Red Andrew

Andrew and I had just returned from Wooster, Ohio.

Wooooooooooooooooooooooster...we must have said it a zillion times. Just Andrew and myself...heading up I-71, twirling our licorice sticks at passing cars…on our way to the middle school state lacrosse tournament.

We had left the previous morning...and stayed with the rest of the team at a small motel on the outskirts of town. Andrew had struggled this year with lacrosse. As with all the other sports in this yuppie-riddled town, it's tough to compete because there's so many kids to go up against; all driven by fathers and by the ghosts of their fathers. It's a club sport in middle school...meaning we pay for the "right" to have our sons and daughters play. As such, no one gets cut, but it doesn't necessarily mean that everyone gets the chance to play. There were so many kids this year, in fact, that they had to make "A" and "B" teams. Unfortunately, not every school had a "B" squad and Andrew and his other companions rarely got the opportunity to get in the game. He was quite frustrated, but I told him to stay the course. I wanted him to participate...to understand the concept of being part of a team. He fought through his tears and never complained.

Some of the parents did...calling the coach at late hours to express their concerns that little Jimmy didn't get to play. There were occasions that I was tempted to call, but I could never quite get through the idea that anything I had to say was sufficient. It was a long season, but the Dublin Rocks prevailed and finished at the top of their league...heading to Wooster as the number one seed in the state. And, as it turned out, the Dublin "B" team turned out to be good enough to qualify on its own merits.

Andrew plays "attack" position...meaning he plays offense and is in a pretty good position to score. He's just never been given much of an opportunity. As such, this will probably be his last year in organized sports, only because high school will prove much too big and the cuts will take their toll.

So, it's the last game of the season and Andrew's team is up by 5 points. Andrew had already played his "obligatory" quarter...but coach puts him back in for the last quarter. And the coach says, "Andrew, this is YOUR quarter." And every time they brought the ball down...they called Andrew's play, “RED ANDREW!” meaning the other players were to get the ball to Andrew and he was to try and score.

They called RED ANDREW five straight times that afternoon. And each time he received the ball...diving and spinning to make wonderful catches. And each time he turned, he fought his way to the net...only to see his shot skim past the corner of the goal.


The game ended with his last shot being desperately blocked by their goalkeeper. I could feel the disappointment, but when Andrew took off his helmet, I saw the biggest smile I'd ever seen. His coach ran up and gave him a big hug...and said, "Great game, Andrew!"

Dad squinted in the late afternoon sun.

Later, when the team was enjoying their post-game Gatorade...Dad walked up to the coach. "Coach, thank you...he'll never forget that." The coach turned...squinted his eyes at the same sun...and said, "Yea...I know."

Andrew and I walked off the field...and headed for home.

Woooooooooooooooooooooster…we must have said it a zillion times on our way out of town.

Cutting Down The Nets

I'm not sure what inspires fathers to put up basketball hoops.

Certainly, a man who has grown to his tiptoe height of 5'10" should not be allowed to have grandiose illusions of a future NBA star in his loins. It would be more promising, I suppose, to dig up the back yard and fashion deep bunkers and undulating greens that offer future participation in a sport more aligned with the genetic structure of his family.

Alas, ten years ago, my wife and I found ourselves pouring cement into a long hollow tube that promised the durability of Stonehenge. And attaching an "adjustable" backboard and net that would allow our future hoopsters to "grow" with just a simple bump in the ratchet.

Maybe over the course of the next several years, there were enough games of H-O-R-S-E and P-I-G to justify the crushed flowers and narrow escapes with the bushes. But it's questionable as to whether Dad had more "last second" games by himself on the driveway - imagining that winning shot ripping through the nets as time expired - than the actual bumps and grinds of a real game.

As the years passed and the trees surrounding it got taller and began to spread out, the pole became more of an obstacle to avoid when backing out one of the cars. The addition of a third car made it more of a nuisance and the eventual passage of time gave way to skateboards and field hockey sticks.

The past two years found the net simply overgrown with branches and leaves that made even a simple free throw formidable.

When the decision was made several months ago to put the house up for sale, I simply saw the pole and the net as an eyesore - a rusted pylon and a tattered piece of rope.

The backboard came down first…a simple chore of undoing some nuts and bolts. A certain sadness overcame me as I took the frayed net off the rim. Surely, my son Andrew would have some comment when he pulled in the driveway. But a simple, "You're finally getting rid of that old thing?" reminded me that memories are based on moments in time and not necessarily the monuments we erect for pastime.

Andrew and his friends found a way to get rid of the pole. They loaded it up in the back of a minivan with a red t-shirt taped to the back and drove off. "Just don't tell me what you did with it," was all I said.

A bare patch of dirt and stubbles of new grass now stand where the concrete base once filled the hole. The finger-drawn initials in the wet cement, long since hardened by time, are the moments we remember of our childhood and those of our children.

I'm not sure what inspires fathers to put up basketball hoops.

I'm even less sure of the reasons they have for taking them down.

Beggar's Night

I watched each and every one of them walk to the door...their expectant eyes wide open as they traced their path to the doorbell.

