Category: OLD SPORT SHORTS (Page 64 of 68)

An old guy’s perspective on all sports

Retirement is not without Hassles: Sax Story #176

July 17, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I spent several days with “old,” dear friends. By old, I mean retired like myself, and dating back to high school and beyond. One of the biggest challenges of our time together was trying to remember details of events in the past. When was it? What happened? Who was there? Where were we? Why did we do it? Each one of us seems to have a different memory of the same occasion. For example, it took us three days to figure out the name of an artist that we saw together in Portland back in 1980. We searched our memories, googled, and discussed this particular event every day, but just couldn’t put it together. As old retired guys, our memories are admittedly shaky and we have too many to possibly remember.

I recalled it was 1980 only because Mount St. Helen’s had just blown her stack in the weeks prior to my first visit here. The city was covered in ash and a smoky haze filled the air, so the true beauty of the city of Portland was hidden. I never once saw even Mount Hood, or any of the vistas that my friends had boasted about in tempting me to visit. Two others remembered that the concert was at the Paramount Theater, and in driving by I had recognized the name on the marque and offered to buy tickets. One of them remembered that Robben Ford played as part of the group, but none of us could remember the headliner. Names like David Sanborn, Bob James, Tom Scott, Branford Marsalis, Grover Washington, Jr., and Jean- Luc Ponty were suggested, but none of us could agree.

I was the only non-musician of the five of us, but had at least tried on several occasions to learn. There was a song flute competition in my grade school music class that determined the draft selection order on a limited supply of band instruments. I wanted to play the drums, but apparently so did everyone else, so there were no drums available when it came my turn to pick. I then reluctantly selected the saxophone as a disappointing second choice. Learning to play a reed instrument was even more disappointing! It didn’t occur to me that I would have to stick a dry, wooden object in my mouth. I’m having trouble even writing about it, as thoughts of the vibration against my tongue and teeth, are causing a gag reaction. I can’t imagine what I was thinking when I selected the saxophone? I think my older cousin played the saxophone in the Purdue marching band, so he might have been an influence. All that effort to make even a squawk of a noise, especially on a winters day after it sat in a cold car, makes my mouth pucker with disgust. Not to mention, all the saliva that it took to soften the reed so it was bearable, and having to drain the spit valve after playing a few sour notes is not exactly appetizing. The experience did however make me appreciate a good saxophone player, but I still cringe when I hear a bitter chord.

I also tried my hand at the piano, but never got beyond the Marine’s Hymn (post #104). Just like the saxophone, I had private lessons, but never found the time to practice and always regretted going to appointments and recitals. I wasted a lot of my mom’s money on trying to learn, but apparently didn’t have the talent or interest. I’ve even bought a ukulele to try to learn to play in retirement, but haven’t really touched it. I must say that I am envious when these friends of mine sit down and play together. A lot of our time these past few days were spent talking about, listening to, or playing music, and I’m always the outsider. We were also all in the choir together back in high school, but after six procedures on my vocal chords, I also don’t have much of a voice. My friends collect guitars, make guitars, travel to guitar stores, read about guitars, and talk guitars. All I can say is that I once took a tour of the Gibson guitar factory in Memphis.

I knew we were close with the names we came up with, as the topic resurfaced over and over again. It was most likely a sax player that caught my eye. Sanborn, Washington, James, and Scott were all part of my album collection in the late 70’s. I loved the sound of a saxophone, as long as I didn’t have to play it! I was also enamored with the artist’s ability to play a soothing melody that had a smooth, jazzy sound. I was the only family man of the group at that time, so my taste in music had changed from rock-and-roll to jazz fusion. When the name John Klemmer finally surfaced, I knew immediately that he was the missing artist. He had Chicago roots, so his name was big in the Midwest, where we were all from originally. The mystery was finally solved, but it took a lot of wine and beer to get there!

After our four days together – “Big Chill” style – there were still a number of unsolved mysteries, so maybe time apart will allow us to put together the puzzle pieces. I personally will be searching for the date of this particular concert. Although we all grew up in the same town and went to the same high school, it was not until college that we really got to know each other. I’m a year older and our high school was huge, so it is not at all unusual that we weren’t friends earlier in life. I also did not realize that my one friend and I attended the same grade school and went to the same basketball camp, so we might have played together during recess, or competed on the round-ball court. The school we attended was Rice Elementary and our team nickname was the “Rice Krispies” – snap, crackle, pop! I then transferred to become a Beardsley “Bomber,” before we all got to high school and became “Blazers.” (Post #37) All in all, it was great to get together with some fellow “Hoosiers,” and share a few “sax stories” here in Portland.

Retirement is not without Hassles: Links of Friendship #175

July 14, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

It’s good to be home and at my desk once again. I’ve added another 6600 miles to my retirement travel log, bringing my total to nearly 40,000 for the year. Not bad, for someone my wife calls a “homebody.” It’s always great to get together with family and friends, explore new places, and get some fresh air, but there’s no place like home. I get to stay in our house now for about three weeks before our trip to San Francisco to meet up with the grand kids. My desk is cluttered with unopened mail, bank statements, bills, receipts, souvenirs, and travel brochures. I was just looking at a 2019 Viking cruise from London to Norway to see the Northern Lights, so it’s easy to get distracted when your mission is simply to reorganize. Several loads of laundry await my attention in the next room, as I still have some unpacking to do.

I got back from Miami in the middle of the night, and got up early to take the dogs to the Coast, so last night was my first good sleep in my own bed. The dogs sure enjoyed their romp on the beach, as the tide was out, exposing a great deal more sand than usual. Their big dog friends played in the surf, while Tally, our youngest schnauzer, searched for an escape route up the steep cliffs. I swear she’s a mountain goat, and would normally keep her on a leash, but she was securely contained in a canyon bordered by water and rocks, much too high for her to scale.

While the dogs played, I spent the afternoon with a group of my home town cronies, reminiscing about our high school and college days. All of us are married, but this was the first of several days planned for just the boys. There will be five of us for a weekend of guitar playing, dining, beer drinking, wine tasting, live music, and just catching-up. In a way, I’m the outsider, since I’m a year older and none of them was ever a college room mate. The other four lived together at one time or another, so they have a lot more history. Plus, they’ve all been good about staying in touch,while I drifted in and out of their lives. I was the first one married, and wasn’t part of the original migration to the West Coast. While three of us now live in Oregon, one currently lives in Denver, and the other two in San Francisco. Since I’ve only lived on the West Coast for three years, I hadn’t seen Eric for nearly 30 years until just recently when he and his wife visited. It had been over 17 years since Mike and I reunited yesterday, and nearly 10 years have passed since Dan and I were together in Maui. It’s definitely a “Big Chill” weekend.

This first year of retirement has been filled with 15 instances of re-connection, starting back in February (Post #15). According to my wife, who dabbles in numerology, I’m going into a “Nine Year,” the end of the numbers cycle, when people from the past re-enter your life as part of reflection and review. Face Book has played a role in two of these coincidental encounters with people from my past. My college room mate and I got together in Tucson after 45 years, and just a couple of weeks ago I found another lost friend after 10 years at a Chicago White Sox game. There have been an inordinate number of chance reunions with former bosses, neighbors, co-workers, friends, and clients already this year. I’ve also made arrangements for two more get-togethers in the next few months, as others continue to re-enter my life. I can’t remember another year with so many of these rewarding encounters with long-lost acquaintances.

With today’s Social Media outlets, it’s more difficult to lose friends and easier to stay in touch. Also, you get to know people before you meet them. A good example was a friend of mine’s parents who I just met in Florida. I had seen their photos posted for years, so as I was introduced, it felt like I’ve always known them. Furthermore, there’s no longer that shocking surprise of not seeing someone for a long time because you’ve watched them change via Social Media. Even though I don’t see my grand kids on a regular basis, I can at least watch them grow-up through daily picture sharing. I can remember when the first thing you said to a kid was, “wow, you’ve really grown tall!” Nowadays, you aren’t surprised at all, and they aren’t embarrassed by the obvious. By the same token, about 90% of Face Book posts seem to be related to good news – promotions, vacations, achievements, accomplishments, and friendship. The bad news is communicated in a much slower manner. Obituaries, illnesses, misfortune, and pain are still typically delivered by phone. It’s tough to get those phone calls, and to think about all the broken links in life.

