Category Archives: Slice of Life

No Crisis: Opportunity Knocks In The Danger Zone

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By GORDON GLANTZ

Gordonglantz50@gmail.com

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE – There is a Chinese word that is kind of like Shalom – hello, goodbye and peace — in Hebrew, as it takes on multiple meanings.

It translates to the following: crisis and/or danger, but also opportunity.

No clue how to pronounce it, but that’s cool.

It has a symbol instead.

And given the choice between dying or living while branded for life with a tattoo, I would
probably opt for this symbol (at least on one arm, with the other bearing a heart with Sofia’s name and birth date — 3-29-07 — within it).

It has come to mean that much to me since my life was put on a different course a few months ago.

Save the typical jobs one holds down as a young adult – camp counselor, bus boy/dishwasher, file clerk, waiter and a retail mall-rat – I only knew one field, that of journalism, from April of 1988 to April of this year.

That’s 25 years, more than half of my 48 on the planet.

It was a crisis. There was a danger involved when considering the next steps, which remain an ongoing process, but the possibilities – the opportunities – are wide open.

This is perhaps why the word – and the symbol – has the double meaning. You can’t have one without the other. If one craves true opportunity, the danger of a crisis is the bridge to get there.

No way around it.

Pay the toll and cross, or pull up and look at the water while others continue their journey.

A big part of the crossing is what you are reading now – a blog entry.

It is a continuation of the “columns in exile” that I began posting on Facebook, but now I have moved forward in seizing the opportunity by endeavoring to do something a lot of detractors said I didn’t have the aptitude to pull off.

One of the lessons we all need to learn is what you can’t read in a book. Other people’s attempts to define us say more about them, and their quest to like the person they see in the mirror.

That’s baggage no longer worth carrying.

I am more me now than I have been in a long time; as carefree as the spindly kid in a Jew-Fro playing street hockey on some blacktop in Northeast Philly until dark, as focused as the Bob Dylan wannabe furiously scribbling song lyrics (a phase that commenced when it was
clear the NHL was not knocking).

As a wonderful summer of catch-up quality time with Sofia, who is still at that tender age when parents are not sharing time with her friends, I have soared into the Blogosphere
here at ingordonville.com.

It’s not an end point, or even the beginning of the end, but the beginning of turning the danger/crisis into opportunity.

No matter where the road on the other side of the bridge takes me, I will always have this.

Here, as I discover “digital” toys at my disposal, you will find at least one missive per week – maybe more – that would equate to my weekly column.

I will also add photos, quotes, Top 10 lists ranging from pop culture to pizza topics, random thoughts, polls and groovy links.

You will also get updates on some exciting projects I have working – production of a music CD of original songs I have co-written, books, etc.

There are no delusions of grandeur here; no notions that this will land me as a guest on “Real Time With Bill Maher” (his loss).

But it is an opportunity – an opportunity to connect with others, which is the goal of any self-proclaimed
writer type.

For those of you who have sought me out on Facebook and continued to follow my columns there, I appreciate it more than I can … put into words.

Some of the messages you sent – along with Friend requests – kept me going at times when I felt like pulling over at a rest stop with this bridge to somewhere nowhere in sight.

It was a crisis. Danger was in the air.

So was opportunity.

And so it begins.

Welcome to ingordonville.com.

Shalom.

