper airplane), streets (see roads) and subways (see roads, vast railroads).

And, right on cue, 1913 America had a military that boasted an 8-0 record (would have been 0-1 without France’s help in the Revolutionary War, but that’s a buried truth).

OK, you want to play? Let’s play.

Let’s peel away at this potato (which was one of the only forms of sustenance for many Americans then).

In 1913, the year the country was allegedly idyllic:

-In addition to the 16th Amendment, we also had the 17th Amendment, which allowed the actual people of each state – well, the male voters and the white male voters down yonder – to elect their own senators (as opposed to state legislatures playing politics and paying off favors).

-A year after a parade in New York, the women’s suffrage parade – with black women marching at the back, so as not to offend any Southerners considering allowing women the right to vote – took place in Washington, D.C., setting the stage for 1920, when the 19th Amendment was passed, allowing women to vote. We still have not had a woman president, unlike a good number of democracies.

-In Atlanta, a 13-year-old girl named Mary Phagan was raped and strangled to death. Her boss happened to be a perceived interloper from the New York City, a “Yankee Jew” named Leo Frank. Because he was the last one to see her alive, the populist politicians of the time conspired with the prosecutors to suppress evidence that would have created reasonable doubt. He was sentenced to death. While the governor considered commuting the sentence, he conducted his own investigation and was troubled by what he discovered. He lessened the sentence to life in jail, but that wasn’t good enough for a populace consistently whipped into a frenzied state by newspaper editorials. In 1915, several prominent citizens of Marietta, Ga. formed a posse and stormed the prison. Likely with the help of some personnel inside, they removed Frank and lynched him. This event led to the formation of the Anti-Defamation League, but also the revival of the KKK that reached an apex in the 1920s.

-In Michigan, a miner’s strike that began in 1912 was still ongoing on Christmas Eve of 1913 when the union threw a party for the families of the striking miners. Someone at the party – and evidence suggests it was a corporate thug with specific orders – yelled “fire,” causing a stampede that the led to the death of 73 recent immigrants from Finland, Croatia and Italy. Of the 73 killed, 59 were children. In 1941, Woody Guthrie immortalized the incident with the song “1913 Masscare.”

-Seeking similar improvements in the workplace as those in Michigan – humane conditions, better hours and wages – garment workers in New York and Boston went on strike.

-They all should have been happy to be here and not complain? Consider that there were 25,000 deaths due to industrial accidents.

-“Camels” hit the market as the first packaged cigarette (a nation’s lungs were never the same).

-Phi Sigma Sigma became the first nonsectarian sorority. Doesn’t sound like much now to have diversity, but this was a bold move at the time.

With or without taxes, it doesn’t sound like we have come too far in 100 years, other than that most of us are a little bit more polite to each other’s faces.

Except now we have Social Media – Twitter and Facebook – where fact and fiction are so easily confused, and where it’s the grade “F” all around in American History Z.

In Cooper’s Corner

By GORDON GLANTZ

Gordonglantz50@gmail.com

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE – I always liked Riley Cooper.

I thought the Eagles committed highway robbery in 2010 when they snagged him in the fifth round of the NFL Draft out of Florida, where he was the favorite target of roommate Tim Tebow for the two-time national champion Gators.Image

As a rookie, when Cooper was in the midst of what seemed to be a breakout game against the Tennessee Titans (during which Andy Reid managed to snatch a defeat from the jaws of victory), my exuberance led to a halftime Facebook status that Cooper was the object of my man-crush.

I was kidding, but the point was that I have always been in this kid’s corner.

I remember the recovery of the onside kick in the 2010 remake of the Miracle of the Meadowlands, and his highlight-reel touchdown catch last season, after coming back strong after from a broken collarbone.

While the Eagle Nation mourned the loss of Jeremy Maclin for the season, I saw an opportunity for Cooper – along with Damaris Johnson – to step up and fill the void.

I was encouraged to read quotes from Reid’s replacement, Chip Kelly, who seemed – through layers of Coachspeak, one of the few foreign languages I comprehend – to be giving Cooper a vote of confidence.

He talked about all the attributes I always saw – Cooper’s size, hands, downfield blocking (a must in this new offense) and physicality.

Seemed like opportunity had knocked — and fate was answering — for Cooper in a sport where back-up players keep their heads down and work at their craft, not wishing for injury to teammates but are keeping themselves ready for the inevitable.

His career totals of 46 catches and five touchdowns seemed likely to be topped in just one season.

And that fast, penalty flags all over the field.

He was caught on tape in the middle of a drunken tirade at a Kenny Chesney concert. He cursed at a security guard and used the “N” word. It happened weeks ago, but came out this week to the normal shock and dismay.

If you would have told me this had happened and to guess which white player would be guilty of something so moronic, Cooper would have been about the last guy I would have guessed.

He always seemed so laid back when interviewed, and maybe we were fooled by him saying semi-religious stuff about “being blessed” to have made a catch and so forth.

Cooper is a rarity in that he not only got his college degree, despite being a two-sport star pro in either football or baseball (ironically, he was drafted by the Phillies out of high school). And his degree was in family, youth and community services (a stark contrast to some of the laughable fields of study chosen – i.e. recreation — by athletes).