The dogs are quiet today, resting up from an exhausting yesterday. As I enjoy the quiet here at home, I’m glad that people from the first quarter of my life are still around in the third quarter, even if they were missing in the second quarter. Who knows who will be around for the fourth quarter – if there is a fourth quarter? I’m in the second half of the third quarter, enjoying retirement and savoring friendship. I hope there are many more missing links from my life that get reconnected, and wondering if there will be reunions in the afterlife? There are a number of people that I would love to talk to, as we all try to make sense of the good, bad, and ugliness of life.

Old Sport Shorts: Yadi…Yadi…Yadi #174

July 12, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

If you’re familiar with the Travelocity Gnome, who roams around the world searching for the perfect vacation spot, then you “might” appreciate this post. The Gnome could appear in a colorful garden, on the mantle of a historic home, or just checking through airport security. The are many variations of these strange Gnomes, often with beards and pointed heads. Travelocity created a television campaign to promote their travel services and gave the common garden Gnome international popularity. Suddenly, Gnomes and Elves were being kidnapped from quiet garden settings and front porches to be transported all over the world. Photos cleverly capturing them in sometimes compromising positions are then mailed back to their owners along with a ransom note as a silly prank. Months later, after a well documented adventure, the unharmed Gnome mysteriously reappears in its original setting. Gnome. Sweet. Home.

If you can relate to this Gnome phenomena, then you might understand this female friend of mine. She loves to take pictures, making the most of her travel experiences. As a school teacher, she uses her summer months to travel and take pictures. She’s also a die-hard St. Louis Cardinals baseball fan, and her favorite player is Yadier Molina. “Yadi” is a Puerto Rican professional baseball catcher. He has been with the Cardinals exclusively for 13 years and in 8 of those years made the National League All-Star team. He’s won 8 Golden Gloves, and in last night’s All Star Game appeared in a solid gold helmet and chest protector, looking like something out of a Star Wars movie.

Wherever my friend travels, she takes an 8″ version of “Yadi” with her. Mini-Yadi lives in her purse and looks just like the Travelocity Gnome. I think that adults that work regularly with youngsters need to regularly express their “inner-child.” Because of this, I’m sure her students absolutely love her “mischievous” side. She enjoys posing “Yadi” in humorous situations, posting the pictures on Face Book. In my limited travel experience with her, “Yadi” been threatened with a butcher’s cleaver at the Seattle fish market, buried in the sand on the Oregon Coast, and has battled giant lobsters in a Red Lobster holding tank. Yadi is very brave, and maintains the same stoic look on his face no matter the circumstances. Yadi has somehow lost the very top of his pointed head, like Mt. St. Helen’s, but continues to play along. What a sportsman!

I just spent three days with my son, Yadi, and my two friends watching baseball in the city of Miami. She was with her fiancé, who I’ve known much longer, but even he doesn’t get as much attention as Yadi. It’s Yadi this…Yadi that…Yadi…Yadi…Yadi. I personally think that it should be kidnapped by a Cubs fan and painted blue. I can see him hanging from a Championship Banner at Wrigley Field or thrown on to the field, like a opposing team homer run, by the Cub bleacher bums. I can easily imagine some meaner pranks to pull on her poor, defenseless Yadi doll, but friendship is at stake!

We had lunch at Versailles, a popular Cuban restaurant. ESPN happened to be doing a series of live broadcasts from there to capture some of the local, Miami flavor. Eduardo Perez, a former Cardinals’ player and current sports analyst, was on the air, while his cameraman encouraged my friends to approach. They were both dressed in Cardinals jersey of….you guessed it….Yadier Molina. Perez had some fun with with them on national TV and posed with mini-Yadi for a photo. Yadi…Yadi…Yadi. I think you can begin to see where I’m going here!

We were sitting high up in the 200 level seats for last night’s game, and my friend actually believed the real Yadi waved at her during player introductions. Maybe he did? Granted, she was dressed in red with a crazy, straw Cardinals hat. It was a premium giveaway at Busch Stadium during the Fourth of July series, and I didn’t see another one like it in the crowd. Perhaps she did catch his eye. I do know that Yadi has eagle-like vision behind the plate and an arm like a cannon. Yadi then proceeded to hit a home run and her shrieks of joy rattled the rafters of Marlins Park. I thought I saw mini-Yadi cover his ears, as I did.

My son, dressed in his wardrobe of Cubs jerseys, patiently tolerated the exploits of Mini-Yadi throughout the week. I was used to it! Also, for once, the Cubs and the Cardinals were on the same National League team. There was temporary peace between rivals! I had purposely worn neutral colors to avoid fueling any more boastful behavior from my Cardinal friends. In fact, I was even hoping that Yadi would score the winning run. We were all enjoying the festivities, and my son had even out-wrestled a couple of other fans for a treasured foul ball. I had my picture taken with Southpaw, the Chicago White Sox mascot, and was hoping to get a glimpse of Sox legendary shortstop, Luis Aparicio, who was to throw out one of the opening pitches. His poor health apparently prevented his presence during the ceremony.

Cardinal fans are bitter today because rival Cubs pitcher, Wade Davis, gave up a ninth-inning home run, sidetracking Yadi’s bid for the MVP and a Cardinal red Corvette. At the end of the game, Yadi was left stranded on third base after Corey Seager of the Dodgers struck out. I’m not sure if a Cubs pitcher can throw to a Cardinals catcher, so just maybe Yadi called for the wrong pitch? On the other hand, Cubs fans thought that Yadi’s golden outfit was a bit obnoxious, perhaps befitting of Cardinals’ fans. The rivalry is already back in full gear! Mini-Yadi is probably still cheering for a Gnome Run.

Old Sport Shorts: I.U. Wins It All! #161

July 1, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

We recently returned to Indianapolis, and while my wife took her mother to see an ear doctor, I spent some time with some old friends. We went to Syd’s Tavern in Noblesville and shared some sports memories. He is a sports memorabilia collector and she was a former client, who bought radio and television advertising. I hadn’t seen them in nearly a decade, but we quickly reconnected like time wasn’t really a factor. I had met Bill as a result of my business relationship with her, and discovered much in common, including the Chicago White Sox and Indiana University. I would love to have many of the items in Bill’s massive collection, and built my modest “man-cave” because of his influence. We’ve attended many games together, but our most memorable experience occurred in March of 1987.

Indiana University, our Alma Mater, was the NCAA Tournament #1 Seed in the Midwest Regional, and won its first two games in our then home town of Indianapolis. My good friend Peter and I were there to watch them easily beat both Fairfield and Auburn, on what was essentially I.U.’s home court, just up the road from Bloomington. At that time, conversations started brewing about following the team through the tournament, as the next game was also close-by in Cincinnati against Duke. I conveniently planned to be in Cincinnati that Friday on business, so I was able to score a single ticket and watch Coach Bob Knight’s Hoosiers defeat Coach K’s Blue Devils 88-82. The excitement was building! The Regional Championship game in Cincy against L.S.U. was on Sunday, so Peter and I were forced to watch it on TV. I.U. was nine points behind with less than 5 minutes remaining, and I remember that our dreams of going to the Final Four in New Orleans were in deep jeopardy. Somehow, with six seconds on the clock an injured Ricky Calloway, who grew up in Cincinnati, put in the winning shot for an Indiana 77-76 victory. After the game, we decided to go to New Orleans, whether we had tickets or not!

