On Mark McGwire: Hitting Coach

Mark McGwire will be the hitting coach for the St. Louis Cardinals in 2010. This is extremely interesting; the hero, whose flaws and enemies led to villainy and exile, now returns to the land of his greatest acclaim.

Missourians can be severely judgmental, but we love to forgive our heroes. Leonard Little once killed a woman while driving drunk, was arrested 5 years later for the same crime, and continues to have his job with the St. Louis Rams. Rush Limbaugh has been an addict, a demagogue and once accused Michael J. Fox of “exaggerating the effects” of Parkinson’s–but he’s something of a Raja in Missouri; our own modern Huey Long. McGwire’s sins seem tame compared to these two, but (allegedly) his fall was his own undoing; tragic in the classical sense.

1998 was a magical time to be alive in Missouri. Baseball phenomena rarely  reach national consciousness, but every great once in a while, some feat within the game catches the public in an indelible way. 1941 saw Ted Williams hit .400 and Joe Dimaggio’s hitting streak; 1961 and M&M’s pursuit of 61; 1998 was McGwire and Sosa.

To be a boy in Missouri during this period (I was 14 in ‘98) was to immediately adopt McGwire as folk hero; like some behemoth lumberjack, his bat a toothpick, his sweet swing mechanized and marvelous. Redheaded and goateed, he seemed like your woodsy uncle; capable of tending a wood-furnace and hunting from a deer-blind.

Then, to see him live, was to subject yourself to some incredible spectacle of human fascination; each swing that summer was catalyst to a thousand camera flashes. I saw him hit #66; a night victory against Montreal in which rookie J.D. Drew had two home runs. By that point, the camera-to-fan ratio was nearly 1:1–I have never had a similar visual experience. Flashes in all directions, slowly increasing in tempo until the swing, at which point all points of light become singular, from nearly every seat in old Busch Stadium. When he homered, the roar was deafening; my barely-deepened voice could not be heard in that explosion of thunderous cheering. We thought we were watching history.

Then came the storm. Baseball had a lot of players using performance-enhancing drugs in this era, and McGwire was likely one of them. This drawn-out, supposedly “moral,” trial has created a lot of villains; from some of the greatest players in baseball history. Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens, two sure-fire members in the Pantheon of Baseball, banished to the margins with Cicotte, Rose and Joe Jackson. And McGwire, our mighty slugger with the heart of gold, suddenly tarnished, thrown in with the other cheaters. It seemed to negate the magic we had in ‘98; we felt fooled.

Whether or not taking steroids constitutes cheating is an enormous question, one far too large for my undertaking. If I could be a better entertainer by taking an injection, I probably would–and this would be cheating. But steroids wouldn’t make McGwire a better hitter; they help athletes recover more quickly from the incredible physical stress of professional sport. McGwire, Bonds; they were great hitters before the juice, and it’s a shame that those years can never be separated from the tainted ones. Steroids mainly benefit fringe players; the difference between 5 and 15 home runs in a season is enormous to a player’s staying power in the majors; more so than between 30 and 50. Was McGwire really “cheating” in ‘98? I don’t know; everybody else seems to have been doing it too.

McGwire’s handling of the controversy indicated he was guilty; a non-answer is not a defense and is, in fact, incriminating. Watching him refuse to talk to Congress was like watching your father refuse to talk about any “alleged affair.” Then came the self-exile; 8 years of hiding with periodic, groundhog-like appearances on spring training back fields. And now, he’s a major-league hitting coach for my beloved Cardinals.

It’s exciting for practical reasons; Cards hitters need more discipline, they were far too aggressive under Hal McRae, and we had too few power hitters to be so cavalier with first-pitch swings. But it’s also exciting for personal reasons; it would be like if Stan Musial had come back in 1975 to manage, or if Harry Truman had run for Governor in ‘60. The nostalgia factor overrides any lasting suspicion, and I’m already rooting for McGwire again; I would have the same reaction if Phil Spector suddenly decided to make a record with a re-formed Destiny’s Child. He’s the idol of my youth; I’m sure my great-grandparents felt the same way about Charlie Chaplin–it’s a wonderful feeling to forgive an old friend, that first welcome after a long separation.

I’m sure the sports journalists will take every snide swipe they get; the moral indignation displayed is pretty incredible considering how little most of those speakers have done to make a meaningful contribution to society beyond sports commentary. McGwire is a big easy target; and there will be a period where the subject may threaten to overwhelm the chemistry of the clubhouse. Tony will be a tireless defender, and Mac will simply not address “the past” and eventually it will disappear from the conversation. McGwire may even emerge from this mess, more so than Bonds and Clemens, comfortably reclusive in their multi-millions. Hall of Fame? Probably not now; someday, maybe. Time will pass, there will be revisions; the numbers will stand for history to judge, asterisks or not.

I’m ready to look past the stickiness of the situation; that special summer, and our relative places in it, have earned Mark McGwire a free pass with me. He’s not Stan Musial, and he’s not Albert Pujols, but to every Missourian of a certain age, he’s permanently a Cardinal hero, swatting home runs like it was easy–70 in a season! It’s almost comical to think of; like statistics from a video game. But I’ll choose to ignore the horrible truth and root #25–I wonder if Big Mac Land will be awkward now.

 

Thoughts on Celebrity Death

In the past month there have been a slew of celebrity deaths, causing me to think a bit on the nature of death when a life has been spent in the limelight.

Micheal Jackson’s death made me think: “It is possible (though rare) for ones art to transcend even the darkest transgressions of ones ‘real’ life.” The key concept is that if your product is good enough, or if it evokes rabid devotion, you can commit any sin you like, for all that will be remembered is the greatness of the work. This principle applied to Elvis, Bing Crosby and several Kennedys. One day it will work wonders for Reggie Jackson, Charles Barkley and Charlie Sheen.

