It’s time to say goodbye to summer, and I’m tired of the traditional send-offs. Enough with the melancholy moments on the beach as the late August sun sets, or wistful memories of the “last barbeque” at the neighbor’s house, wondering where all the time went, or even the persistent crawl of my kids’ summer reading tasks meandering towards a Labor Day deadline like a slow-burning fuse. I want to end it with a bang, something I’ll never forget, so I’ll say all my summer goodbyes in a single day.
To do this I devise an ambitious plan – an entire day devoted to miniature golf. My nine year-old daughter joins me on this farewell tour – a 200-mile odyssey taking us from the Lakes Regions to the White Mountains, from Funspot to Chichester, home of “the world’s longest mini golf hole,” to points in between.
Our day starts in Moultonborough, an hour’s drive north from Concord, at the Paradise Falls course. We’re greeted by a warm breeze, tropical music and an empty parking lot. Other than the young woman painting her nails at the counter, we’re the only signs of life here. We pay our $12 and begin.
The holes, with names like Cozumel, Aruba and Antigua, are challenging, and we weave through the course, over blue-dyed streams and gentle waterfalls. My daughter, Maisie, plays the course with concentrated fury. I fall apart at Bermuda, landing twice in the water. Maisie snags a two for par while I struggle for an eight. “Dad, that was like the Bermuda Triangle for you,” she says with a grin. We keep going. Maisie struggles a bit on the 17th, and after watching her fish her ball from the water and retaking a few putts, I ask, “So what’d you shoot?”
“How about you give me a five?” I counted at least twelve, but we’ll never make it if we let a few mulligans come between us. We compromise on a seven, finish the round and leave.
Next is the White Mountain Speedway in Tamworth. No steel drums or soft breeze here - just the relentless whine of go-carts and whirr of traffic speeding by the chain link fence. The course has real sand, real pin flags and a real attitude on a pre-teen in a muscle tee shirt with the word “Saugus” across the front. “Come ON!” he screams to his family, nudging his little brother as he yells. He’s part of a big group – I count eleven total, and we sneak in front of them on the first tee.
“I don’t like this course so far,” Maisie says under her breath, but you’d never tell by the way she’s playing. She avoids the sand, plays the curves just right, and nails birdie after birdie. The Saugus Eleven is right behind us, a mixture of boredom, competition and mediocre parenting. “Slow Down NOW!” the dad yells as the two brothers finish just behind us. Between my lousy scores, the go-carts and the threat of the Saugus Eleven inviting us home for Thanksgiving, my anxiety level’s rising. But Maisie could care less, and we zip along, finishing in a tie. Then everything falls apart. The two brothers swing golf clubs at each other’s heads while a wounded dog in a cast deposits his business in the picnic area. “This place is kind of sketchy,” my partner comments, and we run to the car as it starts raining.
Pirate’s Cove in North Conway beckons. Nestled in the parking lot of a Comfort Inn on Route 16, Pirate’s Cove boasts two eighteen-hole courses, both of them creative and impressive. We opt for the 36 Hole Challenge (a $23 bargain) and start at the Captain Kidd course. Maisie’s on fire – three holes-in-one in the first nine, and at the turn, she exclaims, “This is the best day of my summer,” ignoring the rain coming down. We finish (Maisie wins by a stroke) and move on to Blackbeard’s Challenge. The course is really something – knife-wielding life-sized pirates lurk in the lagoon as we snake through a cave hidden under the waterfall. “This is real sea water, Dad!” Maisie explains.
We spot a family ahead of us, four daughters and their parents. The dad tries to calm the youngest, who has as much interest in mini golf as she does in molecular biology. The mom has quite a tan, in stark contrast to her husband’s cubicle-white glow. She’s a walking convection oven, her salmon skin exuding a Mars-like hue, and I’m waiting for her to burst into flames. Her children are miserable, but she continues on, her carrot complexion a shining beacon for the cranky mini golf pirate in all of us. The dad works his ghostly magic, and the youngest finishes smiling, waving to her golf ball as it disappears down the 18th hole.
We’ve played four rounds, so we take a quick lunch break followed by a stop at Banana Village, North Conway’s hidden mini golf gem. We’re alone on the jungle tree house course as the rain falls in sheets. It’s fitting we’ve chosen to say goodbye to the wettest summer in recent memory during a total downpour. There’s nowhere to hide, and we keep playing, finishing all eighteen holes in minutes.
We have three courses remaining. I had five more on the list but miscalculated the drive to North Conway, and we’ll be lucky to get these in before the day’s over. Funspot’s next, the Granddaddy of them all. And by “Granddaddy,” I mean chipped paint, weathered obstacles and tattered greens. I remember this course from my childhood, and it’s sad to see it’s been frozen in time, not a drop of fresh paint or a stitch of new Astroturf since Bruce Jenner won gold in short shorts. Funspot’s scorecard still warns, “Please do not slow up game for succeeding players by foolery,” but we’re the only foolery out here in the rain. We ignore the deferred maintenance, hit holes-in-one at Waldo the Whale and both finish with a water-aided six under par!
We dry off by playing a round on Funspot’s indoor nine-hole course. Maisie, like one of Fagin’s minions, finds a free game token at the self-service kiosk, and she wins another free game at the 9th hole. I suggest maybe she leave the token for someone else, in an arcade “pay it forward” kind of way. She stares at me and just shakes her head, pocketing the token.
We drive to another Pirate’s Cove down the road by the Meredith town line, tackling the ups and downs of the course with vigor, finishing the round in record time. “I’m having so much fun today,” she says, bounding down the pirate ship planks from hole to hole.
Now south to Chichester and Chuckster’s, our last stop of the day. It’s dark outside when we arrive, and the course is soaked. A worker pushes a broom while his sidekick lugs a leaf blower, the pair doing its best to clear the standing water off the course. Nothing says “Relaxing Mini Golf Family Fun” like the eardrum-splitting sounds of a teenager cramming a leaf blower nozzle into the cup on the 11th hole as water flies skyward.
Maisie misses an ace on the mega-long hole by a quarter inch, and she grabs her ball and runs back up the hill to try it again, smiling and out of breath. Chuckster’s is crowded for a Sunday night, but we zoom along, nailing par after par.
It’s late, and we’ve been at it for almost twelve hours. Nine rounds of golf – over 300 holes at seven different locations. We can almost feel a chill in the late summer air as we turn in our putters and say goodbye. Summer’s over, and it’s time to hustle home. Besides, Maisie’s got some reading to do.
Thursday, August 27, 2009
Thursday, July 23, 2009
Road Trippin'
There’s no better cure for the summertime blues than a road trip - hitting the highways with a destination in mind, plenty of snacks at the ready and many, many miles between where you are and where you want to be. My summertime road trip, like any good story, has a beginning, middle, and an end.
The Beginning
It’s 6:30 PM on a Tuesday night in Concord. My traveling companion is Sam, my fourteen-year old son, and our destination is Charleston, West Virginia. Sam’s soccer team qualified for a three-day tournament in the Mountaineer state, a good enough reason for a road trip as any, I guess. We need to cover close to 900 miles by Thursday, but true to road trip form, we start with a detour. Tonight’s goal is Baltimore, where the Red Sox play the Orioles tomorrow afternoon. Charm City and the Camden Yards bleachers here we come!
The sun starts to set as we leave our driveway for the six-plus hour drive south. Sam’s under strict orders from his mom to engage in lively conversation to prevent me from dozing off. We chat well into southern Connecticut, covering such topics as “Hidden High School Dangers” (girls, study habits, girls) and “Celtics – Better with Rondo?” We stop for a quick stretch and a snack, and as we return to our car, a man stands by my door, clutching a cellphone, a wallet, a pen and paper. He launches into a breathless explanation about needing $38 for a fan belt, and if I’d just give him the cash, he’d take my address and mail me the money the next day! So simple! I smell a scam and slam the car door with nothing more than, “Sorry pal. Can’t help you.”