Bill, through his University connections, was able to get good tickets and called in need of a ride. Peter had a place for us to stay, so my job boiled down to securing a vehicle. We were meeting two of Peter’s friends in Bowling Green, Kentucky and added one other passenger, Mark, from Indianapolis. The plan was to leave from my office parking lot with the four of us and pick up the other two at the Holiday Inn, just off of I-65. The final piece of the puzzle came together after a business acquaintance of mine was able to get us a van. We’d take Friday off, leave late in the day on Thursday, share the all-night driving responsibilities, and get to New Orleans sometime on Friday. It was about an 850 mile trek that would take 12 to 13 hours to complete, so it seemed easy enough with each of us driving a couple of hours on four-lane highways. We decorated the van with red and white signs and team flags, and I sat in my office eagerly anticipating a 3 p.m. departure.

About two hours before we were ready to leave, I got an emotional call from Peter, who was the main instigator of the trip. He was the one who had the connections for our rooms in New Orleans, and had extended the invitations to the two guys in Bowling Green and to Mark. Unfortunately, Peter’s father had just passed away in upstate New York, so he wouldn’t be able to go with us. As a result, Bill and I would be traveling with three total strangers to the Final Four. Plus, we didn’t even know each other that well back then. I was certainly sympathetic for Peter’s loss, but he wanted the trip to go on despite his absence. I was concerned, but the van was packed, tickets were in-hand, and five willing drivers were anxious to hit the road!

The three of us from Indianapolis met in the parking lot and made the appropriate introductions. Mark seemed like the great guy, as Peter assured me he would be. I volunteered to drive first and anxiously turned the ignition key. Nothing happened! The battery was dead, so I went back into the office and called for assistance. Keep in mind, there were no cell phones at that time, so communication was a little more difficult. A tow-truck arrived about an hour later. In the meantime, the car dealer who loaned me the van had decided that another van would be the best option, so the revised plan was to follow the tow-truck to the dealership and make the exchange. The tow-truck driver was intent on removing the signs and flags from the vehicle, but we couldn’t lower the windows that secured the flags, so he had to take the time and trouble to jump-start the battery. Apparently, the flags were blocking his vision behind the van-in-tow. I was beginning to think he was a jealous Kentucky fan! Another hour passed.

We all hopped in one car and drove to the dealership that was inconveniently located on the opposite side of town. The dealer then had to transfer the plates and paperwork, while we redecorated the van. As we were exiting that parking lot, the van died. Fortunately, the battery in that van was still working, so we were easily able to remove the flags and move to our third van of the afternoon. Another two hours had gone by, and we were forty-five minutes north of where we initially started. I was just glad that we didn’t break-down in a remote highway location. However, we were supposed to be in Bowling Green already, instead we were at least four hours away.! Furthermore, none of us in the van knew these other guys, what their names were, or how we were supposed to get in contact with them? Peter was already on a flight to New York to make funeral arrangements, so he couldn’t help. I didn’t think to ask those details while we were talking about his father. A cell phone would have come in handy!

Finally, we were on the road and decided that since we were so late, we should call the Holiday Inn in Bowling Green. We stopped just south of Indianapolis to use a pay phone, and a half-hour later, I finally got through to the bartender. While I was in the phone booth, Bill moved over to take my place in the driver’s seat. While he accelerated, I recounted the conversation, explaining that Peter’s friends had gotten to the bar early for Happy Hour, so they were already through a six-pack. We were still over 3 hours away from picking them up, so they undoubtedly wouldn’t be fit to drive once we arrived. At least. they knew we were on our way. They had not been aware that our mutual friend had lost his father, but at least they knew the people we were supposed to stay with in New Orleans. Fortunately, Bill didn’t drink alcohol, so he continued to drive, while Mark and I enjoyed a couple of beers. They were already starting to get warm after the cooler had been moved from van to van. Unfortunately, a traffic accident blocked our way!

Ten hours after the time when we originally had planned to leave, we arrived at the Holiday Inn. It was approaching 1 a.m, and nearly seven hours later than anticipated. Our two new friends had been pounding beers since Happy Hour, so our first encounter with these strangers was worthy of a comedy skit. They didn’t say their names and preferred to be called by what they were drinking. As a result, they were know as “Bud” and “Lite Beer by Miller” for the rest of our time together. Mark tried to catch up with them, as they passed a couple of joints between them. I did not join them at the time, as Bill had no interest. We stayed alert while the “Three Stooges” thankfully soon passed out in the back seat. My sober collector-friend, Bill, was still at the wheel as a blanket of fog completely blocked our vision. I kept an eye out for cops as our highway speed dropped to under 25 m.p.h., and the snoring in the back escalated. As the hours slowly passed, I eventually relieved Bill at dawn after a short nap, so he could get some well deserved shut-eye. About that time, “Bud” started to rally and graciously offered to buy Bill dinner for staying up all night. He and Bill hit-it-off quickly, relieving my anxiety about Bill’s reaction to the pot smoking. He didn’t say anything, but I only really knew him through his wife. Mark and “Lite Beer by Miller” were still out cold, as we continued our foggy journey through Alabama. It was quickly approaching “high” noon, as the van filled with marijuana smoke and empty beer can rattled against each other under the seats. It was also nearly 20 hours since our original departure time, and we still weren’t there.

There was more beer drinking and pot smoking, as Bill preferred to stay behind the wheel. He had a restless couple of hours sleep, as I continued to fight the fog, but once the “beer twins” woke up, the van started rockin’. They found a radio station to their liking, and continued to charm Bill. They guided him into New Orleans and to our residence just across the river from the Superdome. The reality of finally getting there was starting to set in, as we had all become fast friends. There was a rally that night at the Hilton, official team headquarters, and Bourbon Street to explore. No one seemed too concerned about where we were staying, until we walked in!

The location was great and we had plenty of room, but the entire duplex was stripped to the bare two-by-fours. Red spray paint, marking the construction plans, looked more like the Manson murders had just happened before we arrived. Did we somehow miss the crime scene tape on the way in? The only pieces of “furniture” were one mattress and four lawn chairs situated around the table saw. There was saw dust everywhere and you could see through the floorboards. Furthermore, it was unusually cold outside, and there was no heat. We all agreed to let Bill have the mattress, since he did most of the driving, and we bought him dinner at Pat O’Brien’s that night to further show our appreciation. Prior to dinner, we met our fellow fans, Coach Knight and the players at the hotel that was directly across the river from our luxurious quarters. We wore our red, sang the fight song, and wished the team well in their game against once-defeated #1 U.N.L.V. Their only loss was to Oklahoma after a disputed bucket was incorrectly ruled two points instead of three. The “Runnin’ Rebels” fan-base were all decked out in attitude and gold chains, as they displayed blatant overconfidence. We tried to ignore them and spent most of the night on French Quarter bar stools, before taking the ferry back to the wrong side of the river.

I left the “comfort” of my lawn chair bed on Saturday morning with a gnawing headache. There was one more rally before the big game, so we crossed the Mississippi from Algiers Point, once again. “Bud” and “Lite Beer by Miller” did not come back last night to take their place around the table saw, stacked precariously with empty beer cans. The place was starting to look more like a Frat House and less like a murder scene. Bill, Mark, and I at least tried to get some sleep rather than prowl the bars. Hopefully, the Hoosier team was getting a good night’s rest, and the beer twins had been entertaining the “Runnin’ Rebels” all night. We would need all the help we could get! When we got to the Hilton, there was a giant I.U. banner hanging above us, that apparently I just couldn’t live without. It was attached to a projection screen that moved up and down via a switch in the control room. If I could get someone to lower the screen, I could easily run off with the banner. Obviously, I had alcohol poisoning and wasn’t thinking clearly, but I went to maintenance and told them, “Coach Knight wants us to get that banner over to the Dome.” I think he was ready to flip the switch and lower the banner, but changed his mind once he spoke to a supervisor. It could have been a focal point of Bill’s collection, or mine, if I had been able to pull that off. We walked to the Dome empty-handed.