This principle does not apply for David Carradine, whose life will never be mentioned without the seedy undertones of his demise. The lesson here is: death cannot be of a sexual nature, or else you’ll forever be remembered as your fetish. Fatty Arbuckle was one of the biggest movie stars in America, but he’ll forever be linked to the sexual crime he didn’t even commit.

Curiously, Steve McNair’s death, while grisly and shocking, hasn’t brought forth any such moral judgments. Murdered in his sleep by a mistress 16 years younger, McNair left behind a wife and four kids. But in sports, it seems, one is mostly remembered by the on-field persona, rather than off-the-field reality. It takes quite a villain (OJ, Pete Rose, Barry Bonds) to sully athletic greatness. Hell, Ty Cobb was the most hated, hateful, racist son-of-a-bitch in sports history, but even his detractors considered him the greatest hitter of all time. Which makes me wonder: how much would Micheal Vick have to do to be remembered as a football player instead of a dog killer? Win two Super Bowls? Die saving someones life? The silence surrounding McNair’s affair is curious, but unsurprising. Professional athletics is like an alcoholic family; secrecy is paramount to protect the lie. No one vilifies the damned unless he’s as easily despised as John Rocker.

The lesson that resonated most with me was the reaction I had to Karl Malden’s death. I thought to myself, “That’s how I want to go.” 97 years old, nearly 60 years in show business, solid career in character roles, no major tragedies or traumas. To die in your home of natural causes, with dignity and family–what better way to complete a life?

If Karl Malden and Micheal Jackson were able to witness the respective spectacle and lack thereof what would they think? Jackson had a monumental outpouring from fans, a level of fanaticism reserved for only the most hallowed. But it doesn’t transform the man that was. Knowing nothing about how he really was, I can state definitively that he was without peace. No amount of adulation or press can change a life in retrospect–it only seems that way. In fifty years, modern generations will see Jackson the way we see Al Jolson today–they say the man was popular, but something seems off about him, whoever he was.

 

The Bird Falls to Earth

Former Detroit Tiger hurler, and erstwhile legend Mark Fidrych died yesterday at the age of 54, crushed by an automobile he was working under. Rather than smear the page with my own meanderings, I’ll link to one of the finest sports profiles ever written, from SI, 1986.

http://vault.sportsillustrated.cnn.com/vault/article/magazine/MAG1064674/index.htm

The tone of dissapointment and uncertainty about the future fits quite nicely under the classification of ”Fallen Prodigy: Injury Edition”.

 

Nick Adenhart: Thoughts on Early Death in Baseball

Nick Adenhart, a rookie pitcher for the Los Angeles Angels, was killed along with two other passengers in a hit-and-run auto accident early Thursday morning, sending somber shock-waves throughout the baseball world. Adenhart, just 22, had thrown six shutout innings against the A’s Wednesday night; his career MLB win-loss record will forever read: 1-0.  

The death is tragic for a number of reasons: mostly the nature of the accident and the early age at which Adenhart was killed. But death among active players is nothing new in baseball. Since its founding, Major League Baseball has periodically dealt with active players passing away while still in the midst of their careers. While the topic is a bit morbid, the range of deaths is actually quite fascinating.

There have been approximately 64 deaths among active players since 1888, and while there are a few prominent names, the list is mostly comprised of average players, remembered more for their untimely demise than their exploits on the baseball field. Adenhart is yet another casualty-by-automobile-accident—this group includes Mike Darr, Denny Williams, Bob Moose, Paul Edmondson and Mike Miley. Outfielder Dernell Stenson, might oddly fit into this group; he was killed in a botched car-jacking.

There are several deaths by players who were also amateur pilots. Cory Lidle is the most recent of these, and Yankee catcher Thurman Munson the most famous. The strangest aviation-related death is that of Len Koenecke: The 31-year-old outfielder was beaten to death with a fire extinguisher by the flight crew of an aircraft, after provoking a fight with the pilot while the plane was in the air. Grisly.

The most famous aviation-death, non-pilot-edition, is that of Roberto Clemente. Arguably the greatest right fielder in history, Clemente died in a plane that crashed while delivering supplies to earthquake survivors in Nicaragua–New Years Eve,1972. Roberto learned that corrupt government officials had been diverting previous aid packages, and hoped his presence on the plane would ensure safe delivery. Besides finishing his career with exactly 3000 hits, Clemente is the only player in history to hit a walk-off, inside-the-park grand slam, which he achieved against the Cubs in 1956. He is also the only player to be elected to the Hall of Fame without the mandatory five-year waiting period.

Clemente is not the only Hall-of-Famer on the list; Ed Delhanty, Addie Joss and Ross Youngs also suffered premature fatalities. Pitcher Jossdied of tuberculosis, but not before crafting the second-lowest career ERA in history (1.88) and he also threw a perfect game in 74 pitches (of the other sixteen perfect games in 132 years of MLB history, the next-lowest pitch count was 88 by David Cone in ’99). Delhanty was kicked off a train in up-state New York for being drunk and disorderly; he wandered to Niagra Falls where he either jumped, or fell, off the International Bridge and drowned.

Most of these deaths came in the early days of baseball, with several players dying of typhoid fever, tuberculosis, kidney disease or heart failure. Ray Chapman was the only player ever killed in-game, when he was struck in the temple by a Carl Mays fastball; he fell into a coma and died within 12 hours. The sound of ball hitting skull was so loud, Mays fielded the ball and threw it to first, thinking Chapman had connected with his bat. Although the change wasn’t enforced for nearly 30 years, Chapman’s death led to mandatory helmet use when batting.

From the All-Time-Greatest-Names file we have Urban Shocker, Buster Brown, “Pickles” Dillhoefer and Dick Wantz (or as he is listed in the Baseball Encyclopedia: Wantz Dick).