Life Is A Carnival

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By GORDON GLANTZ
Gordonglantz50@gmail.com
@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE – A week ago, prior to the devastating news about James “Tony Soprano” Gandolfini’s sudden death, I was prepared to deliver a bittersweet missive about an about-face on carnivals and the “carnies” who work at them.
Well … why not?
It is still a story worth telling, and that’s kind of what I do.
It was a few years ago that the song “Everybody Plays The Fool” by The Main Ingredient went from pleasant 1970s ditty to funeral dirge when, at the carnival hosted by the Lower Providence Fire Co., I was repeatedly fleeced at the booths.
I spent about $120 and came away with a tiny wolf stuffed animal – probably worth 50 cents at a dollar store – for my trial and tribulations of shooting basketballs at baskets smaller than the ball and tossing softballs at jars with holes not big enough to fit a marble.
When the wife suggested we take Sofia to another carnival — this one hosted by the Centre Square Fire Co. in our home hood in Whitpain Township – my initial reaction was that I’d rather sit through a zoning hearing or an episode of “America’s Next Top Model.”
But Sofia gave me that “Please Daddy” face, so off to the carnival we went – with expectations about as low as those we all hold for the Phillies to turn it around this season.
Much to my surprise, it was the complete antithesis of the mockery of a farce of a sham in Lower Providence.
As a matter of fact, the Centre Square Fire Co. should put out a “How-To” DVD on ways to not alienate families looking for innocent fun.
Not only did Sofia have a blast on the rides, the alleged “carnies” (who must have been born-again Christians or something) could not have been friendlier.
And at the booths, where the prizes are supposed to be won? They guaranteed prizes. Seemed dubious at first, but they weren’t kidding – or understating it.
We came home with more than our money’s worth in stuffed animals.
And, a goldfish Sofia named Marina (she scoffed at the names we suggested, taking great joy in mocking her Nana for suggesting “Goldie”).
We didn’t quite know what to do with Marina, as it was too late to acquire the proper creature comforts for it.
As it was, my wife put her in a vase while I managed to find two containers of fish food at CVS (sneaking in another affirmative blood pressure check while there).
We had some logistical concerns as well, as we have two cats to consider. The older cat, Hank, didn’t seem to care as much as the little one, Licorice, but that could have only been because he was not as hungry as that moment.
We decided the only safe place was the bathroom. Another dispute was over whether or not to cover the tank/vase. My wife said it would “jump out,” but I had never – in my whole childhood of winning goldfish – seen one jump for joy.
Nonetheless, you never win an argument with a woman, especially one who is also a lawyer, so I went along.
The next day, I hit a pet store. The woman there gave me a refresher course in Goldfish 101. She said that it if it lived past a month, it could live for years.
I was determined to make that happen, even though building a pond in the backyard – like her husband did – seemed a little out of my skill set (we Jews may have been “chosen” to do some things – like control the media and Hollywood – but being handy isn’t on the list).
Knowing Sofia’s sensitivity level, a short was going to lead to a long grieving period.

The carnival that lifted my spirits was on a Friday night. Sunday morning, the wife and I took showers in the bathroom where Marina was housed in her vase covered by a spaghetti strainer without much of a break in between.
When my wife checked on her a short time later, Marina had made her way upstream to Goldfish Heaven.
We broke the news to Sofia and got the expected, and heartbreaking, reaction.
The official inquest revealed that, indeed, the covering vase/bowl – and the combination of two hot showers – caused what seemed to be a happy and active goldfish to suffocate.
I’m more into mammals than fish, but it was still upsetting – mostly because of Sofia.
In her lifetime, which totals a little more than 6 years on the planet, she has lost three grandfathers (counting my stepfather in there, too) and two cats (Tyler and Donovan).
And while I could gloat to my wife that she was wrong about covering the vase/bowl, I am still responsible for letting Donovan slip outside one night. We were unable to find him until dawn, and he was dead of unknown causes by then.
They say a child doesn’t fully comprehend the brevity of death until they reach a certain age, but Sofia has always been ahead of the emotional curve.
When her Pop Pop died on her third birthday, she was told he was “with Jesus.” She asked if he was coming back and was bereaved when we told her it was not going to happen.
She fought through her grief for Marina by organizing a funeral, during which we buried her by a mermaid statue outside. We each said a silent prayer, during which she began to sob.
At that point, I sat her on my knee and said it was time for a discussion.
I promised we would get her a real fish tank with fish that live longer than goldfish and that we would always remember Marina, because she was her first fish (she even giggled when I said when would name this joint Marina Memorial Aquarium).
We also won’t forget the carnival that restored our faith in the American institution of cotton candy, bumper cars and guaranteed prizes.

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In Memory Of The Sad Clown

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Wrote this immediately after the passing of the great James Gandolfini (Tony Soprano) a while back. At the time, I couldn’t bring myself to watch “The Sopranos” but I’ve come to realize that it wasn’t the best way to honor his memory.

By GORDON GLANTZ

Gordonglantz50@gmail.com

@Managing2Edit

GORDONVILLE — We all need our dreams, and one of mine was that “The Sopranos” would return one day, either to the big or small screen.

The dream ended this past week when the man who made Tony Soprano a household name, James Gandolfini, died at age 51 of a massive heart attack while vacationing with his son in Italy.