Time trickles by, and after five hours, we stop for ice cream in southern Jersey, and I eat a Nutty Buddy while running wind sprints in the parking lot to stay awake. It’s past midnight, and as we cross into Delaware, Sam is asleep. The rain is falling, and I really should stop, but Baltimore beckons. We arrive after 2 AM and head to our room. We walk in, half-asleep and behold not a hotel room, but a magnificent, sprawling suite – living room, dining room, full kitchen, two bathrooms, two bedrooms and what appears to be a room dedicated to a hot tub. We’re too tired to ask questions, and we sleep. Road trips are full of surprises, including getting the entire twenty-first floor for $87 a night! Thank you Baltimore!
Wednesday arrives, and after a lengthy exploration of our digs, we watch the Red Sox rally to tie the game in the ninth and beat the O’s in extra innings, the stands packed with vocal Boston fans. We return to our high-rise palace after dinner, resting up for more road tripping tomorrow.
The Middle
It’s Thursday morning, and we drive towards West Virginia. We listen to the radio, the Christian Ministry of Family on one channel and an expletive-filled rap song on another. We pass a reminder to, “Stay Alert for Maryland’s Wildlife,” and moments later see a five-man crew cleaning up a large dead mammal of some sort. “I think I just saw a dead mountain lion,” Sam says. Road trip irony, for sure.
We’re on Interstate 68 West, past towns like Flintstone, Wolfe Mill, and Friendsville, the landscape filled with sharp vistas and forests that stretch forever. We see a replica of Noah’s Ark (under construction) and sets of immense crosses in clearings. If this isn’t God’s country, the locals are doing their best to make a case for it, that’s for sure.
As we head south on Interstate 79 into West Virginia, Sam is engrossed in a movie, and I listen to music. I pass a rusty pickup truck carrying a dozen old washing machines, and as I speed ahead, one of the washers falls into the road and bounds down the highway, cars swerving to avoid it. Sam doesn’t see a thing and my retelling gets a tepid, “Wow, cool.” It’s sad when runaway lethal appliances elicit no emotion from teenagers.
Billboards now line the highway. We see signs for casinos and gambling addictions; we see advertisements extolling the merits of cash for gold, litigation, coal mining and Tudor’s Biscuit World, and we see lots and lots of billboards for virtuous and not-so virtuous living, the church billboards locked in a one-to-one battle with signs for adult entertainment establishments.
We fly past Morgantown, Big Chimney, Big Otter, and Mink Shoals, the highway cutting right through mountainside after mountainside, until we arrive in Charleston. From here, we’ll spend the next four days shuttling between the soccer fields and the hotel, passing towns with riveting names like Hurricane and Nitro. Imagine having the confidence to name a town after an American Gladiator from the ‘80s? Kudos, West Virginia!
During these hour-long drives to and from the fields, I conclude that for every church-related sign and cross cluster I see, I spy another for a strip club, my favorite a Barboursville establishment enticing drivers to stop in for “Amature Night.” Something tells me they’re looking for dancers when they really need someone who can spell.
We celebrate the 4th of July, our fifth day on the road, at a minor league baseball park in downtown Charleston. The game’s rained out, but we’re the lucky recipients of a Senator Robert Byrd statuette, his enlarged head casting an august visage on the soaked field. Back at the hotel, I find myself alone, outside in the pouring rain, watching a soggy fireworks show in the skies above Charleston. I’m ready to go home, taking Sam and Senator Byrd with me.
The End
My wish is granted, and the steady downpour cancels Sunday’s games, so we leave for Concord, driving straight home. Before we leave West Virginia for good, we stop for gas and snacks. I also snag a case of Yuengling beer, not sold in New England (for reasons I cannot fathom), and as we stand in line, the young man behind the counter says, “Sir? Sir! It’s not 1:00 PM yet. Sir, it’s not 1:00 PM!” I nod, thinking maybe the fella’s bragging about his newfound skill at clock reading, but it turns out no one, no matter how condescending, can purchase alcohol before 1:00 PM on Sundays. I return the beer to the cooler, and Sam gives me a look that says, “Where’s my ‘I’m with Stupid’ tee shirt when I really need it?”
Our route home takes us through Maryland, up Pennsylvania to New Jersey, then through the Bronx, into Connecticut, Massachusetts, and home to Concord. I think we’ve run out of things to talk about, having covered O’Shea family history, the sinking of the Lusitania and why Plankton is funnier than SpongeBob before we even make it to the outskirts of Harrisburg.
It’s now been almost twelve hours, and we’re punchy. We cram fistfuls of Doritos and Cheetos into our mouths, our fingers and faces stained with the sheen of pretend cheese as we imagine sleeping in our own beds. We barely speak for the last hour, the both of us staring at the road ahead, content in the silence.
We arrive home exhausted, this last leg more than thirteen hours of steady driving. We’ve covered over 2,000 miles, visited nine states, ate more fast food than recommended, snagged a mini senator, and tried to break local Blue Laws. It’s been worth it, but we’re more than happy to be back in Concord. Road tripping is fun, but there’s no place like home.
The Beginning
It’s 6:30 PM on a Tuesday night in Concord. My traveling companion is Sam, my fourteen-year old son, and our destination is Charleston, West Virginia. Sam’s soccer team qualified for a three-day tournament in the Mountaineer state, a good enough reason for a road trip as any, I guess. We need to cover close to 900 miles by Thursday, but true to road trip form, we start with a detour. Tonight’s goal is Baltimore, where the Red Sox play the Orioles tomorrow afternoon. Charm City and the Camden Yards bleachers here we come!
The sun starts to set as we leave our driveway for the six-plus hour drive south. Sam’s under strict orders from his mom to engage in lively conversation to prevent me from dozing off. We chat well into southern Connecticut, covering such topics as “Hidden High School Dangers” (girls, study habits, girls) and “Celtics – Better with Rondo?” We stop for a quick stretch and a snack, and as we return to our car, a man stands by my door, clutching a cellphone, a wallet, a pen and paper. He launches into a breathless explanation about needing $38 for a fan belt, and if I’d just give him the cash, he’d take my address and mail me the money the next day! So simple! I smell a scam and slam the car door with nothing more than, “Sorry pal. Can’t help you.”
Time trickles by, and after five hours, we stop for ice cream in southern Jersey, and I eat a Nutty Buddy while running wind sprints in the parking lot to stay awake. It’s past midnight, and as we cross into Delaware, Sam is asleep. The rain is falling, and I really should stop, but Baltimore beckons. We arrive after 2 AM and head to our room. We walk in, half-asleep and behold not a hotel room, but a magnificent, sprawling suite – living room, dining room, full kitchen, two bathrooms, two bedrooms and what appears to be a room dedicated to a hot tub. We’re too tired to ask questions, and we sleep. Road trips are full of surprises, including getting the entire twenty-first floor for $87 a night! Thank you Baltimore!
Wednesday arrives, and after a lengthy exploration of our digs, we watch the Red Sox rally to tie the game in the ninth and beat the O’s in extra innings, the stands packed with vocal Boston fans. We return to our high-rise palace after dinner, resting up for more road tripping tomorrow.
The Middle
It’s Thursday morning, and we drive towards West Virginia. We listen to the radio, the Christian Ministry of Family on one channel and an expletive-filled rap song on another. We pass a reminder to, “Stay Alert for Maryland’s Wildlife,” and moments later see a five-man crew cleaning up a large dead mammal of some sort. “I think I just saw a dead mountain lion,” Sam says. Road trip irony, for sure.
We’re on Interstate 68 West, past towns like Flintstone, Wolfe Mill, and Friendsville, the landscape filled with sharp vistas and forests that stretch forever. We see a replica of Noah’s Ark (under construction) and sets of immense crosses in clearings. If this isn’t God’s country, the locals are doing their best to make a case for it, that’s for sure.