(Please Note: If the universe is just, someone will make a Dick joke about my untimely death as well—now for a deft shift in tone!)

There are a number of unsettling deaths which can only categorized by the macabre nature of their details.

Ed Morris and Bugs Raymond were turn-of-the-century ballplayers who were killed in bar brawls. Morris was stabbed to death in the chest and Raymond beaten with a wagon-axle. Marty Bergen, one of the finest catchers of the 1890s, was known as a teammate who “was given to fits of insanity.” He had persistent hallucinations throughout his career that “his enemies were trying to poison” him. In January 1900, Bergen murdered his wife and two children, then decapitated himself with a straight razor.

Lyman Bostock was the only player that was ever murdered while active. In a grisly misunderstanding, Bostockwas shot while driving his car, murdered by the estranged husband of an acquaintance; one he had met only 20 minutes earlier. Tim Crews and Steve Olin were killed, and Bob Ojeda severely injured, when Crews, severely drunk at the time of the accident, drove their speed boat into a pier during Spring Training ’93.

I’ll close with an anecdote that is maybe a bit lighter, so we don’t end on too sour a note. George “Win” Mercer died at 28 by suicide; he inhaled illumination gas used in early electric lighting devices. But what’s most remarkable about Mercer is an incident that occurred earlier in his career.

Mercer was a fan favorite, especially with women. He was “young and handsome with piercing dark eyes, and an outgoing personality,” and the ladies loved him. Playing on Mercer’s popularity with the women, the Washington Senators liked to pitch Mercer on Tuesdays and Fridays, which were designated “Ladies’ Days.” One of these Ladies’ Day games ended in shambles, though, when Umpire Bill Carpenter ejected Mercer in the 3^rd inning. According to Nash and Zullo, “an army of angry females poured out of the stands. They surrounded Carpenter, shoved him to the ground, ripped his clothing and trampled him underfoot. Finally, police brought the situation under control.”This is an amazing story, and that it took place in 1897 says something about the eternal nature of rabid fandom, even in the fledgling years of the sport.

Adenhart’s death was tragic; a 22-year-old taken needlessly at the beginning of his career. But it certainly wasn’t the first time, and, unfortunately, it won’t be the last. Hopefully, if something from this can be gained, it’s that life is precious, and should not be taken for granted. No matter the career: enjoy this blessed life while you have it; its very impermanence is what makes it special.

 

Fallen Prodigies

I’m currently writing a feature-length screenplay about a phenomenally-gifted quarterback that never achieves his full potential. It’s a Midwestern drama set in late-80s Oklahoma and it’s somehwat bleak, but it’s been great fun writing a football story from that period. I am especially intrigued with the essential narrative: the phenom that throws it all away.

 

In my research for the screenplay, I came across some fascinating real-life characters that fit the profile: fallen prodigy.  

 

Todd Marinovich

Marv Marinovich, an ex-NFL lineman, decides that from birth his son is going to be directed towards one purpose: Becoming an elite NFL quarterback. The dad strictly controls the boy’s diet and he famously never eats a Big Mac, Ding Dong or Oreo (Note—Esquire did a story on Marinovich that came to my mailbox yesterday, and apparently his mother was sneaking him junk food all along. Bitch.) The father directs every minute of his son’s free time towards practice and instruction from a rotating pantheon of specialized coaches and trainers. An SI article titled “Bred to Be a Superstar” declared him “America’s first test-tube athlete.” His father’s name is also Marv.

Predictably, when Marinovich reached USC and was suddenly on his own, the trouble started. In another SI article, he says “I wish I could go somewhere else and be someone else–I don’t want to be Todd Marinovich,” a harbinger of things to come. He starts as a redshirt freshman and shows glimpses of brilliance, but soon developed a rocky relationship with Coach Larry Smith (before he came to MU) and was arrested for cocaine possession. He leaves for the NFL following his sophomore season and is drafted in the first round by the Raiders. He starts a few games, plays inconsistently over three years and is released. The Raiders quickly reverse their fortunes by signing a post-mustache, still-crazy Jeff George.

Marinovich kicks around in the CFL and the Arena League and is constantly plagued with paternity suits, drug arrests and rape charges. His last stint in professional football was with the LA Avengers (which were consequently the best football team in Los Angeles for several years). He was named to the Arena-All-Rookie team (which is somewhat like being named to small-penis All-Stars), but was released following further drug charges. In May 2005 Todd was arrested after being found with several bongs in his trunk. He fled on a child’s bicycle, but was caught a few blocks away. He gave his occupation as “unemployed artist” and “anarchist” on the police report.

In August 2007, Marinovich was arrested and charged with felony drug possession and resisting arrest after being stopped while “skateboarding where skateboarding is forbidden by local ordinance.” The erstwhile QB fled on foot when officers tried to stop him–he was found hiding in a carport about six blocks away. He had a guitar case, and inside officers found a gram of meth, a spoon and a hypodermic needle.

 

The story of Todd Marinovich is a pretty classic archetype: overbearing stage dad forces his son into football; son self-destructs. But not every case is so mythic.

In 1991, the New York Yankees selected golden-armed Brien Taylor with the first overall pick in the MLB amateur draft. During Taylor’s first year in the minor leagues he strikes out 187 in 161 innings with a 2.57 ERA. He quickly ascends to AA, where he gets in a bar-brawl defending his brother. He tears the labrum in his throwing arm and is never the same. In 1995 he walks 54 in 40 innings of A-ball. In ’96 he walks 43 in 16.1 innings, sporting an 18.57 ERA in a short-season rookie league. In his final professional game, pitching for a rookie-league team in 2000, he gave up 5 hits, 9 walks, 8 earned runs, and 11 runs in 2.2 innings pitched. He currently works in real estate, buying and repairing homes for resale.