For all the times I have been touched, and touched deeply by his acting, I remain in stunned silence.

Not much in the way of tears, or overt sadness.

Not yet.

That might come when I watch the show again, which I, myself, have been unable to do.

Not yet.

Right now, I probably won’t make it through the opening credits.

Right now, I’m just trying to make it through one of the most difficult columns I’ve ever had to write.

It was much the same way when I lost close family members – my father (2008), father-in-law (2010) and stepfather (2011) — during these intervening years.

It took a while for the reality to set in.

And mock me if you will, I almost feel like I lost a member of my family in Gandolfini.

“The Sopranos” was in perpetual syndication in Gordonville.

It never got old.

Why?

Perhaps, I craved that sameness amid the many changes in my life – good and bad, sad and glad, personal and professional — since it first aired in 1999.

Perhaps, it just appealed to me as a fan of the mob genre. After all, the great movie of my generation is “The Godfather.”

Perhaps, it’s a mixture of all the above, along with the fact that I saw a lot of myself in Tony (sans actually whacking people). I have been known to have a short fuse, but I also have a big heart – exemplified by a love of four-legged creatures displayed by Tony — and expend a lot of needless energy worrying what other people think.

In addition to sharing paranoia bordering on unhealthy, we both held disdain for those who drift through life – and in between the raindrops without getting wet — as the “happy wanderer.”

When he described himself as “the sad clown,” I completely caught his drift.

The most amazing times were the first viewings of episodes, on Sunday nights, when I would be thinking exactly what Tony was thinking before he made his gestures of war and peace, and understood the indecision that followed his decisiveness.

Part of the immediate appeal of “The Sopranos” – when I first caught it during one of those free enticement weekends of HBO — was that the star, while captivating, was not a dashing leading man in the traditional sense.

It gave it brevity and levity.

And it shot to No.1 with a bullet in my heart, my soul and mind.

I soon took to wearing jogging suits and using the verbiage. It gave me a shield for my sensitivity.

In 2007, the same year my daughter was born, “The Sopranos” aired its final episode, with the screen suddenly fading to black while Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’” was halted at “don’t stop.” I defended it publicly, but secretly found it a bitter pill to swallow.

Still, I had the body of work — like that of The Beatles, Shakespeare or “The Brady Bunch” – to rely on.

And, like fans of the Fab Four – up until the death of John Lennon — I held out hope for more.

My little lullaby: The final show’s ending could mean anything.

Maybe Tony didn’t die in that diner, even though the fade-to-black hint was foretold in a prior episode. Maybe Silvio (Van Zandt) will come out of his coma. Maybe Chase, the show’s visionary, won’t take himself so seriously and will create a new world around Tony and Carmela (brilliantly played by Edie Falco) by using top-shelf Italian-American actors that would be at his disposal for a feature film or HBO mini-series.

And maybe Gandolfini, who turned Tony into the character that stirred “da gravy,” would wake up one day and have an epiphany. Maybe he would realize that he was meant to play Tony, not second bananas in big-budget movies, and call Chase and get on the same page for a new chapter.

While it seemed less and less likely, “The Sopranos” never let me down.

The show became my beacon. Nothing before it, or since, will ever take its place.

Part of its brilliance is that it never gets old.

It has kept me grounded, and kept me thinking.

I don’t drink, gamble or smoke. I don’t even golf or play cards with the guys.

My outlet, when the house is dark and no one else is awake, is to watch “The Sopranos.”

The more I allegedly evolve – or at least change – the more I glean from watching it on a continual loop.

My holy trinity – if Jewish guys are allowed such things – consisted of Sofia, Springsteen and “The Sopranos.”

And Gandolfini is the main reason it achieves such lofty status.

A night or two before I learned of Gandolfini’s passing, I watched an episode on HBO Signature. It was the one where the inner-circle holds a drug intervention for Christopher Moltisanti (played to perfection by the unheralded Michael Imperioli).

Christopher lashes out at each person in the room, including Tony. He tells him that he is going to die of a heart attack “before 50” if he keeps eating the way he does.

Ironically, Gandolfini – in a rare interview – was quoted as saying it would be “kind of lame” if the show ended with Tony dying of a heart attack.

Instead, that’s how the dream ended.