The five of us had a variety of seat locations at the Dome, none of which were together. Bill had the best seats, so I sat with him. Mark had met some woman named Mary, and was up in the nose-bleed section sucking face with her. I hope his wife didn’t mind! “Bud” and “Lite Beer by Miller” were probably still drinking Hurricanes on Bourbon Street. I’m not sure they were even at the game. It was the first NCAA tournament where the players had the benefit of the three-point shot, that would surely be to Steve Alford’s benefit. It was like the movie, Hoosiers, as most of the experts didn’t think that Indiana would be able to contain the dynamic U.N.L.V duo of Armon Gilliam and Freddie Banks. Others felt that I.U. would have to slow the pace of the game down to even have a chance. It was stacking up to be the classic battle of the “Good Guys” against the “Outlaws.” I didn’t realize it at the time but we were part of the largest crowd to ever see a college basketball game. Bob Knight elected to run with the Rebels and devised a plan to beat their full-court pressure. The result was a 97-93 victory, despite a record ten 3-pointers from Freddie Banks. Coach Jerry Tarkanian, “Tark the Shark” choked on his towel. Steve Alford had 33 points for the “Good Guys,” and we’d be staying in New Orleans for at least two more days!

“Ain’t no Sunshine when she’s gone,” became the U.N.L.V. parting blues song on Bourbon Street. “Ding-Dong the witch is dead,” as Indiana prepared for Syracuse on Monday night. Bill continued to show his maturity, while the rest of us acted like kids in a liquor store. He got some rest while we sampled the wares up and down The Quarter. After all, he had the mattress and we had the lawn chairs. Mark continued to hang out with Mary, so I partied with “Bud” and “Lite Beer by Miller.” We probably had 3 hours of sleep in the four nights we were there. There was another rally on Monday, but the banner was missing. Maybe someone else stole it? Being in the Championship Game in New Orleans was almost like a dream. I sat next to Bill and covered my eyes as Syracuse dominated the game. It wasn’t until the last few minutes that I peeked through my fingers, as Rony Seikaly continued to miss free throws for The Orangemen. I simply couldn’t watch as Keith Smart launched the winning shot. However, Bill pried my hands away, insisting that we didn’t drive this far to not watch the end. “The Shot” a famous photograph that captured that historic moment, must have been taken very near where we were sitting. Also, CBS produced the very first “One Shining Moment,” following that exciting 74-73 finish. It’s been a tournament tradition ever since. I’m glad that Bill made me watch!

We left for home immediately following the game, since we all needed to be back at work the next morning. Honestly, none of us really expected to stay through Monday, but somehow scraped our funds together, The room was at least free, but they should have been paying us to stay there. The construction crew had returned that morning to wake us up, so we packed everything into the van and parked near the dome for a quick get-away after the game. Bill volunteered to drive us back, probably for his own safety. He even battled the darkness and a freak, blinding snow storm, reminiscent of the fog on the trip down. We were all powered by adrenaline, having witnessed a moment of sports history we will never forget. Mark daydreamed about Mary.

As I write this story over 30 years later, I’m sure I forgot a few details and exaggerated everything but the extent of our drinking. I see my friend Peter on a regular basis, and just had the reunion with Bill. Peter continues to stay in touch with “Bud” and “Lite Beer by Miller,” and I’ve followed them both through Facebook. Mark is still with his wife, with Mary as a faint memory. I had been to New Orleans in 1982 for my very first Final Four experience, so to return with my Indiana team as the victor made it even more special. Coincidentally, I recently stumbled across a framed copy of the front page of the Indiana Daily Student, dated March 31, 1987. (See Post #60). I was surprised to find it in Portland, Oregon of all places, where pot is now legal, by the way. It hangs in my office, where the I.U. banner from New Orleans should have hung, if that maintenance guy would have just flicked that switch. The headline reads, “IU Wins It All!” I know – I was there!

Old Sport Shorts: Home Run Derby #158

June 29, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

For those of you that regularly read my retirement blog, which I realize is very few in number, I apologize. I may have already lost you loyalists, as well, after this third consecutive post about baseball. I try to distinguish between posts that are sports-oriented and those that are retirement-oriented by using the bold headline: “Old Sport Shorts.” I came up with this title because I’m an old retiree, who enjoys sports, and tries to keep his posts very brief and engaging. As further explanation, another word for briefs is shorts, and both undergarments are alternatives to a “jock.” I don’t think that my posts are controversial enough that I need serious “protection.” I do need “support” however, so thank you for sticking with me when I throw a curve-ball. “Old Sport Shorts,” and “Creature Features” are both designed to be reader alternatives to “Retirement is not without Hassles, as I continue with this on-going blog experiment. Tomorrow will complete my first six months as an author who has found a new passion outside of the workforce. Sports are part of that passion, so I can’t keep it out of my writing.

As an additional warning, I do plan to attend the MLB Legends, Home Run Derby, and All-Star Game next week in Miami. I do promise to make up for this deviation in procedure very soon, but you just might learn a few things about the game through my sarcastic takes on those who play it. Plus, baseball season is almost half-over and it doesn’t look like the post-season will include my two favorites. I have to vent while I can!

The month of June is shaping up to be record-setting for home runs. In fact, MLB hitters are on pace to hit nearly 500 more homers this season that ever before, including the so-called “steroids era,” according to an article I just read by Ted Berg for USA Today. Yes, I not only write – I read, too. I also got to personally witness, Aaron Judge of the Yankees hit his MLB-leading 27th homer of the year last night against the White Sox. (See Post #157) So, what’s the new drug that we will undoubtedly discover a few years from now, or are the balls just wound tighter than previous years? Are the players wearing briefs, shorts, or jocks? There’s so much intrigue in the game of baseball.

The Home Run Derby TV show of 1960 is a key memory of my childhood. I got interested in baseball by collecting baseball cards, and joined a neighborhood Little League team, but initially followed the Yankee Slugger Mickey Mantle. The 1959 World Series turned me into a White Sox fan, abandoning the Yankees for a team closer to home at my dad’s suggestion. It was the first and last time I ever listened to him! I was not aware until recently that the black-and-white show was filmed at Wrigley Field in Los Angeles because the fence distances were symmetrical, favoring neither right or left-handed hitters. It would have been on my recent retirement tour of Los Angeles (Post #41), but the stadium was demolished in 1969. My interest in knowing more about the stadium was solely due to the fact that the architect of the park, Zachary Taylor Davis, previously designed both Wrigley Field and Comiskey Park, also important landmarks of my Chicago-vicinity childhood.

I watched Home Run Derby religiously, and played Wiffle Ball in the front yard of our one-story home. The roof was the home-run target in games against the neighbor kids. The yellow bat and “holey” white ball were plastic to prevent window breakage. The ball was originally invented by David N. Mullany to enable his young son to throw a curve-ball. The curve is a pitchers remedy for the long-ball, with a strike-out in those days called a “whiff.” You never see a curve-ball in Home Run Derby because the pitcher is chosen by the hitter to throw a pitch that is easy to hit over the fences. The TV show was not renewed the next season, not because of poor viewership, but rather because the host of the show, Mark Scott, died unexpectedly of a heart-attack. 26 total episodes ran and helped inspire the modern-day Home Run Derby event that is part of MLB All-Star Weekend. I will finally get a chance to see it live and in-person, probably my biggest motivation for going to the All-Star Game in Miami next week.

Rookie Aaron Judge is projected to hit 57 home runs this season. Currently, he has 27, while Cody Bellinger of the Dodgers and George Springer of the Astros each have 24. Logan Morrison of the Rays has 22, and Joey Votto of the Reds punched 21, along with Justin Smoak of the Blue Jays, Jay Bruce of the Mets, and Khris Davis of the Athletics. There are 6 players tied at 20, including Scott Schebler of the Reds, Giancarlo Stanton and Marcell Ozuna of the Marlins, Joey Gallo of the the Rangers, KC’s Mike Moustakas, and Milwaukee’s Eric Thames. With regard to my “Chicago Land” favorites, Anthony Rizzo of the Cubs has 18 to his credit and teammate Kris Bryant follows closely behind at 16, with Bryant out at least a week with an ankle injury. Matt Davidson of the White Sox has 17. These current standings are courtesy of Major League Baseball, as I’m certainly not counting myself. Which of these sluggers will I see in Miami and who will lead at the end of this weekend going into the event?