When recruited to play halfback for the University of Nebraska, Lawrence Phillips was living in a foster home in Southern California. In his sophomore season, he accumulated an NU-record 1722 rushing yards for a national championship Husker squad. The following year, he was poised to lead Nebraska to another championship, but as is the case with our fallen prodigies, the troubles begin. After two games on the season, he was averaging more than 10 yards per carry. But late one night when the team returned from practice, Phillips went looking for his ex-girlfriend, Kate McEwen, a basketball player for the Nebraska women’s team. He found her in the apartment of another football player, Scott Frost. Frost had transferred from Stanford the year before, and was sitting out the 1995 season. Phillips found McEwen and dragged her down a stairwell by her hair and shirt. Frost was eventually able to intervene, but not before Phillips had caused significant harm to McEwen.

He was suspended, but eventually regained his position by the ’96 Fiesta Bowl. Phillips was drafted #6 overall by the St. Louis Rams and played a season and a half before refusing to show for a team meeting and practice in a dispute with coach Dick Vermeil. In November ’97, the Rams cut Phillips, and a teary-eyed Vermeil (surprising, right?) called Phillips the “potentially” best running back he had ever coached. Phillips kicked around with the Dolphins, 49ers and NFL Europe, accumulating numerous assault charges. After stints in the CFL and Arena Leagues, (familiar themes?) Phillips was finally released for arguing with coaches and continued legal issues. On August 21, 2005, Phillips was arrested for assault after allegedly driving a car into three teenagers, following a dispute with the teens during a pick-up football game in Los Angeles. At the time of the arrest, Phillips was wanted by the San Diego Police Department in connection with two alleged domestic abuse incidents involving a former girlfriend, who claimed that Phillips choked her to the point of unconsciousness. In addition, the LAPD was seeking Phillips in connection with yet another, separate domestic abuse allegation. On October 10, 2006, Phillips was found guilty of seven counts of assault with a deadly weapon and in 2008, was sentenced to 10 years in a California state prison. Which makes Dick cry.

At 6’11”, Chris Washburn was one of the top basketball recruits of 1984, rivaled only by Danny Manning. An incredibly gifted athlete, Washburn combined incredible size with blazing speed for a big man with soft hands. According to some of his former teammates, however, Washburn was a student in name only. He almost never attended classes, but Coach Jim Valvano always managed to keep him eligible. He was also caught stealing a stereo, which resulted in him being sentenced to 46 hours in jail and five years of probation. During his trial, the Wake County district attorney introduced as evidence Washburn’s SAT scores, which were below 500 (out of 1600, with 400 being the starting score). Washburn left N.C. State after the 1985-86 season and was selected 3^rd overall by the Golden State Warriors. The highlight of Washburn’s career may have come during an October exhibition game in his rookie season against the Knicks. During a 23-point loss, Washburn scored 16 points. He was quickly in rehab for cocaine addiction. He played 72 games over two seasons, averaging 3.1 points and 2.4 rebounds per game. Washburn was banned from the NBA for life in June 1989 after failing three drug tests in three years. By the mid-1990s, Washburn was still trying to scrape together a basketball career in various minor professional leagues. At last report, Washburn was working in the mortgage business in the Dallas-Fort Worth area.

These players differ from ones like Dwight Gooden, Darryl Strawberry and Steve Howe because they aren’t “has-beens” who wasted their potential over time, each is an example of the dismal “never-was.” Strawberry played for 17 years in the major leagues, and Howe, despite seven suspensions for cocaine possession, managed to cobble together 12 seasons. The players I’ve identified never had a career at the top level. Their talent was such that dominance should come easily, but poor decisions and unsupportive environments spelled imminent doom.

It’s not difficult to draw some sound conclusions from these stories. Western culture has been obsessed with prodigies for centuries—the idea that once in a generation an individual arrives that is blessed with divine talents; undeniable ability that supersede the hard work of “normal”, less-talented colleagues. Mozart was arguably the first, and still most famous, prodigy—others include John Stuart Mill, Pablo Picasso, Bobby Fischer and Haley Joel Osment. Society adores prodigies because it fulfills our notions on talent: you are born with it or you aren’t. More importantly, those that are not blessed with talent have an inherent disadvantage that will never be overcome, not even through hard work or persistence.

However, the notion of prodigious talent has a darker, less-acknowledged underbelly. While society propels its prodigies to the heights of fame and acclaim, it also derives smug delight when the “blessed” fall. We are concurrently in awe and resentful of prodigies. That a sacred few are given extraordinary talent while the rest of us toil fruitlessly is deeply disturbing; it upsets our sense of uniqueness and renders hollow the notion of “meritocracy.” Thus, when a prodigy falls, one cannot help but feeling sensations of justice and equilibrium. It also reinforces the Puritan (read: New England) notion that one must not take for granted the gifts of God.

Then Job arose, and rent his mantle, and shaved his head, and fell down upon the ground, and worshipped, And said, Naked came I out of my mother’s womb, and naked shall I return thither: the Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away; blessed be the name of the Lord.

– Job 1: 20-21 (KJV)

The story of Todd Marinovich, and every fallen prodigy, is grim, but we secretly delight in its lesson: talent is not enough. To make the most of ones potential is to devote a lifetime of hard work hard and ethical behavior to a selected field, and to do so out of love and ambition. Prodigious talent may be an undeniable advantage, but it does not guarantee success.

PS – Spence, if you made it this far: This one’s for you!

 

Everybody Deserves to Be Kelly Thames

Last night the Missouri Tigers defeated the KU Jayhawks in a come-from-behind victory that electrified the sold-out crowd and cemented our standing as a contender in the Big 12. I turned off the game early and was nearly asleep when the buzzer sounded. Luckily our young, drunken neighbors did enough shouting and jumping to tell the tale.

