It was cold outside. My mother made me wear a jacket. I haven’t been to the symphony since 1990. Hovering around age 46, you do the math.

While being a less than stellar student in high school, one of my teachers, Mrs. Cahallan, inspired me to write. She was my civics teacher, and a great one. At that time, a junior, with a miniature mind, I was too interested in baseball to care about legislation and the government. In fact, to me, branches were only made for swinging and ultimately falling to the earth. Gravity is underrated.

In order to gain some extra credit, just to bring my grade to a “C”, Mrs. Cahallan said if I went to the symphony, she’d offer us some bonus points.. So, my friend, Andy, and I did just that.

It wasn’t difficult to convince mom and dad to go out on a weekday. Hell, we were going to the symphony and after telling them the story as to why, they thought it was an excellent idea. So, after covering up properly, Andy picked me up and we headed to downtown Spokane, Washington to witness a cultural event. We did it by way of the local Zip Trip, where Andy, equipped with a fake identification card, purchased a twelve pack of beer. Since we had at least 30 minutes before showtime, we headed to Riverfront Park and proceeded to drink the beer. Fortunately, the park was within walking distance to The Metropolitan Theatre of un-welcomed 17 year old idiots.

We purchased our tickets as though we belonged to a club while ignoring the looks from tuxedos and fur animals staring with distain. Andy and I weren’t wearing hats and our hair was combed. That’s pretty much all we had going for us that evening.

After finding our way to our seats, we noticed we weren’t close to the aisle. This proved a problem to overactive bladders. We just shrugged, and said, how long can this concert last? One hour in, we began fidgeting, but knew we could make it to intermission within a half hour. Intermission wasn’t for another hour after finally reading the literary paper they had provided in the lobby which I quickly tossed in the garbage….I mean recycling bin. Andy kept his not for posterity, but to provide documentation of our existence at the Met to Mrs. C when arriving to school on Monday.

Scene Two, That’s when game time was over, Either we pissed our pants or left attempting obscurity. Perhaps both. Neither was quite successful or graceful. Excuse me, and pardon me didn’t leave the theatre of being excused or pardoned. We were shew shewed! We were, “get them out of here!” We were even, “Call the police on those little bastards.”

Peacefully, we left, and we passed the class. I even remember writing this to Mrs. Cahallan and trying to convince her it was only soda we were drinking. She didn’t buy one word, Yet, she loved the story. God Bless Her.

Some people believe my friend, Marshall, is fictional. If you do, I don’t care. He is real. I have pictures. They are not fuzzy piics like sasquatch. The pictures depict him as a well groomed, educated and terrific man…..and friiend.

Even with glasses, Marshall taught me how to see, but far more importantly, listen. He and I listened to ballgames on the radio when they were on a T.V. ten feet away. (It was glorious.) We listened to carnival rides at the State Fare, and both said, “F that noise”. That was a ride we never bet on.

Don’t just see. Bet on Listening. Then, and only then, can you can translate the Bull S—t

Thank you, Marshall.

Ben

Some see, but forget how to listen.

When watching a baseball game, my wife requires salted peanuts and a hotdog. Is that so wrong? She did ask for mustard at a recent game. High maintenance.

I just made a bet with my friend. I told him i could outlive him. Arrogantly, I gave him five thousand to one odds I could stay six feet above.

He’s 90 something and I’m forty or something. Now, as a very logical man, one should say the odds of him dying are greater than mine. I’m not logical. However, I know he doesn’t like to lose a bet. Therefore, we will keep on living just for spite.

“Turn out the lights. The party’s over.”

Great song, but it’s also sadly relative to what we’ve personally experienced. My wife and I are taking a permanent hike away from the once beloved city of Seattle, and it’s not just because of the virus.

As my favorite T.V. character, Seinfeld, once said, “People are the worst.” Once, that was merely a funny negative observation from his television show. Now, it’s the malignant truth to a large portion of our dreadful society. People can be the worst, but with our opposable thumbs and half a brain, we don’t have to be the worst.