As we head south on Interstate 79 into West Virginia, Sam is engrossed in a movie, and I listen to music. I pass a rusty pickup truck carrying a dozen old washing machines, and as I speed ahead, one of the washers falls into the road and bounds down the highway, cars swerving to avoid it. Sam doesn’t see a thing and my retelling gets a tepid, “Wow, cool.” It’s sad when runaway lethal appliances elicit no emotion from teenagers.
Billboards now line the highway. We see signs for casinos and gambling addictions; we see advertisements extolling the merits of cash for gold, litigation, coal mining and Tudor’s Biscuit World, and we see lots and lots of billboards for virtuous and not-so virtuous living, the church billboards locked in a one-to-one battle with signs for adult entertainment establishments.
We fly past Morgantown, Big Chimney, Big Otter, and Mink Shoals, the highway cutting right through mountainside after mountainside, until we arrive in Charleston. From here, we’ll spend the next four days shuttling between the soccer fields and the hotel, passing towns with riveting names like Hurricane and Nitro. Imagine having the confidence to name a town after an American Gladiator from the ‘80s? Kudos, West Virginia!
During these hour-long drives to and from the fields, I conclude that for every church-related sign and cross cluster I see, I spy another for a strip club, my favorite a Barboursville establishment enticing drivers to stop in for “Amature Night.” Something tells me they’re looking for dancers when they really need someone who can spell.
We celebrate the 4th of July, our fifth day on the road, at a minor league baseball park in downtown Charleston. The game’s rained out, but we’re the lucky recipients of a Senator Robert Byrd statuette, his enlarged head casting an august visage on the soaked field. Back at the hotel, I find myself alone, outside in the pouring rain, watching a soggy fireworks show in the skies above Charleston. I’m ready to go home, taking Sam and Senator Byrd with me.
The End
My wish is granted, and the steady downpour cancels Sunday’s games, so we leave for Concord, driving straight home. Before we leave West Virginia for good, we stop for gas and snacks. I also snag a case of Yuengling beer, not sold in New England (for reasons I cannot fathom), and as we stand in line, the young man behind the counter says, “Sir? Sir! It’s not 1:00 PM yet. Sir, it’s not 1:00 PM!” I nod, thinking maybe the fella’s bragging about his newfound skill at clock reading, but it turns out no one, no matter how condescending, can purchase alcohol before 1:00 PM on Sundays. I return the beer to the cooler, and Sam gives me a look that says, “Where’s my ‘I’m with Stupid’ tee shirt when I really need it?”
Our route home takes us through Maryland, up Pennsylvania to New Jersey, then through the Bronx, into Connecticut, Massachusetts, and home to Concord. I think we’ve run out of things to talk about, having covered O’Shea family history, the sinking of the Lusitania and why Plankton is funnier than SpongeBob before we even make it to the outskirts of Harrisburg.
It’s now been almost twelve hours, and we’re punchy. We cram fistfuls of Doritos and Cheetos into our mouths, our fingers and faces stained with the sheen of pretend cheese as we imagine sleeping in our own beds. We barely speak for the last hour, the both of us staring at the road ahead, content in the silence.
We arrive home exhausted, this last leg more than thirteen hours of steady driving. We’ve covered over 2,000 miles, visited nine states, ate more fast food than recommended, snagged a mini senator, and tried to break local Blue Laws. It’s been worth it, but we’re more than happy to be back in Concord. Road tripping is fun, but there’s no place like home.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
I Scream for Ice Cream
Everybody smiles for the Ice Cream Lady. After spending an early summer day riding with Concord’s Ice Cream Lady, I can attest that everyone’s happy to see her – grandparents, babysitters, moms, dads, construction workers, guys in sports cars and on Harleys, cops, crossing guards, and of course kids – lots and lots of kids of every stripe. Gap-toothed, shirtless, wild-eyed, well-dressed, sprinkler-dashing, whiffle ball-playing, timid, bold, polite, rude, skinny, portly and even a little nutty – all of them love the Ice Cream Lady.
Susan Prowell drives a white 1973 Chevy truck outfitted with an enormous freezer, a tinny speaker mounted on the front and, I soon realize, minimal rear suspension. This last part I learn as we pull away from the front of Concord High School to begin our route. This is Susan’s fourth season selling ice cream. “I spent the last three seasons in Londonderry, but this summer, I’m here in Concord,” she explains as we head to White’s Park for our first stop. “We start when the weather gets warm, and we close up around Columbus Day,” Susan tells me, adding, “And I’m out in the truck every day it’s sunny. When the sun shines, I’m selling ice cream.”
After a quick peek in the massive silver freezer – two rows of four hatches each – I figure Susan must sell lots of ice cream. There’s every kind you’d ever want - ice cream sandwiches, bomb pops and bomb pop juniors, chocolate éclairs, strawberry shortcake (bar or sandwich), chipwiches, toasted almond treats, sundaes on a stick, snow cones, ice cream cones and a wide variety of misshapen non-dairy treats vaguely representing cartoon characters if their heads were on sticks and they had bulbous gumballs for eyes.
Ice cream trucks are heard before they’re seen, and as we roll into the new lot at White’s Park, a handful of customers heads towards us, the steady refrain of Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer” drawing them to the truck like a sugary siren’s seductive song. Susan can play four songs on her speaker, but she’s partial to “The Entertainer.” “‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ drives me crazy!” she tells me as we park the truck.
A teenager in a Weezer tee shirt buys a chocolate éclair for himself and a Tearjerker Bomb Pop for his date. A little boy in a green striped shirt and an intense look in his eyes runs up with his mom. He looks like he’s been waiting since mid October for this moment. Susan asks, “What do you want?” “I want Batman.” Susan explains that it’s the only one she’s out of. “OK, what other one do you want instead of the Batman?” “I want Batman,” he repeats, and he’s staring so hard at the picture menu on the side of the truck that I’m wondering if he’s trying to use his X-ray vision to scan the freezer’s contents for himself. His mom intervenes, and he settles for Spongebob Squarepants for him and his toddler sister.
An older woman – maybe a grandma – approaches with a young girl. The grandma asks for something Susan doesn’t have, and they walk away empty-handed. The little girl looks back over her shoulder, either ready to cry or to find a new, better grandma who knows that a chipwich is just as good as Grammy’s frozen bread pudding any day.
We make a left turn into a cul de sac, and two grown men approach. They’ve covered in sweat, and we can see the building materials in the background, a new home awaiting its finishing touches. The older man – the foreman, I think, saunters up and in a wide grin asks for more details about the Cherry Chill. “Can I drink it? Do I need a spoon? How long will it take to melt?” he wants to know. He buys it and three sodas and heads back to work. You’re really never too old to enjoy a Cherry Chill. Which reminds me - it’s been over an hour and I’ve yet to sample the goods.
Susan motions to the freezer – “Take what you want,” she tells me. I choose a Blue Bunny Vanilla Big Dipper, a pre-scooped ice cream cone lined with chocolate, stuffed with creamy vanilla ice cream and topped with nuts. Every bite is Heaven, pure Heaven. I’m lost in the moment, and when I come around, we’re in a new neighborhood, parked at the corner with a line five people deep. A little boy brandishes a plastic sword and yells “Hi!” to Susan. “He’s not buying any today,” she says, the boy motionless on his lawn, the sword dangling at his side. I watch him as others approach, some with their moms or big sisters, but Susan’s right – no ice cream for the South End Gladiator today. A young mom approaches with her toddler son on her hip. “This is his first time getting ice cream from an ice cream truck,” the mom announces with pride. The boy points to a foot-long ice pop, but his mom selects something more manageable, pays a dollar, and we head off. “Some days I don’t want it to end,” Susan says, and I believe her.
Susan is part saleswoman (“For an extra quarter, you can get two.”), part flavor consultant (“Well, the Two Ball Screwball’s gonna have sort of a sour taste.”) and part debt counselor (“OK, you can pay me what you have there, but next time, ask your mom for another fifty cents, alright?”).
