The Barone Blog

Getting … Iked!

"Baby, do you understand me now …"

 

Dateline: The Road To Explanation

I remember the rain dripping from her nose.

I remember following the path of one lone drop as it leapt from the bottom of her now straight and frizzy hair, landed on her khaki London Fog raincoat, circled every button before crashing with a splash on the linoleum kitchen floor.

But even more so, I remember how she was looking at me – the look, a mixture of why and fear.

And she said nothing, just stood there in the kitchen doorway, dripping, holding paper shopping bags, the contents of which where starting to fall out of the soaked bottom of the bag.

A lone box of Macaroni and Cheese was lying on the doorway threshold between the kitchen and dining room.

I was sitting at the dining room table, mostly looking straight down at the grain of the oak, sometimes raising my head for a quick glance at my dripping wife.

Spread around me were a dozen or so sheets of handwritten interview notes.

Off to my right was an open window, tiny sprays of rain would come in on the breeze of the storm, outside, and collect on the dining room drapes.

But it was the storm inside that Barb stood, dripping, and waiting to hear about.

It was the storm inside that caused her to be drenched.

The storm inside, me.

The storm inside me, and of course, mainly actually, the old Royal manual typewriter three stories below the open window.

The old Royal manual typewriter stuck like a spear into the asphalt driveway.

The old Royal manual typewriter spear that blocked Barb from driving the car into the garage, out of the rain, and coming into the house and up three flights of stairs dry, with dry bags of groceries.

To her credit, Barb never said a word, so it was to the grain in the oak table that I said, this, and only this, "It was messing up my story..."

At which she turned, put the groceries on the kitchen table, and then walked past me to the bathroom to dry off.

"… so it had to go."

I made no excuses for throwing the typewriter out of our apartment window, nor did I a year or so later when the replacement Royal manual ended up three stories down in Barb's tomato garden.

And I make no apology now…except to Elite Angler Denny Brauer's wife, Shirley.

Sunrise, Clear Lake, Calif.

The lake was on fire, colored a blaze red by the newborn sun, the foothills framed the scene in burnt orange.

And there sat Shirley Brauer, alone at a picnic table, taking in the miracle of the birth of a new day here on planet earth.

At peace, she was.  For the moment.  Unaware that behind her, a missile was heading straight for the back of her head.

A missile in the shape of a computer mouse.

A computer mouse minus the USB connector thing that was still stuck, somewhat bent, in my laptop back in the hotel.

Once again … a table strewn with interview notes and a mechanical thing … a TOOL … not working right … and messing up my story.

So … it had to go.

I ripped it out of the laptop, went to the back door of my hotel room that overlooked the lake, opened the door and started to fling it into the lake …

Unfortunately, between me, the computer mouse and the lake, sat Shirley.

Once it dawned on me that Shirley was in missile range, at the very last second before the mouse left my hand, I arched my wrist up a bit, and the offending story messing up mouse sailed a few feet over Shirley's head before plopping harmlessly into Clear Lake.

Do I have anger issues? No.

I have never once in 38 years of marriage ever yelled at Barb in any way shape or form.

Pretty much the same way with my two, now grown, children.

No road rage.

No Friday night bar fisticuffs.

But, if you are a technical thing, a tool, and you are between me and a story and you are messing up … beware.

 

"… sometimes I feel a little mad …"

I have flashpoints.

Not with people, but with things, me versus things.  Me versus things especially while in the act of doing what it is I do.

Riley, Barb's dog can jump on me and want to go out back to pee, or for a walk, "out FRONT," and while it drives me crazy while I'm trying to write a story, there is never a moment in my brain when I consider turning the Shih Tzu into a fury missile.

There was though … a busted up HP printer in the trash bin a while ago.

"Printer Error … printer error … printer off-line …"

All while trying to print off a story.

So it had to go.

Flashpoint.

 

I make no excuses for my actions … but as costly as they are, what with replacing typewriters, printers, and the several half dozen or so computer mouse things now littering the Bassmaster Elite trails … no excuses, because without those flashpoints, I couldn't do what it is I do.

Which is why I understand my friend, Michael Iaconelli, perfectly.

I get, Ike.

 

 

"…but don't you know that no one alive
can always be an angel…"

  

The first 30 seconds of B.A.S.S. I ever saw was on YouTube, I was just told I was going to be writing about B.A.S.S. and frankly, I had no idea what it was, so my son went into the dining room/office and pulled up a clip of B.A.S.S. on YouTube … and there was Ike rolling around on his boat screaming.