Trick Or Treat...Trick Or Treat...

It’s no big secret that I’m a sucker for a cute little kid in a Halloween outfit. And the early night has been filled with a parade of Harry Potters, robots and even some ambitious ghouls decked in swift-bearing roller blades.

But the first time I reach for the door and don't find a smiling face peering straight back from the other side, I’m somewhat puzzled...

Until I look beyond the shadow of the first step...

And see the wide-open eyes cuddled under the H U N N Y bag floppy hat.

She has a complete and total grasp of her little plastic bag…yet she's safely straddled into her stroller that accompanies the sure and steady grip of her doting mother.

Certainly, one of the first or second stops on her short tour, she's ready to go home after the quick and sure possession of the candy she's chosen to accept.

As for me, I’m ready to choose her the winner of an already too long of evening - a steady procession of too old and much too many kids with no more manners than a simple grunt of "What do you have?"

Later.... sitting down and prepared to watch the opening pitch of an already-forgotten World Series...

I hear a gentle tapping on the door.

Not the urgent push of the doorbell that brings the barking and howling of two dogs that have already had their share of ghosts and goblins...

But a slight, gentle tapping on the door.

A quick look at the clock advises me that beggar's night is almost near its 8:00 PM curfew.

I approach the door expecting to find a few flagrant celebrants.

But instead...as I open the door...there approaching the front step is the cutest little "puppy" of a boy...wrapped inside a costume so dearly crafted...but certainly made with several years of "comfort" to spare.

He stumbles up the step...

And with two floppy ears that beg to be hugged...he softly whispers

TWICK NOR EAT...

And standing beyond the door is his father...bathed in quiet, but proud embarrassment.... and the obvious offender of this gentle tapping.

"We had a late start...I hope it's not too late."

I look down at this hallowed canine...my thoughts racing back through the many years of watching my own children approach a neighbor's house...standing behind trees with careful anticipation...

TWICK NOR EAT...

Hoping there's a sucker for a cute little kid in a Halloween outfit.

Dog Days Of Summer

To call it a "trick" would have been a disservice to our dog, Dickens. Certainly, the neighbors must have thought it quite clever however, when our 10-year-old bearded collie would prance down the driveway and retrieve the morning newspaper.

I preferred to think of it as allowing him to earn his keep. Of course, if given the chance, I’m sure Dickens would have explained it quite clearly for what it truly was - an obvious excuse for me not to have to dash out in front of the neighbors in my morning garb.

Like it or not, Dickens made it part of our weekend routine. In exchange for me allowing him to water the lawn and sniff the morning fragrance, he would find a way to put his mouth around the plastic bag that held the headlines of the day.

Not to say that this was an automatic gesture on his behalf – there was always at least one chorus of "The paper, Dickens…get the PAPER!" and an occasional re-direction from whatever distraction that might come his way. A passing runner, another dog or an abandoned gumdrop melted into the sidewalk were all potential candidates and a reasonable excuse to forget the task at hand.

Sundays could provide a different challenge altogether. Whoever came up with the idea to insert product samples into a bag that already held a newspaper 6 times the daily fill, certainly didn’t have this poor dog in mind. Undaunted, he would study it…smell it…push it….and eventually walk away from it. "The paper, Dickens…get the PAPER!" You could almost hear him growling something about big butt, snow and yourself from the doorway.

To his credit, there wasn’t a paper he didn’t eventually tackle. He sometimes didn’t get it all the way inside the house; but he was always able to get it far enough up the driveway that I knew I wasn’t going to be horribly embarrassed by my appearance.

His younger brother Bailey eventually joined him in this drill. It’s important to note that, to this day, Bailey has probably never been given his due. Since his first day home, he’s had Dickens to watch, follow, pester, love and adulate, but not necessarily emulate. Bailey has always been happy to tag along. And, on the morning pursuit of the paper, Dickens and Bailey would dash out the door to face the elements together. If the neighbors had a laugh at the sight of one dog pulling the paper, they had to be in stitches to see these two mops of hair bounding down the lane.

Needless to say, Bailey was able to mimic virtually every move that Dickens would unveil – except for one. Whether there was some unspoken language between the two dogs or just pure avoidance on behalf of Bailey, the task of finding the right grip on the plastic bag always fell on Dickens.

"The paper, Dickens…get the PAPER!"

The reward of two dog biscuits became a daily ritual…even during the week when my departure for work came before the paper arrived. Each dog would happily wait for the door to open and embark on nature’s call and, depending on what kind of weather they faced, would either race to get back in or doddle and sniff to their heart’s content. And paper, or no paper, they knew a treat was in store.

When Dickens died yesterday morning, I’m quite sure whatever news the paper held that day…would wait.

Brown Paper Bags

For many years, both of our children packed a lunch for school...usually a predictable assortment of peanut butter and jelly sandwich, some prepackaged fruit thing, a cookie and a drink. Standard fare that most parents have learned to automatically add to their shopping lists and a ritual as old as the school bus that usually brings an "expletive deleted" on that evening before the first day of school.