On we go, now towards Fisherville Road. We pull into a side neighborhood and as we slow down, a pack of children and moms approaches, a six year-old boy leading the way. He’s shouting at Susan, pointing down the street. We can’t hear anything, Scott Joplin drowning out the boy’s voice. But Susan follows him in the truck. The boy keeps turning around, pointing at us and then in front of him. We finally catch up at the corner where the boy’s mom tells us he wants us to follow him to his house, so across Fisherville Road we go. This Pint-Sized Moses has led his people to the Promised Land, and others emerge to partake in the fruitful bounty that he’s delivered to their doorsteps, his driveway now the land of frozen milk and honey. Mini Moses bounces back and forth as others choose their ice cream. “Be patient,” his mom says, but he’s full of questions. “Excuse me. Excuse me. Can we still get the Batman? Do you have any Batmans left?” The boy points to another choice. “What’s that taste like? What’s it like?” He settles on a Spiderman, walks away, reemerging a minute later. “Are these Spiderman eyes gum? Are the eyes gum?” Susan assures him they are, and he takes a lick, looks over the dissipating crowd and yells to us, “We’re here every day! Come back!” Susan makes a note of it, and we drive on. As I look through the back window, I see my Pint-sized Ice Cream Prophet wedging the left side of Spiderman’s frozen head into his mouth, doing a little jig of honest joy.
It’s been over four hours since Susan began her shift, and we’re somewhere near Shaker Road in a neighborhood packed with kids and parents. It’s past dinner time and everyone’s outside enjoying the early summer air, this one of the few nights it hasn’t rained in weeks. Kids approach on every corner. “Give me a drumstick with the chocolate chips!” “Yeah! I got a Sour Wower!” “I’ll have two Bomb Pops and a Tongue Splasher!”
A dad, his two kids feasting their eyes on the exhaustive menu, proclaims, “We’re just looking tonight,” and asks Susan a series of questions about the ingredients and whether the ice creams are individually wrapped. I’m tempted to tell him that window shopping at an ice cream truck is like eating a meatless hot dog at Fenway Park. What in God’s name is the point? But Susan is the model of customer service, answering all his inane queries with grace, ending with a smile and a promise to stop here again tomorrow.
I’ve been in the truck for almost five hours and am getting a little punchy. Susan lets me take over the sales pitch, and as a group of kids approaches, I announce, “We just ran out of ice cream, but we have lots of broccoli and yams.” Not a single smile. Susan jumps in and reassures the kids we’re flush with treats, and as they reach the front of the line, each kid gives me the stink eye. Ice cream is no joking matter. Just before we hit the highway to head back home, I reflect on what I’ve seen - dozens and dozens of smiling, happy kids and parents, every one of them thrilled the Ice Cream Lady stopped by for a visit. So next time you hear “The Entertainer,” keep an eye out for Susan and her white Chevy. Have your money ready because it’s worth every penny. Just remember to smile.
Susan Prowell drives a white 1973 Chevy truck outfitted with an enormous freezer, a tinny speaker mounted on the front and, I soon realize, minimal rear suspension. This last part I learn as we pull away from the front of Concord High School to begin our route. This is Susan’s fourth season selling ice cream. “I spent the last three seasons in Londonderry, but this summer, I’m here in Concord,” she explains as we head to White’s Park for our first stop. “We start when the weather gets warm, and we close up around Columbus Day,” Susan tells me, adding, “And I’m out in the truck every day it’s sunny. When the sun shines, I’m selling ice cream.”
After a quick peek in the massive silver freezer – two rows of four hatches each – I figure Susan must sell lots of ice cream. There’s every kind you’d ever want - ice cream sandwiches, bomb pops and bomb pop juniors, chocolate éclairs, strawberry shortcake (bar or sandwich), chipwiches, toasted almond treats, sundaes on a stick, snow cones, ice cream cones and a wide variety of misshapen non-dairy treats vaguely representing cartoon characters if their heads were on sticks and they had bulbous gumballs for eyes.
Ice cream trucks are heard before they’re seen, and as we roll into the new lot at White’s Park, a handful of customers heads towards us, the steady refrain of Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer” drawing them to the truck like a sugary siren’s seductive song. Susan can play four songs on her speaker, but she’s partial to “The Entertainer.” “‘Pop Goes the Weasel’ drives me crazy!” she tells me as we park the truck.
A teenager in a Weezer tee shirt buys a chocolate éclair for himself and a Tearjerker Bomb Pop for his date. A little boy in a green striped shirt and an intense look in his eyes runs up with his mom. He looks like he’s been waiting since mid October for this moment. Susan asks, “What do you want?” “I want Batman.” Susan explains that it’s the only one she’s out of. “OK, what other one do you want instead of the Batman?” “I want Batman,” he repeats, and he’s staring so hard at the picture menu on the side of the truck that I’m wondering if he’s trying to use his X-ray vision to scan the freezer’s contents for himself. His mom intervenes, and he settles for Spongebob Squarepants for him and his toddler sister.
An older woman – maybe a grandma – approaches with a young girl. The grandma asks for something Susan doesn’t have, and they walk away empty-handed. The little girl looks back over her shoulder, either ready to cry or to find a new, better grandma who knows that a chipwich is just as good as Grammy’s frozen bread pudding any day.
We make a left turn into a cul de sac, and two grown men approach. They’ve covered in sweat, and we can see the building materials in the background, a new home awaiting its finishing touches. The older man – the foreman, I think, saunters up and in a wide grin asks for more details about the Cherry Chill. “Can I drink it? Do I need a spoon? How long will it take to melt?” he wants to know. He buys it and three sodas and heads back to work. You’re really never too old to enjoy a Cherry Chill. Which reminds me - it’s been over an hour and I’ve yet to sample the goods.
Susan motions to the freezer – “Take what you want,” she tells me. I choose a Blue Bunny Vanilla Big Dipper, a pre-scooped ice cream cone lined with chocolate, stuffed with creamy vanilla ice cream and topped with nuts. Every bite is Heaven, pure Heaven. I’m lost in the moment, and when I come around, we’re in a new neighborhood, parked at the corner with a line five people deep. A little boy brandishes a plastic sword and yells “Hi!” to Susan. “He’s not buying any today,” she says, the boy motionless on his lawn, the sword dangling at his side. I watch him as others approach, some with their moms or big sisters, but Susan’s right – no ice cream for the South End Gladiator today. A young mom approaches with her toddler son on her hip. “This is his first time getting ice cream from an ice cream truck,” the mom announces with pride. The boy points to a foot-long ice pop, but his mom selects something more manageable, pays a dollar, and we head off. “Some days I don’t want it to end,” Susan says, and I believe her.
Susan is part saleswoman (“For an extra quarter, you can get two.”), part flavor consultant (“Well, the Two Ball Screwball’s gonna have sort of a sour taste.”) and part debt counselor (“OK, you can pay me what you have there, but next time, ask your mom for another fifty cents, alright?”).
On we go, now towards Fisherville Road. We pull into a side neighborhood and as we slow down, a pack of children and moms approaches, a six year-old boy leading the way. He’s shouting at Susan, pointing down the street. We can’t hear anything, Scott Joplin drowning out the boy’s voice. But Susan follows him in the truck. The boy keeps turning around, pointing at us and then in front of him. We finally catch up at the corner where the boy’s mom tells us he wants us to follow him to his house, so across Fisherville Road we go. This Pint-Sized Moses has led his people to the Promised Land, and others emerge to partake in the fruitful bounty that he’s delivered to their doorsteps, his driveway now the land of frozen milk and honey. Mini Moses bounces back and forth as others choose their ice cream. “Be patient,” his mom says, but he’s full of questions. “Excuse me. Excuse me. Can we still get the Batman? Do you have any Batmans left?” The boy points to another choice. “What’s that taste like? What’s it like?” He settles on a Spiderman, walks away, reemerging a minute later. “Are these Spiderman eyes gum? Are the eyes gum?” Susan assures him they are, and he takes a lick, looks over the dissipating crowd and yells to us, “We’re here every day! Come back!” Susan makes a note of it, and we drive on. As I look through the back window, I see my Pint-sized Ice Cream Prophet wedging the left side of Spiderman’s frozen head into his mouth, doing a little jig of honest joy.