I looked at it and first thought, “Oh My God, what kind of a fish is this bass thing. It's biting that poor man's hand off, he's screaming in pain.”

And when I said that out loud, my son just looked up at me and said, “Ah, not quite. He's just celebrating catching the fish.”

Oh … okay … so it's the spike in the End Zone and the following Touchdown dance he's doing. And then the video suddenly segue into a montage of broken windshields and broken rods and this is exactly what I thought when I saw that, "Oh … stuffs messing up his story."

And, "It has got to go."

"db, when you see that, it's like … it's like a purge. It's how I purge myself. And once I do that, it's done, and I move on," Iaconelli told me during a break at a recent Bass University he was running in Worcester, Mass.

Think of it as a catharsis.

 

Frankly, I don't think it has anything to do with ANGER at all … I think for me, for Ike, it is nothing more than a Reboot of the system.

It's when we click the restart button.

"I know on the face value of it, what people see, on face value there is a negative reaction to it. I get that db, but if you took that away from me … took away what looks bad, but for me is good … then I wouldn't even be here …"

Neither would I … be here … or writing anywhere if not for typewriter spears, and mouse missiles.

If you want dry, just the facts, formalistic writing stuff don't look my way, I would throw ME out the window if I had to do that, I couldn't do that, but if you want emotion, explosions on the page, a catch your breath read, then you know what … freakin' duck!

Because stuff is going to be flying, and I would have it no other way.

Neither would Ike … and God Bless him for that.

"Back before I was a professional angler, it was the emotion and the passion and the explosions that helped me get to where I'm at. It takes me to another level …"

Ike's head is cocked while he is saying this, the skin of his face is getting all tight. He leans slightly forward. We are going to another level right here in the empty meeting room of the Hyatt.

And that is perfect. It is not anger; it is flat out pure emotion. And trust me; you don't want to be following a sport played without emotion – sport is emotion.  You've got enough dry-arse stuff happening in that cubicle of work, of the life you occupy. Wouldn't you give your left “you-know-what” for some damn emotion in your life?

Folks, life is flopping on the deck screaming. Life is a broken rod or windshield, the creative process be it writing, catching a fish, or winning at whatever it is you do, is flopping and screaming. You sign that big deal, shake hands and then get up and shout, fist pump and dance around the boardroom.

Live, Love, Have Zest.

Toss stuff.

But let me tell you something, if you think all there is to Ike is the flopping, breaking and screaming … you're wrong. In fact, for the most part, he is not that at all.

Meet the Mike, behind the Ike. 

 

"…when things go wrong I seem to be bad…"
but I'm just a soul whose intentions are good…"

Had he been near a window, and had I been stronger … out he would have gone.

I was sitting on a guardrail with his wife Becky, and we were waiting for Mike to stop signing autographs and taking photos with fans.

We had been sitting there one hour and fifteen minutes after the end of the Bassmaster Elite weigh-in…and he was still signing and talking with all those crowded around him.

"You get used to it," Becky said. "He does this all the time. I've waited sometimes more than 2 hours after the weigh-in."

 

In two decades of covering the famous, and those who think they are famous athletes, no one…NO ONE is better with the fans than Michael Iaconelli.

I never call him Ike, to me, he is and will always be … Mike. I have seen his public displays, both the flopping and shouting, and behind the scenes, the hugging and smiles.

A saw him, was with him as he took a young child, a young child with a bad disease, saw Ike become Mike right in front of me as he met the child, and then took the child with him into the media room and showed him how things worked behind the scenes.

I bet, the young child will never forget that time spent with Mike.  I bet that, because the boy told me that, as did his Aunt and Uncle who stood there with tears in their eyes.

Last Saturday, at The Bass University in Worcester, Mass., it was my turn for watery eyes.  It was at the end of a long day. Mike flew in that morning and gave two or three seminars … plus went downstairs to the fishing show and did things for his sponsors. He was on the move from beginning to end.

As Mike and I were sitting in the now empty seminar room, a military veteran on a cane came up to Mike and started talking to him. Stuff like that happens a lot, and Mike, being Mike, took the time to have a conversation with the soldier.

And then, to me, a moment happened that should overshadow any film you have playing in your head showing you what you think the real Ike is like.

The soldier told Mike about a Marine Corporal who was a huge fan of Mike's.

"But the guy is in a bad way. He's in the Wounded Warrior Regiment at Quantico and is having a real tough time with PTSD (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder)."