That should provide more of a window into his inner being, at least for those who want to dig that deep.

Giving him the benefit of the doubt, you would have to say he is a decent person. Whatever he feels in his heart and soul, he revealed that he is only human.

And humans make mistakes.

Even sure-handed receivers, like Cooper, drop the ball.

And he dropped it hard.

Now the question: Should his illegal procedure be followed by more penalty flags for piling on and for late hits from the peanut gallery?

“All men die, not all men live,” is his favorite quote, according to the team’s media guide. Should others now sentence him to live in infamy?

The guy is a football player – one who will be 26 in September.

Stop and let that sink in.

And consider:

-More tapes of Richard Nixon’s psychotic rants have come out and the only response from the mainstream media is that they are “interesting.”

-Bill O’Reilly race-baits nightly on Fox News but because he hides behind buzzwords, as opposed to the “N” word, he is right there on the air every night.

-Rick Santorum said homosexuality equated to bestiality and he was a serious candidate by a major political party for president (winning four states, good for 248 delegates and 20 percent of the vote).

-Jesse Jackson, in 1983, referred to New York as “Hymietown” and his only excuse – in lieu of an apology — was that the conversation with the reporter was off-the-record. He also said that he was “sick and tired of hearing about the Holocaust.” A civil rights leader to this day, he was a presidential candidate, not to mention a Baptist minister.

Until we hold people like these to a higher standard, we should think twice about a football player who wasn’t allowed backstage at a concert and used a word he likely hears daily.

Even if Riley Cooper wasn’t “brought up like that” by his parents, which is what he says, the culture has brought the “N” word to lips.

Cooper works in an environment where that word, for better or worse, is probably tossed around more than the oblong pigskin that he is paid to catch 1,000 times in practice just so he can get his paws on IT a few times 16 weeks of the year during the season.

It likely comes from locker-room boom boxes, or from teammates rattling off the lyrics to the latest rap song (a genre Cooper also likes, along with country). It comes from joking around. It comes from quotes on tattoos on their muscled-up bodies.

And, let’s be honest, that word – or ones like it – can be heard in small groups of same-race players talking about others.

I have been in pro locker rooms. Trust me on this.

Sometimes athletes get caught doing whatever and they issue apologies that we dare judge as true, false or somewhere in between.

The sense here is that Cooper is genuinely sorry – and no, not just because he got caught, which is the cute riddle with no rhyme the public lynch mob enjoys.

From reports, he actively apologized. None of it was staged. The team fined him, after consulting with the NFL – an entity besieged with players doing a lot of more egregious things (including Aaron Hernandez, Cooper and Tebow’s college teammate) than a guy going temporarily insane at a concert.

The team is also going to send him to sensitivity training, even placing him on leave as of Friday (we’ll probably see him back sometime between the first and second preseason games, when other storylines emerge).

That’s more than teammate Jason Peters got from the team for allegedly drag racing and leading police on a car chase prior to camp. It’s more in the way of ramifications against LeSean McCoy for a Twitter war with the mother of his son, or for the alleged incident last December which involved a woman who said he, and others, assaulted her on a party bus he rented – while he was supposed to be preparing to return from a concussion – to go from Philadelphia to New York City.

Cooper lists McCoy as his funniest teammate. Maybe he thought the star running back was kidding when he came out and said he couldn’t respect Cooper anymore and felt that he lost a friend.

Surely, McCoy is not alone. Cooper has a lot of damage control ahead of him. And it’s all with a target on his back for a few seconds of indiscretion.

He has already punished himself. No matter what he says or does, probably for the rest of his life, he will be branded as “that guy.” There will be protestors at away games. There will be boos whenever he makes a catch.

It’s a bad situation, but there is no need to make it worse.

They say that those without sin should throw the first stone, and yet stones are coming fast and furious at Riley Cooper – at least until the next pro athlete steals the headlines for something stupid they said or did.

No one knows this better than quarterback Michael Vick, who spent 21 months in jail for well-documented transgressions, only to come out and be voted “most courageous” by his mostly black teammates.

Vick, along with the ultra-religious Jason Avant, have been the first to forgive – without necessarily forgetting – in the case of Cooper.

As for me?

I still like Riley Cooper.

I just don’t like what he did.

I’m still in his corner.

And I’m not ready to throw in the towel.

This commentary also appeared at phillyphanatics.com

In Memory of ’Bwana

By GORDON GLANTZ

GordonGlantz50@gmail.com

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE – A sad truth is that role models are not the athletes and rock stars whose posters we hang on the wall or whose jerseys and shirts we wear.

And we often don’t realize who and what they were until it’s too late to sort it out in our psyches.

I am going to tell the story of one such person who I recently learned is no longer among us.

For one reason or the other, our paths always crossed. It was almost as if he was being sent on a secret mission to chart my progress.

It began back in the alternate universe – and Jewish-American rite of passage – known as overnight summer camp.

Though he was no more than 20 years old in the summer of 1977, he was already a leader among the counselors. He was a man, not a guy. He wouldn’t tease other campers, like some counselors, but was far from Mr. Serious.