It’s been over four hours since Susan began her shift, and we’re somewhere near Shaker Road in a neighborhood packed with kids and parents. It’s past dinner time and everyone’s outside enjoying the early summer air, this one of the few nights it hasn’t rained in weeks. Kids approach on every corner. “Give me a drumstick with the chocolate chips!” “Yeah! I got a Sour Wower!” “I’ll have two Bomb Pops and a Tongue Splasher!”
A dad, his two kids feasting their eyes on the exhaustive menu, proclaims, “We’re just looking tonight,” and asks Susan a series of questions about the ingredients and whether the ice creams are individually wrapped. I’m tempted to tell him that window shopping at an ice cream truck is like eating a meatless hot dog at Fenway Park. What in God’s name is the point? But Susan is the model of customer service, answering all his inane queries with grace, ending with a smile and a promise to stop here again tomorrow.
I’ve been in the truck for almost five hours and am getting a little punchy. Susan lets me take over the sales pitch, and as a group of kids approaches, I announce, “We just ran out of ice cream, but we have lots of broccoli and yams.” Not a single smile. Susan jumps in and reassures the kids we’re flush with treats, and as they reach the front of the line, each kid gives me the stink eye. Ice cream is no joking matter. Just before we hit the highway to head back home, I reflect on what I’ve seen - dozens and dozens of smiling, happy kids and parents, every one of them thrilled the Ice Cream Lady stopped by for a visit. So next time you hear “The Entertainer,” keep an eye out for Susan and her white Chevy. Have your money ready because it’s worth every penny. Just remember to smile.
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Final Vinyl
This is the last place I’d ever expected to be. I’m standing at the counter of Pitchfork Records, a music store in downtown Concord, with a stack of record albums in my arms. The owner, Michael Cohen, motions for me to set them down, and he starts flipping through my collection. He’s chatting with another customer as he examines each one, tilting the album and sliding it out just so, keeping his hand on the sleeve and off the record’s surface.
It’s taken a lot for me to get here. I’m selling my records for the simple reason that I almost never listen to them anymore. I’ve been carting them around for over twenty five years, and even though my collection’s been thinned over the past two decades through loaning, poaching and subtle family pressure, I still own enough to make me wonder why I cling to stacks of unused vinyl as they gather dust. If someone else will listen, then why not sell what I can?
Still, these records have been a big part of my life, and as I watch Michael scrutinize each one, I feel like the pig farmer taking his beloved pet hogs to the bacon factory. “Be gentle,” I almost whisper, but I remind myself that my thirty-year-old copy of a mediocre Doors album can withstand a scan of its vitals, so I take a deep breath and let the man do his job.
I don’t have to do this – I could hide the records somewhere, stash them away in a trunk or maybe even use one of those services that turns them into bowls and ashtrays. But watching greasy-fingered guests scoop store-bought bean dip from the vinyl grooves of London Calling is like laying down pages from the Book of Psalms in a hamster cage. No – the right thing to do is sell them.
I start by dragging all my albums into the living room. I once had close to 400 records but own less than half that number, all of them now spread out on the rug, couch and table. My plan is simple – keep no more than twenty records and sell the rest. To do this, I start making two piles –Sell and Save.
Immediately, I take my eight Doors albums and place them in the Sell pile. This will be painful, but it needs to be done. Three Grateful Dead records join the Doors. Next is Joe Cocker, with his pugnacious mug screaming out from the album cover. Scream for someone else, Joe - into the Sell pile you go. A moment later, I realize this may get harder as I find Hot Rocks, the Rolling Stones’ greatest hits collection from the ‘60s and early ‘70s. My middle school friends and I would sit for hours listening to this record, and I can’t say goodbye just yet. Hot Rocks is the first record in my Save pile.
I spot Surrealistic Pillow, my lone Jefferson Airplane album. Grace Slick’s friendly smile from the cover makes me pause and consider saving this record from the Sell pile, but I’m quickly reminded of her future complicity in such ghastly efforts as “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” and “Sara.” It’s like looking at the Unabomber’s high school graduation photo (cue the narration: “No one knew the terror Slick and her musical goons would inflict on American society years later . . .”). For this reason, Jefferson Airplane goes into the Sell pile. Granted, one fan’s “White Rabbit” is another’s “We Built this City on Rock and Roll,” but not in my record collection.
This is easier than I thought. Creedence Clearwater Revival? Into the Sell pile. Cat Stevens, early U2 and Billy Idol’s Rebel Yell? Sell. I’m now putting handfuls at a time in the Sell stack, and my Save pile is still just one record high. Stevie Wonder? Sell. The Byrds and Steppenwolf? Sell. My three Pretenders albums – sell, sell and sell.
Then I find Billy Joel. Growing up near Billy’s hometown and having an older brother who played the piano meant we listened to a lot of Billy Joel, and, technically, these are my brother’s records, but when Billy married Christy Brinkley and released “Uptown Girl,” my brother’s interest evaporated, and the records stayed with me. Billy goes into the Sell pile. Besides, there’s room for only one marginally talented short guy from Long Island in my house, so he really had to leave.
I make a run through my soul and R&B records – they all go into the Sell pile. Even the promise of James Brown’s “Hot Pants” and “Sex Machine” doesn’t sway me. James joins Jackie Wilson, Wilson Pickett, Aretha Franklin, Sam Cooke, the Four Tops and Sam and Dave. We had a nice run, but it’s time to move on.
But then I stop. I find my Clash albums, and even though I own multiple copies in all other formats (including cassette!), there’s no reason to be rash. Does a ferry boat captain leave extra life preservers on shore because they take up too much space? Never. The Clash goes into the Save pile, joined quickly by the Ramones, Elvis Costello and one of my four Joe Jackson records. And then I hit the mother lode – the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, the Who and Led Zeppelin. That’s more than twenty five albums right there. Without hesitation, I put them all into the Save pile. And with that gesture, I’m done. Sell outdoes Save by about three to one, and I get ready for tomorrow.
For old time’s sake, I give a few records one last spin, grabbing a George Thorogood record from 1978 to start. By the time “Move it Over” slides into “Who Do You Love” I realize I’ve been too hasty. When George rips into his cover of the Chuck Berry tune, “It Wasn’t Me,” I move George and his Delaware Destroyers into the Save pile. For kicks I put on some Wilson Pickett – ooh, that’s good. “Mustang Sally” is too groovy to sell, and after two songs from the Pretenders, I take all three of their albums and move them, with Wilson Pickett, into the Save pile. That leads me to the Bob Seger album I bought in 1981 at Record World in the Roosevelt Field Mall on Long Island. As Bob sings about feeling like a number (“I’m not a number – dammit I’m a man!”), I’m almost in tears. When he hits the chorus in “Fire Lake,” I want the charade to end – this hurts too much. Bob Seger is rescued from Sell to Save. The Animals, Bob Marley, Traffic and James Brown are saved as well, and the piles are now even.
But I need to finish this task, and as the morning arrives, just before I head out to Pitchfork to see this through, I take one last record from the Sell pile and put it on. It’s the Best of the Doors. I know every word on this entire album – from “Moonlight Ride” to “Soul Kitchen,” and “Break On Through” to “People are Strange,” and when “Light My Fire” starts, I’m sad – sad about saying goodbye, but to what I’m not sure. I can replace every song with the click of a mouse, but getting rid of these feels like I’m tossing old family photos in the trash. I sit in silence for a few minutes as the song ends, pack up the records and head downtown to Main Street.
About a third of the way through my Sell pile, Michael stops examining the records and looks up at me, oblivious to the somersaults my belly’s turning. “So what do you want for them?” he asks. I have no answer, half-expecting him to scold me with The Byrds Greatest Hits or smack me over the head with the Sam Cooke LP for my careless hocking of quality music, so I just stare back at him.