As much as Hollywood thrives on remakes, the curtain has now fallen on “The Sopranos.” The greatest compliment to Gandolfini is that if they made a remake 50 years from now, it wouldn’t work. No one can replicate his masterful portrayal.

In that sense, he was a true original.

He takes that to his early grave.

I am not one of Gandolfini’s loved ones — a group that includes both family and his many professional associates — and I can’t pretend to imagine how they feel.

But I count myself among his legion of enduring admirers.

Together, in ways we can’t yet fully express – or shouldn’t have to explain to those who “don’t get it” – we mourn his loss.

And I mourn my lost dream.

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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 …

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In Memory of ’Bwana

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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.

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Thanks Dad, For The Love Of The Games

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By GORDON GLANTZ

GordonGlantz50@gmail.com

GORDONVILLE — A lot has happened in the last five years.

Good things, bad things and just plain things that happen as we play the unpredictable game of life.

It is enough that it would belie the notion that the time flies by.

But Father’s Day, 2008, seems like yesterday.

It was all about my daughter, Sofia, who just happens to be making me my 2013 Father’s Day card right now – asking how to spell the names of our cats to sign it for them (they’re napping, or else she might be tempted to figure a way to put their paw prints on it).

But there was the phone call with my father, and a subsequent conversation that turned to sports.

A month later, he was in a car accident and never recovered, despite signs of false hope, and he died while in hospice care that August.

He missed the Phillies winning the 2008 World Series by a few months.

Ironically, and despite having three decades of fandom on me, I had witnessed this rare gift from the baseball Gods more times in my life than he did (not counting the technicality of the Philadelphia A’s. of course).

More peculiar, though, is the fact that I find myself thinking in these terms.

My father and I had an odd relationship, and communication – although improved as the years saw me move into adulthood and he into senior citizenship – was often coded.

And that code was sports.

It was our common ground.

Even on serious topics, or ones seemingly unrelated, the analogies would be sports-centric.

While his yearbook shows participation on the track team, my father was not a natural athlete. He biggest claim to fame was returning an interception for a touchdown in a pickup game of touch football while in the military.

He would claim his broken nose and surgically repaired knee were “old football injuries” but we would usually roll our eyes.

That’s because we had eyewitness accounts to the contrary.

My Uncle Oscar, his older brother, was the team captain of Central High’s basketball team. He used to say that “Sammy was a klutz” in a matter-of-fact tone.

Everyone at the table, except my father, would laugh.

Uncle Oscar might have been overstating it a bit. My dad had the basics down. We played catch, and shot baskets in the driveway, and he wasn’t a complete “klutz.”

But the evidence is there.

Because he was left-handed, my dad made the non-athlete’s mistake of buying me a glove for my right hand when I was preschool age. My first street hockey stick was curved the wrong way (a blessing in disguise, as it helped develop my wicked wrist shot).

My first baseball bat was too heavy, so he told me just to put it on my shoulder. I knew better, which probably helped my bat speed at a young age.

But when it came to the art of being a fan, my father knew best.

He showed me how to keep a scorecard, baseball or basketball, a lost art at which I was proficient by Sofia’s age (6 and change).

It is safe to say I knew how to read the standings – usually finding the Phillies and Eagles in last place – in the newspaper before I could even read the articles.

We played sports strategy games – my favorite board games, outside of Monopoly – which enhanced my understanding of Xs and Os when I watched sports on television.

Or in person.

And that happened a lot.

It was not uncommon to attend four or five sporting events in weekend.

This was especially true in the fall. He had season tickets to the Eagles, which are now mine, and to Temple football. He shared a package for the 76ers and, to make me happy, scored Flyers tickets –the toughest in town – when he could.

The winter, as the NBA and NHL continued, Big 5 basketball – the vintage Big 5, before Villanova ruined it with its snobbery – was part of the mix.

The spring brought a Sunday package for Phillies games (my first was actually helmet day at Connie Mack Stadium, and I still remember that palpitation in my heart when we came through the tunnel and saw the diamond).

We would attend the Penn Relays each spring. It was also not uncommon to check out a high school game. In the summer, we would invariably find ourselves at Temple’s McGonigle Hall taking in double- and triple-headers of the Sonny Hill League and Baker League.

I was only with my father on weekends, so not much homework got done. If we weren’t at a game, I was outside acting out what I saw or in my room replaying match-ups via Strat-O-Matic games.