To which Mike replied, "Do you have his phone number?"

"I do."

"Call him."

At which point the soldier took out his cell phone and dialed the number and handed the phone to Mike.

"Hello is this _____? Hi, how are you? This is Mike Iaconelli calling … How are you doing?"

And for the next several minutes, in a empty seminar room in Worcester, Mass., Mike Iaconelli talked fishing … talked about the Bassmaster Classic with a wounded warrior he had never met, did not know, but who he instantly bonded with before my eyes.

"…but I'm just a soul whose intentions are good…" 

Iked Up … Getting Iked … the flopping, the yelling, the breaking of things, is it theater of the absurd, is it an act of frustration.

When I asked him that he told me: "db it is who I am, who I've been all my life … emotional … excitable … but you know what, it takes me to another level, it … helps … me."

And when he said that, I knew it to be true. Because for every typewriter out the window. For every printer in the trash. For every computer mouse in a lake. What came next was magic.

What came next made me better.

What comes next for Mike makes him better.

To think otherwise, would be akin to placing a teapot on a hot burner and being surprised when it starts to whistle.

The typewriter in Barb's tomato garden.

The broken rod in Mike's hand.

All it is, is how we let off …

… steam.

 

"…Oh Lord, please don't let me be misunderstood."

Don't Let Me Be Misunderstood

The Animals

 

db

Raised ... by a Mermaid

 

 

"…Somewhere beyond the sea…"
 

Dateline:  My Sea

I am the grandson of a mermaid.

Because I am the grandson of a mermaid, I have my own sea.  All to me, this sea.

It is to this place that I go home.  My sea.

Only I know where my sea is, and today I will tell you where this sea of me is at.

My sea, is upstairs in my attic.

My sea, is in an old Mayflower moving box.

A beat up brown and green box, duct taped sides, water marks on the bottom.

The name of my sea is marked on the side of the box.

The name of my sea is….Gram.

My Gramma.

Theresa "Tess" Robbins.

My mermaid.

 

"…she's there watching for me…"

 

Like Sir Paul, with Mary, in times of trouble, Tess comes to me.  Today, for some unknown reason, troubled as I was, I climbed upstairs and sat on the ceiling floor boards and went back to my sea.

Tess, was born on June 22, 1897, in Canada.  I am in my veins part Canadian … and mermaid.

She left me on August 13th, 1986, left me physically, has never left me emotionally.

On my block where I was born and lived until I was about 10 or so, Montrose Avenue, I told all my friends that my Gramma was a mermaid.  The result being that some of my friends were no longer allowed to play with me … my first slap of discrimination … being that I was the only Grandson of a Mermaid. 

On my block at least.

The proof I had of my Mermaid heritage is that for years my Gramma would take me down to the foot of Niagara Street, hold me up so I could see over the rock wall, and she would point to the river, the Niagara River and whisper on a breeze of lilac into my ear: "Donnie, that's where I'm from – right there."

Right there, being the Niagara River.

Where Mermaids lived.  You know, under the Peace Bridge over there.

So today, dealing with troubled waters, I went up to sit on the side of my sea, and wait for my Mermaid.

But instead, came my Grandfather, also from Canada, an alleged First Nation Canadian, meaning of being a Seneca Nation Descendant, who was born in 1885, 1886 or 1887.  Depended on when you asked.

And as I was sitting there looking through his stuff, including my very first tackle box, a beat up green thing that he gave me. I came across the crumbling bill for his funeral expense.

The bill came to $67.50 and Gram put down $10.

And at the bottom of the bill I saw the date that Grampa died.

It was in 1957.

January 27th, 1957.

Fifty-five years ago.

Today.

"…if I could fly like birds on high…"

 

Gramps – Clayton Robbins – was the greatest angler on the planet.  I'm sure it helped being married to a Mermaid and all, but I can tell you this right now with my hand on a bible – my Grampa could out fish KVD in a heartbeat.

In less than a heartbeat.

And Grampa taught me everything I know about how to fish which, since he is gone now, makes me the greatest angler on the planet who could out fish KVD in less than a heartbeat as well.

That is as long as both KVD and I could fish with the same exact bait that Grampa used, and taught me to use.

That bait being, semi alive and smelly.

That bait being the butt end of the Cuban cigar that Grampa had just finished smoking and chewing.

My Grandfather – Clayton Robbins – was the best butt end of a cigar for bait angler that there ever was.