The White Sox game today is currently delayed due to rain, so they are not losing to the “Damn Yankees.” (See Posts #156 and #157). The Cubs rallied to defeat the Nationals this afternoon to tie that series and stop their bleeding. John Jay was the hero with a two-run double that sparked a three-run ninth inning rally. Rookie Jeimer Candelario, who replaced the injured Bryant, had his first home run as a Major Leaguer. Cubs catcher Willson Contreras successfully threw out two attempted base stealers, an issue that got his back-up, Miguel Montero, demoted earlier this week. The Cubs stayed above .500 with the victory!

I just got back in Portland with the dogs. Hopefully, they will inspire a cute story for “Creature Features,” and my retirement routine gets back to normal tomorrow with the potential of getting back on track with “Retirement is not without Hassles.” As I’ve mentioned in several posts, much of my writing is personal therapy for myself. I’m concerned about the Cubs and I’m anxious to see my son and his family in Florida, as part of my All-Star adventure. I appreciate your patience, as I continue to pursue my style of writing, and learn to better target your reading interests. Each day I write, I simply hope to hit a Home Run!

Old Sport Shorts: That’s The Way The Ball Bounces #157

June 29, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

I’ve spent a lot of time on sitting on planes with nothing but my computer to occupy retirement, and they continue to be constructive hours towards getting some words on a page. I’ll continue in a baseball-mode from yesterday’s “Old Sport Shorts” post about the “Damn Yankees.” Well, they did it again, easily whipping my White Sox at Guaranteed Rate Field. The beating was apparent in the Yankees first at bats, taking a 3-0 lead in the top of the first inning. I hadn’t even had a hot dog yet, but was already beginning to lose my appetite.

I had a couple of martinis at “Harry Caray’s” restaurant before we hopped-on the Red Line for the ballpark. Rain showers looked like they were going to delay the start of the game, and there was no batting practice since the tarp covered the infield as we arrived. Good memories of being there for the 2005 World Series dominated my thoughts as we searched for our box seats. I did not have a seat for the World Series back in 2005, but a “Press Pass” badge dangled from the lanyard around my neck. The crew from my television station that I rode with to Chicago had just done a live shot for our Early News just outside the stadium. There was a strong sense of optimism for a Sox victory that I sensed in the early-arriving crowd that overfilled the stands. The ballpark was then called U.S. Cellular Field or “The Cell.” It was originally called Comiskey Park, but major sponsorship has apparently lowered it’s status to just a field. It’s difficult to adopt the new “Guaranteed Rate” name after knowing it so many years as simply Comiskey. “The Cell” was kind of a nice compromise between a last name and a corporate identity. Last night, there were a noticeable number of empty seats, characteristic of a team with the worst record in the American League. It appeared as if there were more Yankee fans in the crowd, but I certainly expected higher attendance to see the best team in the American League and their rookie slugger, Aaron Judge. As they used to say on the comedy TV show, Laugh-In, “Here Come de Judge!”

The White Sox did rally in the 5th inning to make it 3-2, so I ordered a hot dog to celebrate. However, by the time I got to my second hot dog, and was in the process of loading it with mustard, I nearly missed “De Judge” hit a line-drive rocket into the left field stands, his MLB-leading 27th home run of the season. It left the field of play so fast that it was hard to spot, and I had to wait until this morning to see the replay. The home team wisely does not like to flaunt the success of the opposition on the big screen! The second hot dog was not as tasty as the first, during this evil Yankee surge to take an 8-2 lead.

My wife played games on her I-pad during most of the action, but did grow fond of the name, Melky Caberra, but left to use the facilities during the five-run Yankee outburst. She heard the roar of the crowd, and knew she missed something when she finally returned to our seats. I patiently explained that Aaron Judge just might be the next Babe Ruth, and she seemed impressed. I had spent the day before, admiring a friend’s massive sports memorabilia collection in Indianapolis. It’s truly much more impressive than the Smithsonian! He has an autographed Babe Ruth bat and ball in one of the many trophy cases. My wife has admired it on several occasions while we lived in Indy. Albert Pujols had just recently been to visit it, and my friend let him take a swing, so he wanted his autographed ball placed in the same case, as close to the bat as possible. My collector-friend has found a special item for my wife to give me for my birthday, and she was hoping that it was the Babe’s Bat. If he would even sell it, it would not be in Trump’s gift budget, and besides she would have had to buy it from Albert Pujols!

I was hoping to see some White Sox “fireworks” last night, and witness the scoreboard explosion, but that was yet to happen with the score escalating to 10-2. The Yankees had several homers, reminiscent of the game 57 years ago that my dad took me to see. The newly installed “Monster” in 1960 was equally quiet that night, but Mickey Mantle and Roger Maris easily found the bleacher seats, while Manager Casey Stengel greeted them at the dugout steps with sparklers that he had brought to mock the flashy scoreboard. The White Sox did homer in the bottom of the 9th last night to narrow the rout to 12-3, but we had left long before that brief moment of Sox success. I suspect that only Yankee fans were left to see the consolation prize.

My wife got her Dippin’ Dots, a treat we had ordered at our first Yankees game together in NYC back in 1999. We also stood on top of the Observation Deck of the World Trade Center that morning, something we will never get the chance to duplicate after the 911 attack the following year. She was happy to exit the stadium early last night, with the game threatened by thundershowers and more Yankee home runs! On the way out of Guaranteed Rate, after loss was surely guaranteed, I bought a “surprise” baseball for my modest sports collection of memorabilia. There was definitely no guarantee of who’s signature would be on the ball I purchased, but it was for Sox charity. After witnessing defeat-in-the-making and watching the giddy Yankee fans, I figured that the autograph would probably turn out be equally as worthless as the game itself. In fact, when I opened the Chinese take-out box that concealed the surprise ball, I was not even familiar with the name!

The signature on the ball belonged to Yoan Moncada, a top prospect from Cuba that the White Sox acquired through the Red Sox as part of the Chris Sale trade. Yoan is a minor league offensive sensation with exceptional speed that could be a future star when he’s brought up from Charlotte. He’s apparently not much on defense, but wears the #10 White Sox jersey of arguably the best defensive catcher the game has ever seen. (See Post #5: Who Was That Masked Man?) The surprise was then worth every penny of my donation, and gives me something to look forward to in August when they finally add him to the roster help “pick up the pieces” from a seemingly dismal White Sox season.

One additional magical moment happened at the ballpark last night. I posted a picture of the famous “Monster” scoreboard on Facebook, and at the same time noticed that a long-lost business-friend had posted a similar photo at about the same time. She was in the stands, and responded to my comments on being in the same place at the same time. Shortly after, she graciously came down to our seats for a short reunion, having just spent some time with White Sox Hall-of-Famer, Frank Thomas. It had been over a decade since my wife and I had worked with her on several syndication projects. She had once given me an autographed copy of “M is for Murder,” from my author-heroine, Sue Grafton. It had been personally signed, “M is for Mike.” (See post #128) Her visit, and sparkling personality, made my wife’s night at the ballpark special above and beyond the Dippin’ Dots, and allowed us to get her current contact information. That’s the second re-connection I’ve made this year through Facebook. (See Post #15).

After a night of coincidences, for a brief moment I imagined that my surprise baseball could be signed by Frank Thomas. I do have his autographed Hoosier brand bat in my collection at home. Yoan Moncada will do nicely, though, especially because of the #10 that I wore in my mediocre days on the diamond, because of former White Sox, Sherm Lollar. Ron Santo also wore #10 for the White Sox after coming over from the Cubs, so he bridges my connection with the two Chicago teams. I admit being fickle, favoring the winner! I also like the fact that the Chicago Cubs were once the Chicago White Stockings, so I can justify them in my mind as the same team. Baseball history is important to me, as well, so the evolution of jersey #10 from past to future players is cool. However, #10 should have been retired, and Sherm Lollar should be in the National Hall of Fame, not just in the White Sox Hall of Fame. (See Post #5).