When he started seeing my subpar report cards, he became aware of the monster he created and played the dangling-carrot game, threatening attendance at upcoming games, if he didn’t see improvement.

Invariably, though, it didn’t come to pass. We would be in the car, stopping at Pat’s Steaks and heading to one of the venues.

It was a golden time in Philadelphia sports.

I was born in 1965, so we saw all four teams rise to power. Three of them – the Flyers (1974, 1975), Phillies (1980) and Sixers (1983) –went on to win championships.

The Eagles, well, it’s more complicated.

The greatest memory remains the victory over Dallas in the NFC title game in January of 1981. The worst, and the last time together at Veterans Stadium, was that bitter loss to Tampa Bay.

Disgusted and cold, he left as soon as the game ended. He stayed in my seat for a good 20 minutes, not only replaying the game but reflecting on all the good times I had in that stadium.

And he was the reason.

When my father passed away, there were the invariable things left unsaid.

For the love of sports, Philadelphia-style, I can only say this.

Thank you, dad.

Follow Gordon Glantz on Twitter @Managing2Edit

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Giving Voices To The Choices

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Fiedler2

By GORDON GLANTZ

gordonglantz50@gmail.com

@Managing2Edit

“We are our choices.”
–Jean Paul Sartre

GORDONVILLE — So there we were, my mother and I, driving to the Jersey shore to take care of some business (no, we are not hit men, although it’s probably not bad work if you can get it).
She was behaving herself by not incessantly asking lame questions to illicit small talk that interferes with my holy communion with Sirius radio, which seems to have personal service contracts with Billy Joel and Loggins and Messina.
And a series of events got me about the choices we make, why we make them and the ramifications.
Among the them were:
Which bridge to take?
A) Walt Whitman
B-Ben Franklin
C-Tacony Palmrya
D- Betsy Ross  

Answer: My preferred bridge, presuming KYW’s latest report is accurate, is always the Walt Whitman. It dumps you on the right road that puts you on the right road that puts you on the AC Expressway. That said, we took the long way home, opting for Tacony Palmyra because … I like to torture myself. Actually, it was so we could eat at the Cracker Barrel in Marlton. When I missed that jug-handle thing, the target became the Country Club Diner in my native Northeast Philly. It was such a good suggestion by my mother, so I allowed her talk during the meal.
Side Note: We had a booth by the window, where we were able to watch the students leave Northeast High School, my alma mater, for the day. They were wearing school uniforms. My mother asked if I would have preferred that (a rare good question), and it occurred to me that I did have a uniform – worn-out jeans and a concert shirt with three-quarter sleeves.
How best to dry my hands after washing them – and there should be no choice of about that, especially considering that this dawned on me while at the rest stop (where you don’t really get much rest) on the AC Expressway – in the rest room (where you really don’t get much rest when wondering about choices)?
A-That high-powered, ineffective dryer thing
B-Paper Towels
C-My pant leg
D-Do nothing
Answer: I always go for the paper towels, but I had no choice this time but to use the dryer thing, as there were no paper towels (a sign on the wall had some psychobabble about going green). But I really loathe the drier thing for one simple reason – it doesn’t get my hands dry. It ranks up there with our cultural vampire obsession with things I don’t get. If I weren’t wearing a jogging suit, making me look like a hit man for Tony Soprano, I just would have gone with the pant leg and called it a day.

How about: Preferred Montgomery County shopping mall?
A- Plymouth Meeting
B-Montgomery
C- King of Prussia
D- Does another one even exist?
Answer: Used to be Plymouth Meeting, and it’s still OK, but the food court sucks almost as bad as the parking. Plus, Sofia wants to ride the carousel 153 times in a row. Pretty good place to mall walk on winter mornings, but I started to like Montgomery better when I had to return something there one winter morn (sounds like a Gordon Lightfoot song, does it not?). Aside from irksome hucksters every three feet down the middle of the first floor, I give it the slight nod. I really dig the humungous Dick’s Sporting Goods at the far end (there is a joke there, about size mattering when it comes to Dick’s, but I’m leaving it alone). The store almost makes me want to buy more exercise equipment to collect dust in the basement.
Side Note: I wouldn’t go to King of Prussia, battling that traffic across the Dannehower (or is Dan Howard) Bridge, if you told me the stuff was free. Honest.
Moving on from the realistic, albeit mundane, to theoretical:

The quarterback I would choose to start one game, assuming my life was on the line?
A- Johnny Unitas
B-Joe Montana
C- John Elway
D- Jay Fiedler
Answer: Not Jay Fiedler, but in lieu of going to Temple (the house of worship, not my beloved alma mater) on Yom Kippur (Sins? What sins?) I thought I would list a run-of-the-mill quarterback among the icons because he was Jewish. Obviously, Payton or Eli Manning would be solid options to list, but I would not pick them in the end, so why bother. My choice? Montana. Close, over Elway, but my life is still pretty precious. That’s why I check my blood pressure 64 times per week (103/72, despite being on the road with my mother, on Thursday).

Brass tacks (whatever the heck that means). The Eagles quarterback I would choose to start, assuming my life was on the line?
A- Donovan McNabb
B-Randall Cunningham
C- Norm Van Brocklin
D- Jay Fiedler
Answer: Fiedler? See above. Actually, he has more playoffs wins (one, with the Miami Dolphins, than Cunningham did with the Eagles). And I just wanted to remind the 0.8 of you who care that he began his career with the Eagles (no regular-season snaps, but he was a pre-season legend, leading a few comebacks). McNabb? Actually, I would have him start if … Rush Limbaugh’s life were on the line. Randall, buddy, loved ya – even named my beloved pooch after you – but clutch games were not your thing. That leaves Van Brocklin, which is pretty sad considering he was only in Philadelphia for two seasons (winning a championship).
Side Note: Tommy Thompson actually quarterbacked the Eagles to three title games (1947, 1948 and 1949) and won the last two. And, he did it with vision in only one eye. Then again, partial vision is probably all one needed to hand the ball off to Steve Van Buren.

Shifting gears back from sports to my other passion, music:
Favorite singer/songwriter … from Canada?
A- Joni Mitchell
B-Neil Young
C- Gordon Lightfoot
D- Does it really matter when you have to choose between those three amazing talents?
Answer: I’ll eliminate Joni Mitchell because her body of work, though oft-brilliant, doesn’t stack up. As a gentleman, let me open the exit door for the lady. The other guys? Can I flip a coin? Nope, this is about choices. Hard ones – which bridge to cross, how to dry your hands, leaving your life in the passing arm of a Notre Dame graduate or a guy whose last name begins with Van (not good for a Jewish kid, even if he is from Northeast Philly and wore concert shirts and jeans to school instead of khakis and golf shirts). OK … overall, Neil Young is better – he is a superior guitarist and crosses genres as easily as I slip on jogging suits to look like a hit man – but I have to go with any guy named Gordon. “If You Could Read My Mind” is one of the greatest songs ever written – then again, so is “Like A Hurricane” – and this was for “singer/songwriter.” As a singer, he seals the deal.
Favorite way to listen to music?
A- Casette tape
B-Vinyl
C- CD
D- iPod/iTunes
Answer: This has changed over the years, mostly based on what I could do best while cruising (with chicks other than my mother), although listening to vinyl in the car would have been quite a trick. I grew up with records, so they will always have a soft spot in my heart. Nothing beats being in a record store, being lured in by the artwork and enjoying the lyrics in print a normal person can actually read. But it was a pain in the ass repeatedly getting up to change sides every five songs. Casettes were OK, and good in the car, but they would start to squeak — sounding like cuddly kittens in pain – and that was no fun (especially if you like cuddly kittens). CDs were cool, because they would play all the way through – without switching sides — and allowed for more songs per release (imagine Fleetwood Mac’s “Rumours” with “Silver Springs” or Elton John’s “Captain Fantastic and the Brown Dirt Cowboy” with “Philadelphia Freedom” or Bruce Springsteen’s “Born In The USA” with “Janey, Don’t You Lose Heart”), but they could also scratch and skip – like vinyl – after a while. So, until the next craze, let’s go with the iPod. It’s all your music, making you the programming director of your own station.
And this brings us back to where we started:
Favorite existentialist?
A- Kiekegaard
B-Dostoyevksy
C- Nietzche
D- Sartre
Answer: Really? Who hooked me up with the quote to get this rolling? My mother wouldn’t even have asked that one.

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