He was all about fun, which what it was all about.

He seemed to understand the importance of making memories, and he helped make them.

That summer, as a camper, I was 12. I had crooked, buck teeth and a smart mouth. He wasn’t the counselor in my bunk, but he seemed to take an individual interest in each camper in the division (Siberia, as it was called, because of its distance from the mess hall).

And he was also my coach in Siberia’s basketball league, drafting me in the second round. I was excited because he was already a camp legend, and now he was going to be my coach.

For a sports-minded kid, he was a blast. He would announce starting lineups before each game, like a PA announcer, and give us each a school (I was from Boston College).

When we lost in the semi-finals, the reaction was normal. We were devastated, and we acted like 11- and 12-year-olds. We started blaming each other, blaming the refs and the other team for “playing dirty” and “being lucky” (our star missed the game). That’s when he huddled us up, told us how proud he was about the way we played and told us to go shake the other team’s hands and wish them luck in the championship.

In other words, he was telling us to act like men.

That same summer, when we were gathered around a small black-and-white television to watch the MLB All-Star game, he was about to leave for his days off but we talked him into staying for a bit.

The reason was that the experience would not have been the same without him.

When Phillies’ slugger Greg “The Bull” Luzinski came to bat, he shouted out that if he hit a “tater” (that was campese for home run), he would buy Goldenberg’s peanut chews for the whole division (about 50-60 kids).

With that, “The Bull” promptly homered to left field. We celebrated like they had won the World Series.

True to his word, he made sure each camper got their teeth-decaying peanut chews.

As the summers passed, my teeth straightened but my outward cockiness (covering a multitude of self-esteem issues born from male role models who thought it best to stress the negative) remained. It didn’t help that I had grown into my body a bit and went from an OK athlete to one of the better ones.

I put a lot of pressure on myself, particularly to uphold my reputation as the camp’s “Gordie Howe” – everyone called me “Gordie” there – and that often resulted in regrettable outbursts.

And there he was – usually as a referee, particularly to quell the tension when we played a rival camp – holding me back from taking on 20 teens by my lonesome.

Again, while he never approved of the behavior, he wasn’t one to judge or let it sway his overall opinion.

He saw the good, the potential, in all of us.

The man, known as ‘Bwana – a camp-only moniker hung on him by his peers for reasons unknown to those of my age group – was an icon there.

He would lead cheers at lunch after long chants of “’Bwana …’Bwana …’Bwana” to implore him to center stage.

During the baseball strike in 1981, he organized a trip to see the Reading Phillies. He was interviewed on national television, which had to be a trip for a guy who dreamed of being a sports broadcaster (I often recalled hearing him announcing camper games that he wasn’t coaching or officiating).

But he wasn’t just about sports.

At a dance – i.e. record hop, with a DJ from Purple Haze at the controls — he broke the prepubescent ice by organizing the counselors to do a Temptations dance while pretending to sing “My Girl” to girls’ counselors.

When I “grew up” and was going to Temple University, there he was as a returning adult student.

As fate would have it, we had several classes – mostly criminal justice — together.

And while I was content to get my usual C without studying, he was there to raise the bar. His goal was law school, so better grades were a must.

For lack of a better term, I was shamed into studying for a quiz or test and did better as a result. I didn’t want him to see me going through the motions.

Then, when I was working as a sports writer — my gig for 13 years — I would run into him often, as he was a correspondent for several different papers during that span.

We always had a nice time, walking and talking along the sidelines of football games – or sitting in the bleachers at basketball games — and reminiscing about Camp Arthur.

While we shared a lot of inside jokes – like ways to conspire to get names of kids with Jewish-sounding last names in the paper – there were lines you couldn’t cross with ‘Bwana.

Certain jokes – if mean-spirited – were not his thing, and you would get that old look – in lieu of admonishment – and a subject change.

He soon started talking about attending law school at night, and I remember him showing up at a game with business cards. He was hanging out a shingle in Glenside, and could not have been more proud.

After fitting like a hand in a glove in the camp culture, he had found his place in the world.

I didn’t see him as a much after that, but while my wife was running an errand in Glenside, I spotted him on the street.

I felt compelled to chase him down.

He seemed happy, content. We exchanged numbers and talked of catching a minor league baseball game, either in Trenton or Reading.

As I watched out of the corner of my eye, he strolled down the street as if starring in a one-man musical. He seemed in a collision course with a woman who wasn’t looking where she was walking, but he smiled as he stepped aside.

Like a gentleman, like a man.

I figured I would see him again, sooner or later, and took it for granted.

I shouldn’t have.

We should tell people the impact they have had on our own lives when we have the chance, because who knows when that chance will come again.

I learned of his recent passing (February of this year) while checking our camp’s Facebook page. I found an online obituary, telling that he was the last surviving member of his immediate family and that donations could be sent to the American Diabetes Association (hitting home, since I too am afflicted with Diabetes).

He was only 56, and his name was Marty Katz.

Even if you didn’t know him, I’m asking you to pause and think of someone who had a similar impact on your life and let them know.

Before it’s too late.