Looting, fires, shooting at innocents? Black, brown or white, it is not just wrong but layered with such stupidity, and it is arriving at a time when we should be supporting one another.

Look at yourself. I do everyday, and I find a way to laugh and make fun of myself. Take a minute to laugh at yourself and keep the anger, unless justified, in your back pocket.

Driving a golf cart at age ten was a privilege. Golfing at age ten was out of the question, according to our old man.

Our father wasn’t always right, but when it came to golf, I’ll give him a clap. Most of his spawn shouldn’t have been on the greens. He only allowed us to drive the cart which was equally dangerous…for others.

After golfing, if he had a good round, he’d buy us an orange soda, which for some odd reason, he’d call it a big red orange. He’d also purchase lunch for us, and for himself, he’d have a beer.

Never spending much time with our father with his work schedule, anytime with him was precious.

By far, the worst firework ever. Consumed by idiots wishing to watch flames and listen to a torturous sound, Piccolo Pete created chaos in a neighborhood filled with idiots. You lit it, it made a terrible sound, and burned cash.

Piccolo Pete ensued riots. Men, women and children would grasp their hands around their ears while running back and forth wishing for the insane music to stop on the fourth of July. They’d also bash a few windows on the way, for no reason at all.

Pete and my old man seemed to enjoy the chaos, other than the window bashing. Everyone would leave our backyard screaming after our father would light the flame.

They would always call him Mr. Gannon. It wasn’t anything he requested. He would just prefer Rodney.

Before I had a car, my old man was always kind to those who drove me to the ballpark or school. I couldn’t handle the busses. That was just fist fight Spokane Central Station. When friends arrived at our house to pick me up, he would offer them apple pie. There was never an apple pie prepared.

Jokingly , he would yell downstairs to our mother and say “Get that pie started!” He just wanted their keys.

As my friends were laughing, that was the distraction. Stealing their keys and cars, he’d drive off to fill their tanks.

Properly, you should ask why he didn’t drive me to school or the ballpark. The answer is simple. I was a punk kid and didn’t want my 60 year old father as a chauffeur.

By my Junior year of H.S., he did get a car for me to drive. I had to lease it.

This story just may be a nice dream. Without fabricating information, I always dream of my late father, mother and brother as though they belong in a blog. Weekly, they are alive and they seem the same as I remembered them. The saddest part of it all is I can’t hear their laughter in the dreams.

The light post in centerfield doesn’t just provide light to baseball players who can’t play when darkness arrives. It represents an idea when fathers and mothers can only watch them perform after closing time. Yes, baseball was meant to be a day game, but as long as the lighting is correct, and without the sun in your eyes, the ballplayers could see not only the players and fans in front of you, but also the folks behind you.

Having a nice chat with a friend the other day who loves and misses the game of baseball, we talked about it a bit. The chat reminded me of a story once told by my late brother, Steve, and even a later father, Rod.

Steve and our dad had a pretty good relationship when Steve was a youth…so I’m told. Steve and dad both loved baseball.

As all of us did, at some point, chose our own positions in society. In baseball, the positions were chosen for you. Some were outfielders, some infielders, some pitchers and some catchers. It didn’t really matter. We just wanted to play or perform. Our brother, Steve, only wanted to play when our father wasn’t at the game. He always thought dad gave him a baseball jinx. Baseball players love using that as an excuse for failure. If you know anything about baseball, you don’t need any excuses for failure. It’s just a law. You fail. Do the math. Then, you make adjustments and then fail again. It’s either, “this sport stinks..I quit”, or, you go to The Hall of Fame if you beat the odds.