Part of the fanfare at our house began in the preschool days when one of us, as proud parents, would diligently "bag" for the next day and perhaps add a note to brighten Betsy's or Andrew's morning.

At some point, and I'm still not sure if this happened because we simply didn't have enough to do the evening before, but slowly the simple, quick note transformed into an art project of decorating the plain brown bag and identifying each lunch with a sometimes elaborate moniker.

As the children got older, the burden of preparing the next-day's course fell into their hands. On occasion, when the bus was sitting outside the front door, or simply "I forgot" was a good enough reason, one of us would find the sandwich bags, slap together a quick PB&J, scribble their name with a quick missive and send them on their way.

Eventually, Andrew discovered the true value of a school lunch line and decided that it was much easier to bug mom for lunch money than to stare at the cupboard and try to decide what to have for a meal the next day.

But Betsy never grew fond of cafeteria food and preferred to scour the refrigerator and drawers in search of some hidden delicacy to store in her bag the night before. And so, even into the high school years, it wasn't uncommon to find applesauce and pudding snacks on the grocery list.

I always knew that when I opened the refrigerator in the morning, I'd have to weave my way around Betsy's lunch bag to find the orange juice. And, every once in a while, especially on days when she had a big game or a tough test, I'd scribble a little note on her lunch bag - making sure I made her name big enough to embarrass her in front of her friends.

The other night I opened the refrigerator and found two lunch bags sitting in the way. I quickly remembered that Betsy was serving as a host for a grade school "buddy" on a field trip to the zoo. As such, she was required to pack two lunches.

As I pulled both bags out, I couldn't help but notice that she had written her buddy's name on the plain brown bag with a magic marker.


The orange ink wouldn't have been my first choice. But it was the only available marker that provided enough contrast against the familiar Kraft paper.

Our 18-year-old daughter has carried the nickname "Beaner" ever since she was a baby, and as I scribbled the letters onto the bag, I realized that we were losing more than just the passage of time.

I topped the letters E and A with a flower and placed the bags back where I found them.

Today is Betsy's last day of high school and because of special activities planned at the school, no lunch bags were packed.

I found the orange juice much too easily this morning.

Video Star

As parents of children growing up in the 80s, it was inevitable that we found ourselves part of the “home video” generation. What parent could afford to miss capturing every single moment in the life of their son or daughter? And what Baby Boomer this side of the Beatles couldn’t remember the grainy 8mm clips of Christmases past that parents were obliged to show only on special occasions?

Wrapped in the newest Betamax technology we, too, found ourselves trying to record all those special moments when either Betsy or Andrew were forced to “perform” or coaxed into doing that “cute little thing you do” one more time.

While the concept was originally intended to record those endearing “life-changing” moments, family holidays could seemingly turn into media events with each sibling jockeying for position, video camera in tow, trying to capture the best light or get the best angle of each present opened by every niece and nephew.

And I’m quite sure, to each of us, those countless hours are treasures that are now stored somewhere safely and tucked away in our own individual lives.

But every so often a tape is discovered among the movies and recordings of old Ohio State football games that too have started to gather dust. And with each viewing we find certain moments that take us back to a time that surely must have just happened yesterday. Seeing images of places where we no longer live, or hearing the voices of loved ones now gone, is truly the magic that holds us to the past.

Part of that past were the happy times when each child celebrated a birthday. Of course, there was the obligatory first birthday party for Andrew when I simply couldn’t get enough footage of the chocolate cake that touched every part of his face but his mouth.

When a child turns one, it’s merely to acknowledge a passing in time. When they turn two, however, there’s a marked difference on their part in knowing what’s happening around them and noticing the excitement that comes with having a birthday.

And so it was when Betsy turned two. We gathered at her grandparent’s house to celebrate. In the dimly lit hours of early evening, the warm glow of two birthday candles danced as stars in her big bright eyes.

As the final strains of “Happy Birthday” came to an end, Betsy leaned over the table from her perch on top a dining room chair. And with one strong breath of air she snuffed the candles out. With steadfast eyes she glanced up at her mother, “Where did the candles go?”

But with the innocence that only occurs in the heart of a two-year-old, Betsy simply answered her own question, “They’ll be back!”

As the children grew older, the fascination to record every waking moment became something you did just on “special occasions.” Eventually, the video camera found its way to the corner of a closet.

Perhaps we have learned that instead of trying to capture the passing of our children’s lives through the lens of a camera, it’s more peaceful and much more enjoyable to simply watch the events as they unfold.

Technology has already surpassed that wondrous invention called videotape. And, eventually, we’ll be forced to transfer this family history from one medium to another.

Cell phones can beam memories across the world instantly. Simple freeze frames that, once erased, become digital dust. And somewhere, in the improbable future, technology will allow us to record these instant images on some embedded chip that we can recall with a mere blink of an eye.

In these early moments of a new millennium, however, we still call those images memories.

And tomorrow, when Betsy walks on stage as a 22-year-old woman to receive her college diploma, her family will sit and simply watch…and enjoy. There won’t be any video cameras on hand to record the event. There will, I'm sure, be some pictures taken to record the smiles and capture the day.

As for the memories?

They’ll be back.