“How about $18 cash or $22 in store credit?” he says. I take the credit and spend these guilt-laden gains right here at Pitchfork, taking the next fifteen minutes looking for the right addition to my CD collection. I find it and leave, never looking back.
What’s left of my record collection now fits into a single crate, and I’ve accomplished the task of purging myself of things that sat unused. But something’s changed. Just today I pulled out an old Bob Dylan record and listened to it all the way through. If I can find the time, I’m gonna dive into the Beatles albums over the weekend. Who knows? I hear Pitchfork just got a great set of used records – maybe I’ll take a quick trip down there just to check it out – you never know when you might run into old friends.
What to Do with Your Records
1. Sell – Pitchfork Records will give you a dime or two per record, depending on the condition; but leave the Milli Vanilli records at home - reselling lousy music is the definition of bad karma.
2. Burn – options abound to transfer your vinyl collection to digital formats; check out www.teac.com for a host of turntable-to-digital audio possibilities.
3. Scratch – mix your old LPs, two turntables, a microphone and a nickname (“DJ Short Stack”), and you’re an instant DJ! Your old school cuttin’ and scratchin’ will impress family and friends. You might also win a date with Lindsey Lohan.
4. Frame –visit www.albumframes.com and learn how to frame those Journey albums for posterity. Don’t stop believin’ your spouse won’t care when you hang them on the living room wall.
5. Toss – put your old records on the side of the road and hope that lady in the blue minivan will drive by on trash day before the garbage men arrive. If you’re lucky, she may even take the Milli Vanilli box set.
It’s taken a lot for me to get here. I’m selling my records for the simple reason that I almost never listen to them anymore. I’ve been carting them around for over twenty five years, and even though my collection’s been thinned over the past two decades through loaning, poaching and subtle family pressure, I still own enough to make me wonder why I cling to stacks of unused vinyl as they gather dust. If someone else will listen, then why not sell what I can?
Still, these records have been a big part of my life, and as I watch Michael scrutinize each one, I feel like the pig farmer taking his beloved pet hogs to the bacon factory. “Be gentle,” I almost whisper, but I remind myself that my thirty-year-old copy of a mediocre Doors album can withstand a scan of its vitals, so I take a deep breath and let the man do his job.
I don’t have to do this – I could hide the records somewhere, stash them away in a trunk or maybe even use one of those services that turns them into bowls and ashtrays. But watching greasy-fingered guests scoop store-bought bean dip from the vinyl grooves of London Calling is like laying down pages from the Book of Psalms in a hamster cage. No – the right thing to do is sell them.
I start by dragging all my albums into the living room. I once had close to 400 records but own less than half that number, all of them now spread out on the rug, couch and table. My plan is simple – keep no more than twenty records and sell the rest. To do this, I start making two piles –Sell and Save.
Immediately, I take my eight Doors albums and place them in the Sell pile. This will be painful, but it needs to be done. Three Grateful Dead records join the Doors. Next is Joe Cocker, with his pugnacious mug screaming out from the album cover. Scream for someone else, Joe - into the Sell pile you go. A moment later, I realize this may get harder as I find Hot Rocks, the Rolling Stones’ greatest hits collection from the ‘60s and early ‘70s. My middle school friends and I would sit for hours listening to this record, and I can’t say goodbye just yet. Hot Rocks is the first record in my Save pile.
I spot Surrealistic Pillow, my lone Jefferson Airplane album. Grace Slick’s friendly smile from the cover makes me pause and consider saving this record from the Sell pile, but I’m quickly reminded of her future complicity in such ghastly efforts as “Nothing’s Gonna Stop Us Now” and “Sara.” It’s like looking at the Unabomber’s high school graduation photo (cue the narration: “No one knew the terror Slick and her musical goons would inflict on American society years later . . .”). For this reason, Jefferson Airplane goes into the Sell pile. Granted, one fan’s “White Rabbit” is another’s “We Built this City on Rock and Roll,” but not in my record collection.
This is easier than I thought. Creedence Clearwater Revival? Into the Sell pile. Cat Stevens, early U2 and Billy Idol’s Rebel Yell? Sell. I’m now putting handfuls at a time in the Sell stack, and my Save pile is still just one record high. Stevie Wonder? Sell. The Byrds and Steppenwolf? Sell. My three Pretenders albums – sell, sell and sell.
Then I find Billy Joel. Growing up near Billy’s hometown and having an older brother who played the piano meant we listened to a lot of Billy Joel, and, technically, these are my brother’s records, but when Billy married Christy Brinkley and released “Uptown Girl,” my brother’s interest evaporated, and the records stayed with me. Billy goes into the Sell pile. Besides, there’s room for only one marginally talented short guy from Long Island in my house, so he really had to leave.
I make a run through my soul and R&B records – they all go into the Sell pile. Even the promise of James Brown’s “Hot Pants” and “Sex Machine” doesn’t sway me. James joins Jackie Wilson, Wilson Pickett, Aretha Franklin, Sam Cooke, the Four Tops and Sam and Dave. We had a nice run, but it’s time to move on.
But then I stop. I find my Clash albums, and even though I own multiple copies in all other formats (including cassette!), there’s no reason to be rash. Does a ferry boat captain leave extra life preservers on shore because they take up too much space? Never. The Clash goes into the Save pile, joined quickly by the Ramones, Elvis Costello and one of my four Joe Jackson records. And then I hit the mother lode – the Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan, Jimi Hendrix, the Who and Led Zeppelin. That’s more than twenty five albums right there. Without hesitation, I put them all into the Save pile. And with that gesture, I’m done. Sell outdoes Save by about three to one, and I get ready for tomorrow.
For old time’s sake, I give a few records one last spin, grabbing a George Thorogood record from 1978 to start. By the time “Move it Over” slides into “Who Do You Love” I realize I’ve been too hasty. When George rips into his cover of the Chuck Berry tune, “It Wasn’t Me,” I move George and his Delaware Destroyers into the Save pile. For kicks I put on some Wilson Pickett – ooh, that’s good. “Mustang Sally” is too groovy to sell, and after two songs from the Pretenders, I take all three of their albums and move them, with Wilson Pickett, into the Save pile. That leads me to the Bob Seger album I bought in 1981 at Record World in the Roosevelt Field Mall on Long Island. As Bob sings about feeling like a number (“I’m not a number – dammit I’m a man!”), I’m almost in tears. When he hits the chorus in “Fire Lake,” I want the charade to end – this hurts too much. Bob Seger is rescued from Sell to Save. The Animals, Bob Marley, Traffic and James Brown are saved as well, and the piles are now even.
But I need to finish this task, and as the morning arrives, just before I head out to Pitchfork to see this through, I take one last record from the Sell pile and put it on. It’s the Best of the Doors. I know every word on this entire album – from “Moonlight Ride” to “Soul Kitchen,” and “Break On Through” to “People are Strange,” and when “Light My Fire” starts, I’m sad – sad about saying goodbye, but to what I’m not sure. I can replace every song with the click of a mouse, but getting rid of these feels like I’m tossing old family photos in the trash. I sit in silence for a few minutes as the song ends, pack up the records and head downtown to Main Street.
About a third of the way through my Sell pile, Michael stops examining the records and looks up at me, oblivious to the somersaults my belly’s turning. “So what do you want for them?” he asks. I have no answer, half-expecting him to scold me with The Byrds Greatest Hits or smack me over the head with the Sam Cooke LP for my careless hocking of quality music, so I just stare back at him.
“How about $18 cash or $22 in store credit?” he says. I take the credit and spend these guilt-laden gains right here at Pitchfork, taking the next fifteen minutes looking for the right addition to my CD collection. I find it and leave, never looking back.