Steve wanted to go to The Hall of Fame, but he couldn’t handle our old man at the Ballpark. Our old man was, in baseball, Steve’s only achilles heel. Steve would be positioned in centerfield watching the game in front of him. He was only looking for the old man. When he couldn’t find him in the stands, it shook him away from the proper game. Instinctively, Steve knew our dad couldn’t miss a game. Like a crossword puzzle, much like when you have to leave the coffee table for a break just to figure out the answer, Steve went to the dugout instead. It was then when he found our dad behind the light post. At the conclusion of the inning, Steve trotted back to centerfield. Dad remained camouflaged behind the brown light post wearing his bright blue cigarette stained jacket only Steve could identify and the other members of the community could identify.

With his back turned to him, Steve yelled, “I know you’re behind that post!.” Dad was caught watching his son play baseball.

Sometimes, what happened in our living room, would leave the living room, or just sprint out of it in shame.

As a spectator, and still a boy of maybe 12, I witnessed something spectacular. It was a wrestling match between by brother of 16 and a formidable opponent: one of his older brothers of roughly 25. The details are a bit sketchy, but the conclusion is definitive. My father was there not to officiate, but to time the massacre.

The wrestlers were two of my six older brothers. Although siblings, they maintained different styles of athleticism. The elder, Aaron, was an excellent high school baseball player, which was the only sport he participated in while in high school. His love and talent for the game was natural, however, it couldn’t match his lackluster attitude, which we decided he did only to drive our father crazy. He could have been a terrific football player…..no, too much “rah rah!” B.S. Wasn’t his style. He would have been an excellent basketball player……nah, too much work. While he seldom wrestled, when he did, Aaron seemed to allow his opponent to gain a quick and large lead, before pinning his opponent with ease. This drove his coaches and my father nuts. It seemed deliberate. Perhaps it was his interesting sense of humor, which remains to this day, or perhaps he just didn’t give a damn. Aaron’s ability and his elite speed was no match for his disinterest, or what he would maintain as arrogance.

Tom, his living room opponent, was a little different. Great attitude, and impeccable work ethic. Having superior athleticism, Tom acquired All-State awards in both football and wrestling, and would eventually earn him the school’s best athlete award, not to mention a college football scholarship. When he was 16, he was a man.

Verbally sparring in the living room, Tom and Aaron were not interested in the riveting golf game our father was trying to watch. They were arguing about who was the best wrestler. Dad told them to take it out on the lawn. Evidently they agreed that someone must be there to officiate. Now, there was no way in Hell the old man was going to get out of his comfort zone, walk outside and officiate this mess. So, Aaron proposed a solution. Aaron bet Tom he could take him down ten times in thirty seconds. In order to speed things up, Dad agreed to be the timer. He even chuckled at the thought of what may happen, knowing Tom was a little too big for his Buster Browns. I stared at Tom, knowing he had never been beaten. If I had any cash, I may have even put that cash on Tom.

They both positioned themselves, Tom with a look of determination, and Aaron smirking. Dad, waiting for this pissing contest to be over, quickly said, “Ok, lets get this started. Ready…..Go.” By the time I could get nervous for Tom, Aaron had taken him down eight times in less than twenty seconds leaving only ten more seconds for him to survive. While Tom seemed a little tired, the only breathing Aaron was doing was out of laughter. Tom had met his match, and he knew it. Tom then took the matter into his own hands, literally, when they entered the center of the living room for the last ten seconds. With abject surprise, Dad and I watched as Tom punched Aaron in his stomach, or I think it was his stomach. Aaron dropped to the floor like a sack of potatoes with the wind knocked completely out of him. Knowing it was an illegal wrestling move, and fearing reprisal, Tom quickly fled the scene of the bet. It was over, just like that.

While the old man and I sat laughing at Aaron wheezing on the floor, Tom was no where to be found. While still wheezing, Aaron chuckled at Tom’s keen sense of how to conclude a battle less than royal. After catching his breath, Aaron asked, “Where’s Tom?” Dad merely stated, “Probably close to the Idaho Border by now.” (That’s a half hour away from our house….driving.)

Although Tom was disqualified, upon his return he seemed a little satisfied. Not as satisfied as Dad who was back to watching a golf game with softly spoken commentators. This was a well deserved nap for the old man.