The next morning the whole tone on campus was pretty bright, and served such a contrast to the usual “no-looking-at-others-or-acknowledging-life” climate which pervades the grounds. As I walked, I thought, “I used to care about such things.”

The trials and tribulations of the St. Louis Cardinals are the only sporting matters I seem to care about anymore. It seems when you enter a large state University one of your new entitlements is a deep and abiding investment in the sports teams of your alma mater. But after a while, there’s only so much caring one can give before the realization: these are 18-22 year old kids; to treat them like professionals sets everyone up for failure.

College sports are beloved in a unique way in this country, partly because of the rabid spirit of the youthful fanbase and partly because we admire the “amateur” status of the players. These games aren’t tainted by contract-driven motivations, greedy fan-hating owners or over-commercialized exploitation of potential revenue. They play for the love of the game! The true spirit of team!

This is how professional sports in America usedto be viewed. In the off-season, most baseball players had winter jobs in factories and retail, because their incomes were pretty much in line with average citizens. Likewise, student-athletes, though treated with more recognition, are still just pimple-faced kids, stumbling about trying to figure out what it is they want in life. And in college sports, only a small percentage are stars. Most rosters boast a few gritty un-athletes; those that hang on because of determination and will, which they use to overcome their lack of natural gifts. All of these things combine to keep the sport relatively pure, at least in the general fan’s view.

But when a team is successful, expectations grow, and fans grow disappointed when expectations go unfulfilled. Our football team began the 2008 season highly ranked, expecting to contend for a national championship. After a few detours, the team ended up 10-4, an incredible season by MU standards, but because of the expectations, many fans quickly turned on the team. It’s somewhat upsetting to watch these kids glorify 18 and 22-year-olds and then drop them when they show any signs of weakness.

It makes me thankful I’m not put in the same position. Imagine if at the begining of the year, MU announced a $100,000 production of Hamlet and all the parts were publicly cast. The buildup toward the show would be filled with excitement and pride, the hype would grow and fester into a boil. What if the show opened and they weren’t that impressed? What if a few lines were flubbed or if the blocking were blurred? And afterwards, people would leave the auditorium bitching because they didn’t get what they expected and decide to scrawl hateful slurs on bathroom walls and message boards. What would that mean to the 20-something cast, attempting to learn and execute their craft?

I love college sports, but at a somewhat superficial level. If the Tigers win, I’m elated, and if they lose, I sigh and think, “well, they’re just kids anyway.” This makes me old and unlikable. But it is the truth, nonetheless.

When I was young, my cousins and I would play basketball on a short goal and pretend to be “Tigers.” Jevon Crudup, Melvin Booker, the Haley twins, Jason Sutherland. Sometimes Brock Olivio would join the team mid-game as a surprise addition at Shooting Guard. Back then, 18-year-olds were enormous and frightening; like scary adults that might do drugs (after having pre-marital sex, of course). Now they all seem so baby-faced, like high schoolers in adult bodies.

This morning, Facebook statuses sounded the call: “How great it is to be a Tiger” “M-I-Z…” “Best night of my life!” If Zaire Taylor hadn’t hit that last-second shot, what would they have said? Me, I’m old school. If the team is a perennial loser, you just ride it out. If the team wins, you feel so grateful to have a team at all.

It’s a wonderful diversion, team sports. That’s a sub-conscious reason students love them: it gives vicarious meaning to our lives. When they win, we win. Even if our everyday lives are a struggle, when the team wins, we win; we have defeated our opponents and get to be heroes, even if it’s momentary. Everybody deserves to be Kelly Thames, even if for a day.

 

Doctor Rosstus

Several times throughout my childhood I attempted to sell my soul to the devil. The first time I tried, I was 11.

I was convinced early on by my fundamentalist grandparents that such a transaction was not only possible, but quite likely if I let down my guard for even a moment. The devil became a very real person to me, and when I was very young, I would leap into the bed at night like a hurdler, so as to keep the devil from grabbing my feet from under the bed, thereby dragging me into hell.

After a while, though, my attitude towards Satan changed. He was easily the most interesting character in the Bible. He started out an angel, was banished forever and decided to seek revenge by corrupting the soul of man through the ages. While God smote man with his wrath, Lucifer would seduce and tempt with earthly pleasure. He encouraged man to pursue knowledge and do what he damn well felt like. And in the yet-enacted finale, Lucifer takes control of the earth for the last days. Overall he’s entirely more attractive a character than Moses, Daniel, Job, or Jonah. I’d say it’s neck and neck between Satan and Jesus for the title of “Bible’s Greatest Character.” Man can relate more to the Devil than Jesus; Jesus was perfect–that doesn’t speak to me! It was only a matter of time before I began to consider the idea of soul-selling as a profitable trade.

Obviously, the “Deal with the Devil” has been done. Goethe’s Faust did a pretty good job, and the story is a prominent motif throughout several centuries of Christian folklore. According to traditional Christian belief, a person may offer his soul to Bealzebub in exchange for diabolical favors including youth, wealth or fame. The price of the deal is eternal damnation.

I was precocious at 11; I thought myself a master on matters of Osculum  infame and decided to negotiate openly. I scrawled, on a tiny scrap of napkin, my demands: a few billion dollars, a time-traveling Delorean, a castle in Ireland, Siberian Huskies named Cheech and Chong; the list went on and on. All of these would be granted to me in exchange for eternal possession of my soul. I then bound the paper to a rock with rubber bands and threw it into a nearby lake where, presumably, it would sink into the underworld (like the Lernaean Lake, but you know, outside Cuba, Missouri).