What’s left of my record collection now fits into a single crate, and I’ve accomplished the task of purging myself of things that sat unused. But something’s changed. Just today I pulled out an old Bob Dylan record and listened to it all the way through. If I can find the time, I’m gonna dive into the Beatles albums over the weekend. Who knows? I hear Pitchfork just got a great set of used records – maybe I’ll take a quick trip down there just to check it out – you never know when you might run into old friends.
What to Do with Your Records
1. Sell – Pitchfork Records will give you a dime or two per record, depending on the condition; but leave the Milli Vanilli records at home - reselling lousy music is the definition of bad karma.
2. Burn – options abound to transfer your vinyl collection to digital formats; check out www.teac.com for a host of turntable-to-digital audio possibilities.
3. Scratch – mix your old LPs, two turntables, a microphone and a nickname (“DJ Short Stack”), and you’re an instant DJ! Your old school cuttin’ and scratchin’ will impress family and friends. You might also win a date with Lindsey Lohan.
4. Frame –visit www.albumframes.com and learn how to frame those Journey albums for posterity. Don’t stop believin’ your spouse won’t care when you hang them on the living room wall.
5. Toss – put your old records on the side of the road and hope that lady in the blue minivan will drive by on trash day before the garbage men arrive. If you’re lucky, she may even take the Milli Vanilli box set.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Say Goodbye to Baseball
I’ve said goodbye to baseball, and it’s not been easy. I calculate I’ve spent every second of almost two years’ worth of my life watching, listening, reading and talking baseball. Since I was ten years old, I’ve watched at least 125 games each season, and at four hours per game for thirty two years, the baseball-filled minutes on my cosmic cab driver’s meter tumble down at a frenzied clip.
And it’s only grown more intense in the last five years. With the addition of ways to watch, read and listen, I’ve increased my baseball commitment exponentially. How can I resist the Red Sox on TV, the Mets online and whoever’s trying to beat the Yankees on ESPN’s “Gamecast?” For those who don’t know, Gamecast is the single most important invention of the new millennium, followed closely by stuffed crust pizza and the ShamWow! With it, you can follow any major league baseball game silently online for free, tracking every pitch, hit and run, presented in a clinical, telegraph-like style that feeds a fan’s need to never miss a thing. At this rate, the next thirty two years of my life may not leave much time for anything other than baseball. So it’s time to reflect.
I’ve decided to go cold turkey for a spell to find other pursuits to occupy my time. Maybe I’ll learn a new language or my kids’ middle names or take up camping or Frisbee golf. The options are endless.
I commit to two full weeks of a baseball-free life in all its forms. No longer can I start my day with box scores and summaries in the paper, quick reviews of video highlights online, and a scan of the night’s pitching match-ups. And once game time rolls around, I can’t find myself in front of the TV or offer to drive to Laconia for milk just to catch a few innings on satellite radio. Of course, falling asleep to the nightly cable roundups must cease. I need to jump off this non-stop loop of baseball or I’ll never know what life is like outside it.
My wife and kids agree but doubt I can do it. “You tried this before and failed,” my son, Sam, reminds me. He’s right. I attempted a season-long ban last year, but survived a mere five days in January, undone by salacious trade rumors in the paper. I email friends, asking them to hold off sharing anything baseball-related for fourteen days; most agree, probably thinking this moment of insanity will pass. One friend, Bozo from Chicago, is hostile. “Stop this. Stop it immediately,” he yells into the phone. “You did this a while back. You know what happened – it’s all YOUR FAULT!” He’s referring to the role I may have played in the Mets’ infamous late-season collapse of 2007. I’d tried to stop watching earlier that summer, lasting only two days during the All-Star break. “They blew it because you lost your faith. Doing it again makes NO SENSE!”
I know that two weeks without baseball in April may seem like no big deal and that perhaps saying no in October would be a greater test, but that’s crazy talk. Besides, a baseball-free October would make me like a 2008 Yankee fan, and I hate the Yankees.
Day One begins poorly. The first words I hear from my clock radio are, “And Tim Wakefield took a no-hitter into the eighth”- I shut it off. This is going to take some effort. I manage to avoid the morning paper by closing my eyes and putting the sports section where I can’t see it, and I resist the urge not to visit ESPN.com. At night, I read an entire issue of National Geographic, learning more about frozen baby woolly mammoths and arctic sea ice than most Norwegians.
The first few days are awkward, like I’m in a fight with someone, avoiding eye contact at all costs. I can’t read the sports pages, won’t follow news online and almost break my ankle at the gym trying not to watch TV. It hasn’t been even three days, and I really miss it. With spite, I pray for rain. If I can’t watch baseball, then no one can. But I’m reminded of that Jimmy Buffet song about it always being time for a drink somewhere – it must be baseball weather somewhere, right? Good lord. I’m starting to make Jimmy Buffet references. I need help.
This might mean I’m experiencing the Joe Pepitone Five Stages of Baseball-Related Grief – annoyance, anxiety, loss, corruption and incarceration. Let’s hope I pull it together before those last two stages kick in. I don’t want to end up like Joe.
Friday night is rough. My wife’s out and my kids are occupied, and I have the TV, PC and XM Radio to myself. But I remain pure, instead reading newspaper stories about feral parrots in Brooklyn and wooden water pipes in Washington, then reorganizing my sock drawer before bed. Somebody shoot me.
Saturday is almost impossible. Sam reads non-baseball headlines from the paper in a mocking tone. “Dad, did you know that the Celtics are ready to play the Bulls in the playoffs?” He saunters out of the kitchen with a giggle, offering me no nourishment in this self-imposed barren exile. “Do you want to hear what happened in the Yankee game?” he announces at dinner that night. “Sure!” my wife shouts. Sam whispers in her ear. “Wow! That’s actually kind of shocking,” she chuckles. This isn’t fair. Whisper and Chuckles may drive me insane.
Sunday arrives. It’s Day Four, and I’m learning to live without baseball. Instead of flipping between screens, pages and stations all day, I paint my mailbox, watch my daughter do the hula hoop to Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid” (I can explain), and go for a long bike ride. A few days later, my wife tells me, “This has been the best six days of my life,” and I’m not sure how to take the news.
But the resentment lingers. Driving to work as Week Two in the Wasteland begins, I see reminders everywhere. Cars with license plates like SOXCHIK, SOXRUL and FENWAY mock my pain as they speed along, their drivers listening to a recap of last night’s game or chatting with pals about Jacoby Ellsbury’s healthy head of hair. But I soldier on. With less than a week to go, the end is in sight.
Then things start to fall apart. We’re on a quick vacation in the White Mountains, and I make the mistake of wandering into the bar on Friday night at game time to learn it’s a Red Sox-Yankees weekend. It’s wall-to-wall Red Sox Nation, and I stare everywhere but the TV. A guy behind me, a real mouthbreather, starts crowing about the Sox. I’m now standing in the middle of a crowded bar plugging my ears like a first grader avoiding a scary story, humming to myself to drown out the voices. I escape before the first pitch is thrown, at least I think I do. My eyes are shut as I run away.
I think this confirms what had been my biggest fear – everyone talking about baseball all the time, but as I escape, I realize this is the only spontaneous discussion of baseball I’ve heard in almost two weeks. I’d thought it’d be common to hear strangers discuss Varitek’s batting swoon or how poor run support crippled Santana’s chances to win twenty games. But I now know it’s not. It’s me! I’m the only one who brings it up. I’m that guy who interrupts normal conversations about property taxes, deer ticks and buffalo chicken wraps with statements like, “Big Papi’s wrist injury hurt him from turning on the inside heat, that’s for sure.” I guess everyone around is not always talking baseball – they’re just waiting for me to take a breath so they can change the subject.
Then, Sunday night, I reach the breaking point. From Sam’s furtive channel surfing, I learn the Sox-Yankees game is on Sunday Night Baseball, but I won’t give in. I turn in early, hoping to dream about the lessons I’ve learned from such a bold experiment. I wake up around midnight and can’t fall back asleep, my mind consumed with what I’ve missed tonight, this weekend and over the past eleven days. I creep downstairs to turn on the TV but stop myself. I’m so close to surviving this banishment, and I must remain strong. I’m awake for another three hours tortured by the unknown. Skipping the Sox-Yankees series has upset my circadian rhythms for good, and I may never sleep well again.