The Yankees continued to score runs, long after we left the ballpark, had taken the Red Line back to our parked rental car, and then returned it to Hertz at O’Hare. The “Damn Yankees” ultimately amassed 13 runs – only unlucky for the home team! We finally arrived at the Airport Renaissance hotel, where during our last visit the Cubs won the World Series on November 2nd, as we watched from the bar with a group of strangers, all on the edge of our seats.

As part of that Chicago visit, we had gone to games 4 and 5 at Wrigley, watched game 6 with my wife’s mother back in Indiana, and thanks to the cancelled flight were able to watch the finale from Cleveland at the Airport Renaissance. If it weren’t for the cancellation, I would have been stuck on the low-budget airline without Wi-Fi and would have missed the whole celebration. It was result of a plan I put together just after home field for the World Series was determined by the All-Star Game. I bought some cheap airline tickets from Portland to Chicago, but miscalculated the date of the return flight. I chuckled to myself as I booked the trip in, knowing it would take a grandiose-kind-of-miracle for the Cubs to finally ever host World Series games. My fear of also jinxing the possibility of this miracle, was then rationalized by purchasing tickets for the Bears game against the Vikings on Halloween, just in case. My foolish notion was additionally fueled with the potential difficulty of securing tickets should everything somehow fall into place.

As it turned out, the Cubs won game 5 and the hapless Bears somehow beat the Vikings, so I got the best of both worlds. I also went to Harry Caray’s, just as we did yesterday, but added the Billy Goat Tavern last year just to help break the curse. We were lucky on the return flight, just as we were lucky to run into our friend last night at the game. Plus, all those memories of Cubs glory came flooding back, as I stood in the bar at the Renaissance this morning. I then did the same victory run that I completed back in November, sadly acknowledging that the Cubs were in danger of losing the series to the Nats, but also sent both Montero and Schwarber down to the minors, and have lost Zobrist and now Bryant to injuries. Plus, the White Sox were drubbed by the Yankees again last night, who may very well be the team to replace the Cubs as World Series Champions. This morning’s run was indeed troublesome, but that’s the way the ball bounces!

Old Sport Shorts: My Kind Of Town #156

June 28, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

My wife is working today in Chicago, so I’m doing my retirement thing here in “My Kind of Town.” The nice thing about retirement is that it can be done from anywhere. She did seem a bit jealous this morning, as she went one direction to make calls and I went the other for a Diet Coke. However, I think that today will be considerably easier on her than the past few days of tending to the demands of her 95-year-old mother: errands, closet cleaning, bank duties, dining, cemetery, wheelchair pushing, and the frustrating efforts to communicate. We’re both glad to be away from the assisted-living environment that doesn’t exactly exude positive vibes.

Technically, it’s “Date Night,” so she’ll have yet another reason to want to get back home as soon as possible. We’re going to a White Sox game tonight and she’d undoubtedly rather “set her hair on fire” than watch baseball and eat hot-dogs. Only I am looking forward to Date Night this week! If she had her way, we’d probably be paying top dollar to see Hamilton, or at least go back to Joe’s Stone Crab for seafood and Sancerre. That’s where we started this journey a few days ago to bring us back home to Indiana. We did stop by to see the frozen-tongue of Flick stuck to the flagpole from the Christmas Story at the Indiana Welcome Center next door to our hotel. It’s often the main highlight of these quarterly trips back to visit, if that gives you any idea of the level of excitement sometimes associated with this treks to the Hoosier State. We’re in a different hotel room every night, up early every morning, and sluggish from our daily intake of fast food. Not to mention, exhausted from long flights, traffic hassles associated with hours in a rental car, and conversations with her nearly deaf mother, often written on a dry-erase board. I’m proud to say though that we had no major disagreements, other than where to turn.

My mother-in-law is a big sports fan, although apparently this wasn’t always the case. It certainly didn’t rub off on her daughters! We did take her parents to their very first Cubs game at Wrigley Field nearly 18 years ago. Mark Grace was her favorite player at that time. It’s probably because of her hearing issues that sports became the focal point of her television viewing after my father-in-law passed away. She could easily follow games without dealing with closed captioning, and always tuned-in for Cubs games It’s become a common bond between the two of us, and gives my wife a break during our visits. We watched them play the Nationals the last couple nights, bemoaning their sluggish first half of the season. We also were at Wrigley Field for last year’s World Series games 4 and 5, and watched game six from Cleveland with her at the assisted living home. Honestly, if the Cubs were in town tonight we would have undoubtedly gone to Wrigley Field rather than Guaranteed Rate where the White Sox play. However, since the Sox are playing the Yankees, the game will definitely bring back many memories. (See post #148: Summer baseball)

I haven’t seen the Yankees play in Chicago since 1960 when my dad took me to a game at original Comiskey Park. I had just become a fan of the White Sox and their catcher, #10 Sherm Lollar, most likely because they had played in the World Series the previous year. My had dad actually talked me out of being a Yankees fan that previous year in favor of a team closer to our Indiana home. He hated the Yankees, but didn’t exactly have the White Sox in mind as my team of choice. He was a Tigers and Cubs fan, and was hoping that I would follow suit. Because of his efforts, I was a frustrated baseball fan for 46 years until the White Sox finally won it all. I could have been an obnoxious Yankee fan, like so many others I’ve known through the years!

Original Comiskey Park and its exploding scoreboard named “The Monster” was right next door to where they built the new Comiskey Park – U.S. Cellular Field . Just last year it was re-named Guaranteed Rate Field. My White Sox finally won the World Series in 2005 in the new Comiskey Park, and I had the pleasure of attending a couple of those games. It was the last time I saw a game played there, even though we drive by it all the time on our route to and from Indiana. Unfortunately, during the last dozen years, the team has been consistently “down,” and many White Sox fans, like myself, are concerned about the Guaranteed Rate association with the stadium and their logo that consists of a giant red, downward pointed arrow. Don’t rub it in!

I return to the field tonight, after 12 years of enjoying season tickets with the Cubs, while struggling to maintain my childhood loyalty to the White Sox. I’ve attended a couple of “Crosstown Classic” rivalry games at Wrigley in the meantime, so I didn’t totally forget about my allegance. I’ve also worn my White Sox jersey to a several Mariner’s games up in Seattle, since moving to nearby Portland. I’ve been to Yankee Stadiums, old and new, several times in the last few decades. In fact, my wife and I went to see the Yankees and Cleveland play in 1999 in original Yankee Stadium. We were just dating at the time, so we both made compromises. Instead of hot dogs we tried Dippin’ Dots for the first time, and between innings some guy told us to “get a room.” Six years later, as a married couple, we made a second compromise and went to see a Civic Theater presentation of “Damn Yankees,” with a show-stopping performance by the one-and-only Jerry Lewis. That was probably the best trade-off we ever made between her love of Theater and mine of Baseball.

Ironically. before we started dating, my wife had access to tickets through one of her suppliers, and got me seats to take my ex-father-in-law to a Yankees game in Tampa at Tropicana in 1998. He was one of those obnoxious Yankee fans, that I could have been just like if it weren’t for my dad. I saw those “Damn Yankees” beat the Red Sox in 2009 at new Yankee stadium, and repeat the feat against the Rays in 2004 at the old stadium. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever watched them lose. Hopefully, tonight will be the first time they go down in flames, and that my wife won’t set her hair on fire, instead of enjoying the game!