As it sank, I performed a small ritual, mostly composed of heavy squinting and audible prayer. “If you’re really there,” I sneered mockingly, “I’m willing if you are.” I stood at the edge of the lake for some time, hyper-aware of every sound and glint of sunlight. After a while, I lost interest and ended up watching SNICK.

Well, I never did hear back from Satan regarding our deal. Over the following years I attempted the same ritual three times, and each time I heard no reply. As I am still poor, one must assume the offer was never taken. If I eventually become a wealthy performer or writer, then maybe it could be posited that the deal came with delayed disbursement; like a trust fund.

I haven’t thrown my soul into a lake since I was fourteen. If I were to attempt it today, I’d probably ask for less. Age has made me cynical; I’d probably be happy with $30,000 a year and a used Nissan.

For work, I’d be fine with a commercial now and again; a guest spot on According to Jim (killer residuals!). Either I’ve become less greedy, or my soul has devalued; fucking recession. Ah, to be a boy again–they didn’t tell you about this bullshit in Damn Yankees.

 

Pater Familias

I’ve only recently discovered several key facts of my life and one thing is clear: I’ve inherited peasant’s blood. Each branch of my family tree is composed of common, agrarian lineage.

My makeup is mostly Irish, German and English; a dash of Dutch and Scot. After centuries in rural England and Ireland, most of my ancestors immigrated to the East Coast between 1750 and 1800, settling on farms in North Carolina, Virginia and upstate New York. Over the following decades the line of descent slowly moved mid-West; Kentucky, Mississippi, Tennessee, Arkansas and Missouri.

Nearly all the patriarchs were farmers, although several worked as minor civil servants and merchants. There were the occasional teacher and military man, but for the most part, these strange antecedents were rural, uneducated and prone to promiscuity. It’s amazing to see in public record the excessive amount of illegitimate children and multiple marriages. There were also a surprising amount of fire-and-brimstone preachers.

There’s nothing remarkable about my recent ancestry; for the past four generations, my family has resided entirely in Missouri. By all accounts, my life should be fairly predictable: high-school education, working class, Christian, white, rural. I should make about $20-30,000 in manual labor or farm work. I should devote Sundays to church, sport and Republican rhetoric. But something went wrong along the way; there were several mutations that would not reveal themselves until much later.

The main vein of disruption was that I never had a stable home. This led to a a number of complex reactions. One of which: I was left to myself most of the time, and, as such, was not properly socialized.

Parents typically leave a heavy ideological thumbprint on their children. Offspring usually either bear most of the same ideas as their parents or else  rebel to the opposite extreme. But having no real parents, I neither adopted their ideas or defined myself through rebellion. No, I didn’t take to my Grandparent’s religion or my Mother’s Metallica, but as I only spent chunks of time in either home, most of my identity has been developed free of any legible imprint (although I do have several “country” mannerisms that reveal themselves periodically).

As a result (for better and worse), I feel responsible to no one beyond myself. Many of my peers seem to feel a deep sense of guilt and gratitude when it comes to their parent’s approval, and rightly so. If my folks raised me with the utmost care, then fitted the bill for college, I’d probably cater to their wishes in kind. But when one finds himself a (more or less) blank slate, those thoughts don’t occur. It makes me feel guilty, but I know it’s not my fault; if it were up to me, I’d have had great parents from the start and want to live up to their standards.

Looking at all these scattered relatives, they seem like strangers, lost in their own time. But we have shared the same blood; our genomes are probably strikingly similar. We all grew up in the Midwest; there was a streak of pathological lust, typically broken rural families, and scores of lives that didn’t add up to much more than “furthered the race.” There seems to be a chronic compulsion for the extremities of religion and drink; several alcohol-related deaths and conversions. I have learned lately that I am unsettingly prone to alcoholism and drug abuse. There are several instances of reckless carnality. It seems the archetypal story of any Midwestern legacy: restlessness, frustration, blunted potential.

I feel so similar and so different. No member of my immediate lineage attempted a career in the arts. Some were recognized along the way for nominal amateur talents; music, science, English. Chances are there were some scattered freaks like myself; dissatisfied sons of farmers , fleeing the Ozark plains for the fleshy lures of Babylon (NY, CHI, JEFF CITY).

When I was young, I felt much closer to my family, but I never felt like I fit in (by no fault of their own of course). It was the same at school. I never really felt like I fit in anyplace long. Trying to accept this “outside” feeling has been a recurring theme throughout my life and will likely continue as such. It is a lonely prospect, but I take solace in the fact that many of my artistic heroes of the past century bear a background remarkably similar to my own.

Lennon never had a father present and his mother was never up to the task of competent motherhood; she was killed when he was young. He was raised by his Auntie and these issues permeated his work. Brando and Dean both had flawed mothers that they subsequently sainted, and hardass fathers that inspired a particularly deep-seated scorn. Nicholson was raised by his Grandmother and thought his mother was his sister until he was an adult; anonymous father.

It seems that a troubled personal life might potentially contribute to the drive and skill of someone in my field. It doesn’t seem so foolhardy. As long as one knows going in that there are some holes so big they will never be filled. Emotional scarring is obviously not a guarantee to success, but there seems to be among these a common sensitivity to loss and vulnerability that increased the quality of their art.

My hope is that I can transcend the desperate banality of my heritage without losing a sense of commonness. I aspire to be one of the best actors of my generation, but I would also like to remain as humble and hard-working as my ancestors.

Paul Newman seemed to have it down. Reflecting on his career, there aren’t any ten-year ego-trips; no phases of lost integrity and excessive self-destruction (Brando!). It would be nice to have such career, class and effortless sense. My hope is that one day I will sit as smiling patriarch of a great brood; generations of intelligent, caring individuals; a true family that we will all feel a part of. I hope that my children respect the importance of family and want to continue the legacy. It’s something to live for.