As my fortnight hardball prohibition ends, I’m wondering what will change. Will I skip a game now and then? Will I stop blurting out meaningless statistics? Will I go spelunking instead of watching a twi-night doubleheader? Maybe I should ease myself back – start with a few Fisher Cats games, but I’m kidding myself. Double A baseball is a gateway drug. By Memorial Day I’ll be watching tape-delayed Mariners – Blue Jays games in reverse, looking for hidden clues in the signs from the third base coach. No – it’s all or nothing for me. Moderation is for fools. Let’s play ball.
And it’s only grown more intense in the last five years. With the addition of ways to watch, read and listen, I’ve increased my baseball commitment exponentially. How can I resist the Red Sox on TV, the Mets online and whoever’s trying to beat the Yankees on ESPN’s “Gamecast?” For those who don’t know, Gamecast is the single most important invention of the new millennium, followed closely by stuffed crust pizza and the ShamWow! With it, you can follow any major league baseball game silently online for free, tracking every pitch, hit and run, presented in a clinical, telegraph-like style that feeds a fan’s need to never miss a thing. At this rate, the next thirty two years of my life may not leave much time for anything other than baseball. So it’s time to reflect.
I’ve decided to go cold turkey for a spell to find other pursuits to occupy my time. Maybe I’ll learn a new language or my kids’ middle names or take up camping or Frisbee golf. The options are endless.
I commit to two full weeks of a baseball-free life in all its forms. No longer can I start my day with box scores and summaries in the paper, quick reviews of video highlights online, and a scan of the night’s pitching match-ups. And once game time rolls around, I can’t find myself in front of the TV or offer to drive to Laconia for milk just to catch a few innings on satellite radio. Of course, falling asleep to the nightly cable roundups must cease. I need to jump off this non-stop loop of baseball or I’ll never know what life is like outside it.
My wife and kids agree but doubt I can do it. “You tried this before and failed,” my son, Sam, reminds me. He’s right. I attempted a season-long ban last year, but survived a mere five days in January, undone by salacious trade rumors in the paper. I email friends, asking them to hold off sharing anything baseball-related for fourteen days; most agree, probably thinking this moment of insanity will pass. One friend, Bozo from Chicago, is hostile. “Stop this. Stop it immediately,” he yells into the phone. “You did this a while back. You know what happened – it’s all YOUR FAULT!” He’s referring to the role I may have played in the Mets’ infamous late-season collapse of 2007. I’d tried to stop watching earlier that summer, lasting only two days during the All-Star break. “They blew it because you lost your faith. Doing it again makes NO SENSE!”
I know that two weeks without baseball in April may seem like no big deal and that perhaps saying no in October would be a greater test, but that’s crazy talk. Besides, a baseball-free October would make me like a 2008 Yankee fan, and I hate the Yankees.
Day One begins poorly. The first words I hear from my clock radio are, “And Tim Wakefield took a no-hitter into the eighth”- I shut it off. This is going to take some effort. I manage to avoid the morning paper by closing my eyes and putting the sports section where I can’t see it, and I resist the urge not to visit ESPN.com. At night, I read an entire issue of National Geographic, learning more about frozen baby woolly mammoths and arctic sea ice than most Norwegians.
The first few days are awkward, like I’m in a fight with someone, avoiding eye contact at all costs. I can’t read the sports pages, won’t follow news online and almost break my ankle at the gym trying not to watch TV. It hasn’t been even three days, and I really miss it. With spite, I pray for rain. If I can’t watch baseball, then no one can. But I’m reminded of that Jimmy Buffet song about it always being time for a drink somewhere – it must be baseball weather somewhere, right? Good lord. I’m starting to make Jimmy Buffet references. I need help.
This might mean I’m experiencing the Joe Pepitone Five Stages of Baseball-Related Grief – annoyance, anxiety, loss, corruption and incarceration. Let’s hope I pull it together before those last two stages kick in. I don’t want to end up like Joe.
Friday night is rough. My wife’s out and my kids are occupied, and I have the TV, PC and XM Radio to myself. But I remain pure, instead reading newspaper stories about feral parrots in Brooklyn and wooden water pipes in Washington, then reorganizing my sock drawer before bed. Somebody shoot me.
Saturday is almost impossible. Sam reads non-baseball headlines from the paper in a mocking tone. “Dad, did you know that the Celtics are ready to play the Bulls in the playoffs?” He saunters out of the kitchen with a giggle, offering me no nourishment in this self-imposed barren exile. “Do you want to hear what happened in the Yankee game?” he announces at dinner that night. “Sure!” my wife shouts. Sam whispers in her ear. “Wow! That’s actually kind of shocking,” she chuckles. This isn’t fair. Whisper and Chuckles may drive me insane.
Sunday arrives. It’s Day Four, and I’m learning to live without baseball. Instead of flipping between screens, pages and stations all day, I paint my mailbox, watch my daughter do the hula hoop to Black Sabbath’s “Paranoid” (I can explain), and go for a long bike ride. A few days later, my wife tells me, “This has been the best six days of my life,” and I’m not sure how to take the news.
But the resentment lingers. Driving to work as Week Two in the Wasteland begins, I see reminders everywhere. Cars with license plates like SOXCHIK, SOXRUL and FENWAY mock my pain as they speed along, their drivers listening to a recap of last night’s game or chatting with pals about Jacoby Ellsbury’s healthy head of hair. But I soldier on. With less than a week to go, the end is in sight.
Then things start to fall apart. We’re on a quick vacation in the White Mountains, and I make the mistake of wandering into the bar on Friday night at game time to learn it’s a Red Sox-Yankees weekend. It’s wall-to-wall Red Sox Nation, and I stare everywhere but the TV. A guy behind me, a real mouthbreather, starts crowing about the Sox. I’m now standing in the middle of a crowded bar plugging my ears like a first grader avoiding a scary story, humming to myself to drown out the voices. I escape before the first pitch is thrown, at least I think I do. My eyes are shut as I run away.
I think this confirms what had been my biggest fear – everyone talking about baseball all the time, but as I escape, I realize this is the only spontaneous discussion of baseball I’ve heard in almost two weeks. I’d thought it’d be common to hear strangers discuss Varitek’s batting swoon or how poor run support crippled Santana’s chances to win twenty games. But I now know it’s not. It’s me! I’m the only one who brings it up. I’m that guy who interrupts normal conversations about property taxes, deer ticks and buffalo chicken wraps with statements like, “Big Papi’s wrist injury hurt him from turning on the inside heat, that’s for sure.” I guess everyone around is not always talking baseball – they’re just waiting for me to take a breath so they can change the subject.
Then, Sunday night, I reach the breaking point. From Sam’s furtive channel surfing, I learn the Sox-Yankees game is on Sunday Night Baseball, but I won’t give in. I turn in early, hoping to dream about the lessons I’ve learned from such a bold experiment. I wake up around midnight and can’t fall back asleep, my mind consumed with what I’ve missed tonight, this weekend and over the past eleven days. I creep downstairs to turn on the TV but stop myself. I’m so close to surviving this banishment, and I must remain strong. I’m awake for another three hours tortured by the unknown. Skipping the Sox-Yankees series has upset my circadian rhythms for good, and I may never sleep well again.
As my fortnight hardball prohibition ends, I’m wondering what will change. Will I skip a game now and then? Will I stop blurting out meaningless statistics? Will I go spelunking instead of watching a twi-night doubleheader? Maybe I should ease myself back – start with a few Fisher Cats games, but I’m kidding myself. Double A baseball is a gateway drug. By Memorial Day I’ll be watching tape-delayed Mariners – Blue Jays games in reverse, looking for hidden clues in the signs from the third base coach. No – it’s all or nothing for me. Moderation is for fools. Let’s play ball.
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