Retirement is not without Hassles: Squish The Fish #151

June 23, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Florida still ranks as one of our top retirement prospects. My wife and I are still searching for that ideal “Golden Years” haven, (see post #138: Where to?) and have had several discussions recently about our future options. It’s not surprising that we both feel a sense of comfort about the state of Florida and its warm beaches. Many Midwest families, where we both are originally from. vacation along the Gulf Coasts of Florida and Alabama every winter. My grandparents had a retirement mobile home there, and my wife’s parents spent some of their winters at Gulf Shores, Alabama, just beyond the Florida border. My parents spent their retirement years in that same vicinity, along what is fondly referred to as the “Redneck Riviera.” Likewise my son and his family chose the Florida Gulf and live there now, while his mother’s parents still joke about being some of the original settlers of the Gulf.

If we do end up there eventually, life will have gone full-circle. As a kid growing up, my parents would pack up the station wagon with the four of us and spend at least one or two weeks in Florida every year crammed like sardines into my grandparents’ glorified trailer. There were also a couple of times that we thankfully flew into Tampa, spending at least one night in a comfortable motel room rather than the hot metal box that my grandparents called their winter home. The Florida vacation trend continued with my son, as we’d take our van to Disney World to see Mickey Mouse several times each year and pick up house plants for my ex-wife’s floral business on the way back. At one time, she and I invested in a Siesta Key condominium with plans to spend more and more time in Florida. Her parents, both remarried, were also owners in the same complex, and continue to spend at least half of their retirement time there. Although Siesta Key is world-renowned for it’s crystal-clear water and white sandy beaches, I find the powdery sand, reminiscent of Al Pacino with a straw, sticky and annoying. It’s drawn to you like a magnet and seems to rub those painful sun-burned spots on your body like sandpaper. I prefer a grainier sand that’s more prevalent in northern Florida.

My son was particularly fascinated with Florida, specifically Miami. The Miami Dolphins completed their perfect season two years before he was born, but the team’s popularity persisted throughout his childhood. The Dolphins won a lot of games as he was growing up, but he never saw them win a Super Bowl. I don’t think he ever took off his Dan Marino jersey. He also became a fan of the Miami Hurricanes, Miami Vice, and Miami Beach, and was so excited when I took him to Miami for the first time. I had business with Levitz Furniture based in Boca Raton. It was back in the time when clients were actually receptive to meeting you face-to-face, as opposed to the impersonal Skype and e-mail encounters in today’s business world. I booked a room at the famous Fountainebleau on Miami Beach, expecting the ultimate in luxury suitable for any Mafioso head. Instead we got construction, including the signature fountain and swimming pool. Even the beach was under excavation. It was a noisy mess and a big disappointment. I found an expensive women’s diamond wristwatch in the room that someone had carelessly left behind. My first thought was no wonder they could justify the pricey room rates: Get a dusty room and we’ll give you a free watch!

My current wife of sixteen years, who’s a definite keeper, is still passionate about her career that has taken us from Indiana, to Illinois, to Texas, and finally to Oregon. Illinois, I should clarify, was definitely more my doing and ultimately my career downfall, but I enjoyed living there as a big fish in a small pond. She is a beach-lover, and the only sand in Illinois is around Lake Michigan, so it would never have qualified as a retirement possibility. We did a thoroughly check of the Texas Gulf beaches and are still in the process of exploring the Oregon coast. Texas was too hot and the water murky, and Oregon is too cold and windy. Together we’ve visited Hilton Head, New York City, Savannah, San Diego, Los Angeles, San Francisco, Virginia Beach, Tampa, Washington, and New Orleans, just to mention a few beach-front locations. We’ve compared climates, water clarity, sand quality, congestion, and prices. Florida and California are the stand-outs.

I’m headed back to Florida in a few weeks. One of our Portland disc-jockeys who moved here from Florida, constantly makes fun of the questionable mentality of its residents: Flori-dah! is her take. I think it’s just the heat! Despite this concern, my son and I still plan to attend the M.L.B. All-Star baseball weekend in Miami. He’ll get to spend a few more days in the city of his dreams, where we also experienced the inaugural game at Marlins Park a few years back. I was never much of a Miami fan, as is typical with most father-son relationships. I was hoping that his love of Miami would motivate him to attend college at “The U.” Instead, he saved me a bunch of money on out-of-state tuition, and all I ever had to buy was that lucky #13 Marino jersey. As a Chicago Bears fan, living in Indianapolis, home of the Colts, all I recall about the Miami Dolphins was being jealous of their winning ways: “Squish The Fish” was our cheer!

Florida was top-of-mind today for several reasons. First, it is one of our top retirement choices, more specifically the Northern Florida panhandle, where the humidity isn’t as bad. The beaches are great for walking, the water turquoise-blue and calm, and the temperatures more tolerable. Secondly, the Cubs are playing the Marlins again today in Miami, hoping for another win. Finally, the University of Florida is the only other undefeated team in the College World Series, other than our Oregon State Beavers. As an Oregon resident, I’ve been following the team all season, and plan to watch today as part of “Lunch Day.” Maybe I should order fish?

Retirement is not without Hassles: Retirement Uniform #150

June 22, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

My retirement uniform consists of blue or gray jeans and a long or short-sleeved Columbia shirt, depending on the weather. I do have some “fashionable” team socks to go with my standard issue, casual Ecco shoes. Columbia is based here in Portland so discount prices are prevalent, especially at their employee store. I go there once or twice a year to stock up on running gear and dry-fit shirts. They’re comfortable just like retirement.

I don’t pick out clothes the night before as I did during the working years, to be as debonair as possible. It was an evening ritual that once included ironing, steaming, shoe-shining, and lint removal. Sunday nights were particularly important, making that transition from the casual weekend to the work week, and it usually involved some planning ahead. Suits, ties, suspenders, cuff-links, starched French-cuff shirts, pocket scarves, briefs, collar stays, socks, and shoes. I never wore a t-shirt under my dress shirts, but there was a time when tie-bars and collar-bars were part of the look. I was one of those Mad Men, perhaps stuck in the past! It was like putting on an armor suit in preparation for battle. Without it, my Achilles heel and average IQ would be dangerously exposed. (see post #74: Sharp Dressed Man.)

Dry cleaning bills have dropped dramatically in retirement, and I usually try to save on laundry, now exclusively my responsibility, by wearing the same Columbia shirt the next morning to do my run. The “Running Uniform” also includes a pair of Nike shorts that I bought in quantity at the Nike outlet in Austin. I see the disappointment in the friendly couple that runs the dry cleaning business in our neighborhood, as I show up every couple of weeks with a half-full or half-empty, depending on your particular perspective, dry cleaning bag. They see me run by every morning, and I feel a certain responsibility to keep them in business.

Nike, Columbia, Under Armour, Adidas – they’re all now have shoe-design divisions here in Portland to help you with your retirement uniform. Nike owns Converse, and Adidas owns Reebok, while Columbia owns Mountain Hardware. Mizuno is also expanding. There are lots of deals on shoes, clothing, and accessories to fit any retirement budget. This should help keep retirement wardrobes up- to-date, and destroy any misconceptions involving out-of-style Senior fashion. The only problem is that we’ll all look the same, perhaps sporting different brands on our wrinkled bodies.

When it comes to Date Night and other special occasions, I always try to put on a collared shirt. This is primarily to avoid criticism from my wife. I don’t really think anyone else cares! She likes a crisp white shirt and maybe a sport coat, but my look below the belt is typically always the same. Only on two occasions since abandoning the work force, have I worn a sport coat. I added the tie only in Paris, but my friends never saw it. I did put on a suit and tie for one of my wife’s business events, and fortunately there was no one present that I knew to question my intentions. She thought I looked handsome and that’s all that matters! Like a rebel, I did have a pair of Cubs Stance socks hidden underneath my slacks, and helped divert her attention from this atrocity by wearing my polished Ecco business shoes. After the event, I sent my suit and shirt to the cleaners, even though they didn’t really need it. Their doors are thankfully still open!