 

Unconsciousness Raising

For years I have been afflicted with a strange disease: NREM Arousal Parasomnia; also known as sexsomnia or “sleep sex.” What I once thought was simple nocturnal horniness is classified as a legitimate sleep disorder.

Many people talk in their sleep. Some people walk, drive or eat danishes. I fondle. It was not always this way. When I was a boy who slept with his grandparents, I never had bed-issues (except for maybe sleeping with my grandparents). I was never the bed-wetting, night-terror type. But once I began sleeping (literally) with women, a strange behavior began to occur. And for years, over several relationships, it recurred regularly.

At some point (usually just once a night) during sleep, my girlfriend would be wakened by a guilty boy’s wandering hands, skillfully maneuvering as if consciously driven. The hand would be swatted away and the boy would allegedly “giggle, and then go back to sleep.” Upon waking the perpetrator would have absolutely no recollection of the lurid incident. This sleep-fondling continued haphazardly, occurring once a week on average, but in varying patterns: three times in one week followed by two weeks of no activity. At no point was actual “sleep sex,” attempted; clothes remained on, boy and girl separate.

Recently, though, the pattern has changed. The spirit still exists in essence, but the behavior is different. Now, instead of only fondling, I have apparently been “sleep making-out.” I will (unconsciously) begin kissing my girlfriend “quite passionately, like you were awake.” I will then say a few sweet nothings and roll back over. The next day I have no recollection whatsoever.

One has no control in sleep, and early on I understood this. In each of my serious relationships there occured a somber sit-down that began, “There’s this thing I do sometimes in my sleep…” The reactions of my significant others have mostly been benign or amused; at worst, annoyed. They have never expressed  feelings of violation, and on a number of occasions, the activity even produced mild excitement. But it’s a very strange thing nonetheless. Mostly I wonder: What does it mean?

Freud posited that dreams (in addition to our conscious lives) are expressions of a repressed sexuality. When we are inevitably unable to achieve sexual satisfaction in our waking life, our dreams are a venue for the subconscious expression of our truest carnal desires. So, theoretically, when coupled with an unconscious behavior that physically manifests itself, sexsomnia might provide an accidental outlet for a frustrated individual.

But this concept doesn’t resonate with me. Sure, when I was young, I was extremely sexually repressed. My grandpa used to cut all the bikini-clad bodies out of the Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Issues and just give me a magazine of pretty heads and advertisements, so that my young libido would not be corrupted. When I asked my grandma what sex was, she replied, “Your sex is male.” I was ludicrously undereducated in my small Missouri town, and most of what I knew about sex came from over-masculine rednecks who knew all two sexual positions.

But once I became sexually active myself, I never had a problem. I never had any humiliating moments, no traumas, and most of my experiences have worked out well. I have great confidence, and I’ve usually been with people I cared for. I can mostly report satisfaction thus far. So the theory that this behavior occurs as an outlet for repressed sexuality doesn’t fit me.

I’ve known a few sleepwalkers in my day. And each one usually had a personality correlation that seemed to fit with that disorder. They were usually very emotional types who had no sense of regulatory balance (ie the hothead who pretends he’s not a hothead until he explodes unprovoked). So does this say something about me? Or is it just some uncontrolled, time-release behavior; programmed into my genes, lying in wait until I acheieve adolescent maturity? I don’t feel like I have emotional problems. I’ve tried to work through what issues I do have, but why does my having issues result in sleep-fondling?

It’s one of those weird things one comes to accept. At least I don’t sleep-eat, or go driving. It’s mildly embarrassing at worst. I’ve never had any occasions that were violent or intrusive. But there are groups of other such “sufferers.” There are testimonials; some familiar, others far from it. Reading the personal descriptions, one gets the feeling that some men are using this “disorder” to excuse assaulting their wives in their sleep. There are several criminal rape cases that were dropped because the defendent was a diagnosed “sexsomniac.” Such individuals are encouraged to go to their nearest sleep center and seek help from a qualified sleep expert. Researchers believe such behavior is treatable. I’m glad mine seems to be so tame.

However, one of the articles I read had a rather ominous ending:

Research also suggests that sleep sex is caused by a genuine sleep disorder combined with other emotional problems.

Hm. Makes me wonder what those might be.

So, this is my open letter to all you clinical psychologists out there: your meal ticket has arrived! Freud had his “Wolf Man.” You will make your name with the “Redheaded Sexsomniac.” For only room and board, I’ll be your willing subject: I’ll wear electrodes, run on treadmills, and swallow any pill you give me. There’s a lot of research to be done and I’m in my sleep-fondling prime. Don’t miss out on this exciting opportunity! Stay in school, and God bless!

 

Only in Dreams

Dreams are fascinating. They are comprised of indecipherable stimuli; faces and places you’ve seen before, or never seen at all, mashed together like celophane reels melted together. Even the genres and forms of dream structure are variations on reality; an action-adventure that suddenly veers erotic. A horror-comedy that becomes an absurd western. Freud believed deeply in the Truth of dream interpretation, but surely most of them are nonsense. They seem to reveal general emotional states; anxiety, anticipation, longing. But looking to dreams as anything more than signposts seems a bit irrational.

Ever since I was a boy I have had recurring dreams of forgetfulness. In my younger dreams, I was preparing to go to the baseball park for an important game, but I would forget key items (glove, shoes, shirt) that would delay my arrival, and by the time I got myself together the game would be over. Later in life, this theme continued. I will be late in arriving to the dream-theatre, and I will have forgotten important items at home that continue to keep me from punctuality. The end result, as before, is that I collect all necessary items, but far too late for the show.