Uniforms define who we are. In my life, I’ve worn a Cub Scout uniform, band/choir uniform, little-league baseball uniform, softball uniforms, and the aforementioned business uniform. My parents did buy me a Boy Scout uniform from my Grandmother who ran that particular department at our hometown J.C. Penney store. However, I’m not sure if I really ever got to wear it! During our first camp out, as we were making that manly transition from Cub Scouts to Boy Scouts, all of us Webelos (abbreviation for WE‘ll Be LOyal Scouts) were gathered around the campfire, as the older scouts told ghost stories. It was the story of “The Hand,” a tale about an Indian who lost his hand in battle. His bloody, five-digits were rumored to still crawl about the woods where we were camped for the night. At the climax of the story, an older scout would reach out and grab the back of a younger scout’s neck. I think I jumped about ten feet in the air, and feel pretty sure that I had to bury my underwear. I did use an official Boy Scout shovel! Needless to say, all of us Webelos were scared to death of potential nightmares, and huddled bravely together in one tent. All of us had our brand new Boy Scout knives and flashlights (from J.C. Penney) posed for any possible attack by “The Hand.” To this day, I question the mentality of that “experienced” elder who foolishly stuck his arm and hand under the tent to further scare us. I believe he was stabbed at least 25 times, and screamed until the ambulance finally arrived. We immediately packed up camp and never had another Boy Scout meeting! The uniform might have been returned, but the knife was held as evidence.

I was fortunate not to attend a school that required a true uniform. It probably would have made getting ready easier in the morning, but the thought of wearing the same thing every day would have only added to the boredom of the classroom. My “College Uniform” was probably similar to my “Retirement Uniform,” except the blue jeans were ripped and patched, and the t-shirt was undoubtedly wrinkled cotton. The thought reminds me of the Johnny Cash lyrics, “Then I fumbled in my closet through my clothes, And found my cleanest dirty shirt.” I did brand myself with Sigma Chi Fraternity merchandise and Albion College or Indiana University wear. Maybe an occasional Elkhart Blue Blazers or Chicago White Sox t-shirt? There also might have been a Grateful Dead or Humble Pie concert T in the rotation? I also don’t remember wearing a suit or tie until the job interview process started.

I also never had a job that required a uniform. I worked for an irrigation company where the full-time employees wore uniforms, but as strictly summer help I was not worthy, and never once felt envious. Smart ass, stuck-up college kid! I think it’s important for people who do service work to wear a uniform of identification, especially those who work in and around residential neighborhoods. Medical professionals wear scrubs, a type of uniform, that are constantly maintained for sanitary purposes. Scrubs are maybe the most credible type of uniform, perhaps with the exceptions of Police, Fire, and Military uniforms.

I did sell men’s suits, clothing and accessories in Austin, Texas. The suit and tie that I wore everyday felt like a uniform. I mention Texas because only lawyers, bankers, and maybe accountants wear suits and ties in that excessive heat. Selling a suit to a Texan is a lot like selling a refrigerator to an Eskimo (I know I’ve used this unoriginal and overused analogy before in Post #74). At least I felt like an attorney or financial expert as I walked to work, but was certainly put in my place as I sold them clothing. I did have to wear a gold name plate with my name engraved to show that I at least had a few weeks of experience. It attached magnetically, so as not to disturb the quality of the suit. I did question the quality of many of the suits that I was charged to unload at a 3 for 1 price. When I finally got back to a job grade that I felt was slightly above retail, I sold many of these same lawyers and financial experts advertising, and continued to show-off my vast collection of suits and accessories in the process.

I am watching the NBA draft as I’m writing this, and the Philadelphia 76ers just selected Markelle Fultz from the U.W. Huskies as the #1 overall pick. He was sporting a bow tie and custom suit as he approached the podium to accept his official team hat. In his interview, he modestly showed-off the appropriate-purple, silk lining of his jacket. It was tastefully decorated with images from photographs of his family and basketball memories throughout high school and college. I thought it was very cool step before accepting his 76er uniform that will identify him on the court. The closest I could come in matching that coat was a jacket that I had custom-made in Hong Kong years ago. It was a grey silk sport coat with a flashy patterned red silk lining. I haven’t worn it in years, but can’t yet bear to give it away. It hangs useless on a hanger in my closet, but ready for my next Halloween event should I choose to wear it inside-out. I also once owned a corduroy jacket, made in Mexico, with a memorable Spanish designed lining. It might have looked good with my patchwork-style, bleeding Madras golf pants that I got my Senior year of high school. They should have only been worn on the golf course!

Most all of the suits and sport coats in my closet were gladly donated to Goodwill, my first stop following retirement. It felt good to pass them along to those still stuck in the workforce. Portlandians tend to dress very casually, when in reality they should probably layer-up with the suits and vests still popular in the colder climates. The uniform here is plaid with a hooded puffy jacket from Columbia. An umbrella should be part of the uniform, but locals stubbornly refuse to use them. This Pearl Jam style persists no matter what profession you are in or the event you are attending. I think that all men have really taken a step-back in appearance, and am still fascinated with the Gatsby era. It is a pain in the butt to get formally ready in the morning, with a lot of thought put in the night before. I’ve been there, done that, and never want to do it again!

Old Sport Shorts: Summer Baseball #148

June 21, 2017 / mikeljohnston1 / 0 Comments

Summer is finally here, and baseball shifts into a higher gear, on this its very first day. Oregon State, without pitching ace Luke Heimlich, has easily won its first two games of the College World Series. Heimlich wisely “maneuvered” himself away from the team to avoid any distractions over his child molestation conviction. Heimlich, who was originally targeted by some as the number one pick of the draft was not selected by anyone. I think that pretty much says it all!

The College World Series is a first sign of summer. It’s when teams need to win or go home. Oregon State has accomplished their second 22-game win streak this season and are on target to have the highest winning percentage in college baseball history. The Boys play the winner of Florida State and LSU on Friday for a chance to move into the finals. I’ll be watching.

The Cubs continue to play sluggish baseball. The good news is that Addison Russell’s only accusation of Battery today was a lost bat into the stands. (See post #132) He struck out and so did the Cubs, although Ian Happ continues to hit the long ball despite my early taunts of frustration. (see post #123). The Mighty Schwarber (post #119) was only Casey-like, grounding out to end the game, and leaving the joyless Wrigleyville fans with an “L” as in Kyle. They did win this home series against the Padres, but the disappointing sweep in California, the Cubs still have a losing record against the worst team in baseball. Happ hit a two-run homer in the bottom of the 4th, but his team could not hold on, as Anthony Rizzo’s 13-game hitting streak also came to an end. The defending World Champion Cubbies are just one game over .500 and a game behind the Brewers in the National League Central. They are also 8 games out of a possible Wildcard slot, as the Dodgers and Diamondbacks continue to play winning baseball.

At least there were no scandals today and Rizzo didn’t try to run over the opposing catcher (maybe because he didn’t even get on base.) It was a beautiful day at Wrigley, especially after Happ’s 403 foot drive that fell into the right center field basket. There was a touching moment of pure joy, as a Cubs fan rescued the ball and got a big hug. You could see the smiles on both of their faces, as hope for a Cubs sweep was in literally in their hands.

The White Sox are 7 games below .500, as if I see any possible hope for a cross-town World Series rematch. After all, it hasn’t happened in 111 years. I plan to see the White Sox play the Yankees next week at Guaranteed Rate Park. I’ve already seen games there when it was Old Comiskey Park, New Comiskey Park, and U.S. Cellular Park. The Cubs are on the road, so I’m looking forward to seeing Aaron Judge strike out in Chicago. Hopefully, it’s not like the last White Sox vs. Yankees game that I saw back in 1960. White Sox owner, Bill Veeck, had just unveiled his “exploding scoreboard,” and my Dad and I were anxious to see some home-run fireworks. Unfortunately, the only home runs were hit by the Yankees, and Manager Casey Stengel lit sparklers to taunt us Chicago fans. It’s only one reason why I hate the Yankees!