Theatre dreams, and performance dreams in general, are the main content of my recurring adult dreams. Often I am cast in Shakespeare a few minutes before the curtain opens; I am often forced to improvise Hamlet and fail miserably. There have been times, however, when the play I am forced to improvise is contemporary, and usually this does not go as badly.

In other recurring stage-dreams I am unaware of my effect on the audience. I will be performing a play or improv and have no idea that I am, in fact, doing terribly. The audience is groaning and restless, but I have no idea and continue to barrel on, but as soon as the show ends I am suddenly aware of how awful I have been. A variation on this: I am improvising and the entire performance teeters on the edge of quality and wretchedness. An hour of unease and anxiety, but with glimpses of brilliance. It is rare that I ever have a great performance, but every now and again they do happen; the audiences in these dreams are excessively gracious, and the performance often feels unearned.

Very rarely, the dreams take on a magical bent and I suddenly wow the audience with spotaneous levitation. Through simple concentration I am able to hover above them and lift things telepathically. There have been times when the audience riots and there is sadistic violence in response to what is occurring onstage. Never have I dreamt of rehearsal.

Beyond performance anxiety, there are several other recurring ideas, some personal, some mystical. A major theme of my dreams (and my life in general) has been loss. Over the years my dreams have often involved once-strong relationships at their end. I will have some girl, or friend, and we will have once been so close, but the dream is the realization point that it is over and can never be what was. This dream was especially prominent following my divorce. Dream after dream of this realization and the great longing for it to be untrue. But as real life passes, so have my dreams. In terms of interpretation, this recurrance has been the most illuminating for me. It’s not that I don’t know how I feel, it’s that in real life I pretend to be over things before true closure. They make me aware of what a boy I am inside, of how hurt I can be over the same simple things. I wonder if I’ll dream this way forever, or if my subconscious will eventually come to some synthesis of emotional acceptance.

For me, sex dreams have rarely been about sex. They’ve been sexual, but rarely involved actual sex. If there is intercourse, it’s never complete. My sex dreams are like overlong mood pieces directed by Gus Van Zant: artistic and emotional; mostly strange and affected–really only interesting to the self-absorbed artist. While my sex dreams have never been scary or overly perverse, I will say that I have an inordinate amount of dreams involving family members. They are not incestuous, but the relationships are intimate and non-familial. Once I had a dream I was dating my mother and her group of friends in 1982. I don’t know what this says about me, except that I would have been pretty boss if I were alive in 1982; it’s best not to read too much into some things. Once I had sex with a woman I’d never known–she was on her period, and upon penetration she exploded like a balloon–all matter simply dissipated in a thousand directions without any flesh or blood.

I am constantly surprised by the amount of unknown characters in my dreams. Where does my mind recieve the templates for these faces and personalities? Are they completely fictional or are they foggy reproductions from a reality I wasn’t paying attention to? Example: I rode the school bus my whole life (loser). And in those final few years, I didn’t talk to anyone. But I still saw their faces and heard their voices; my mind received the stimuli and filed it away somewhere. Are these dream characters mere mind-vomit? 

Rarely do I interact with celebrities or historical figures; however, the few exceptions have been memorable. Once I was visited by Allen Ginsberg. It was old Ginsberg, with long grey beard and bald top and he looked vaguely middle-eastern for a NYC-Jew poet. He sat in the lotus position giggling and I asked him what he thought of the meaning of life. He looked at me grinning, said, “Mah,” and floated away. I have not believed in an afterlife since I was a boy, but this dream made me want to believe. It made me wish that Allen Ginsberg’s aura had decided to visit me in a dream, and would traverse time and space to do so. It felt like a great cosmic wink.

Another night it was Brando. We were alone in this enormous library; some aristocratic study with enormous shelves of leather-bound canonical literature. He was young (pre-Streetcar) and wore a smoking jacket and he didn’t say much. But neither did I and I could tell he liked me because we were both Midwestern boys; brooders with parental issues and enormous chips on our shoulders. Like the Ginsberg, this dream made me feel special, like I was worthy; as though my heroes would approve of me. But these are the only heroes who’ve visited me. Dylan, Lennon and Kerouac have yet to show, and I’ve yet to pitch for the Cardinals. It mystifies me: why some and not others? What is it about these figures that my brain selects; is it arbitrary? Do I love them more? Maybe my subconscious believes Lennon would hate me.

I have had many dreams in which I die. I have drowned, been shot, mangled myself in car wrecks and fallen from several tornadoes. Each time I die I simply lose consciousness–there is a cessation of incoming stimuli and I just stop living; this feeling is akin to standing up too fast–a starry, dazed feeling that, if extended, feels unlike life. Usually when this happens I realize what has happened wake up–I have never encountered an afterlife (although I have had many dreams involving the Devil). I first died in my sleep when I was a kid, futilely defending my family against a home invasion. Strangely, I’ve enjoyed a lot of my deaths. The tornadoes were fantastic; I have rarely sensed the merciless power of nature in real life, but my dream-experience seems exact. This is probably a Midwestern thing; I bet Tahitians dream of death by typhoon.

The terrible truth is that I usually only remember half of my dreams; much is lost in waking and I almost never write them down (though I know I should). They are fascinating and meaningless at the same time–but they must reveal something about the dreamer. They aren’t usually facile symbols that one reads literally, most often they reveal something about the essence of the dreamer–something about the child inside, frightened and delighted and sad.

I wish I could control them, but they are like life. When I was 8 or 10, I had this dream that I was in the old west and could time travel. I was surrounded by all the pretty girls from my school and they all thought I was cute and an amazing baseball player. I tried to have that dream again every night for years. Never again, though. They drop in and go, like some shooting neuron across the night sky; to be dwelled upon in waking banality. But (also like life) it is this transitory nature that makes them spectacular; it’s why we hold on so dearly when we wake in the middle of a good dream.

Mah.