We would sit on the breaker wall, he would finish the cigar that was constantly in his mouth, knock the embers off on a rock next to him, carefully thread the hook through the cigar leaves, and drop shot it into the water right in front of us.

And within moments there was always a fish, that I would never touch, on the rocks below my Keds.

Sometimes there would be a fish there before Grampa got his next cigar lit, or had taken another sip of the bottle of his "medicine."

It was here, on the breaker wall of the Niagara River where I asked my Grampa this question, "Grampa is this the spot where you hooked Gram, was she the first Mermaid you ever caught."

"Are cigars good Mermaid baits?"

 

"…then straight to her arms…"

Once Grampa stopped coughing, a cough relieved by several chugs of his "medicine," he asked me why I thought "Tess" was a mermaid.  I told him she took me here often, held me up and pointed at the water and whispered in my ear, "that's where I come from Donnie, right there."

At which Grampa turned slight to his right, away from me and looked over his shoulder and then turned back and stared at me for a few seconds.

Grampa then put down his pole, picked me up, just like Gram did, and pointed just like Gram did, and just as I did when Gram did it, I started looking for Mermaids, except Grampa said this into my ear.

"Donnie, you see that gas station over there (I did so I shook my head yes). Donnie that's CANADA. That's where Tess and I are from – CANADA – not the Niagara River."

And then, "Your Grandmother is not a Mermaid, she is Canadian."

Fifty-seven years to the day that he died – Clayton – my Grandfather once again held me in his arms and whispered the truth into my ear.

One child's Mermaid, is another man's Canadian.

Which is exactly what I needed to hear. Thanks Grampa for coming back. 

Today.

With the faint smell of the secret Niagara River Havana bait hovering near the box of my sea, I put all the documents back and went back downstairs.

And took Barb's dog Riley for a walk in the rain.

And during the walk with the cold rain and saltwater streaming down my face, at Riley's favorite fire hydrant I told Riley, "You know dude, my Grandmother was a Mermaid …"

At which the dog looked up at me, mid sniff of the hydrant, where I leaned a little closer and said to him

" … but Grampa? No. He … he was a Canadian."

"…I'd go sailin'."

 

Beyond The Sea

Bobby Darin

 

db

That Ole Dog is Me

"How can that dog be barkin' in the backyard…"

Dateline: 1/2/2012….205.1 LBS

Take this as my suicide note.

Bye-bye cats … I'm about to go.

I am:

Obese.

Round.

Fat.

I am:

High Cholesterol.

High Blood Pressure.

Prostate Cancer.

And I did all of this to me.

Take this as my suicide note.

I'm killing me.

This ole dog won't hunt much more.

Take this as my suicide note …

If I don't change.

 

"… we ran over him years ago …"

 

So on this first full day of 2012, the 60th year of my life, I am going to take the extraordinarily hard step of trying to avoid killing myself.

Someone else may kill me, but in print and in whispers, I promise this to my family, both the family I live with, and The Family Of Us, that to the best of my ability, I will not continue to kill me.

And I want you to take the same promise, not that you won't kill me, which I'm hoping you don't, but that you promise to quit killing your-ownself.

I have Old white Guy Disease … and truth be known, you probably do too. Here's how I can make that diagnosis fairly easy: go to Google and type exactly this in "Don Barone," (use the quote marks around my name to limit all the hits that Google thinks is me but ain't). Now when all that me stuff comes up go up to the top of the page and hit IMAGES. Wait 0.72 seconds and then go to looking at me.

Click on any image. If you look anything like ugly ole me –  fat, round, wider than taller, OBESE – then dudes, you've got Old White Guy Disease.

And if you are some other shade of human, do it too.

You don't have to be beige to be killin' yerself.

You don't have to be me to be writing your own suicide note.

 

"How can that dog be

runnin' by the backfence…"

 

To The Family, Of Us, listen up. We need every moment this universe will give us on this planet Earth.

And we don't need it for us; we need it for them, for those we love.

We especially need it for those who will follow us.

Follow you outside.

Follow me about writing about you.

Don't matter none why it is you go outside and bring those you love, and others, with you. What matters is that you go outside.

Out there, right outside your window, is where health is.

It is so close to all of us, we can touch it, just open the front or back door, and step outside.

I'm going to be doing this new health thing myself. I won't be listening to anyone but me since I'm not good at taking orders. Those giving the orders don't know me none so they can't be specific.

Me to me, I can get real specific. I have pretty much figured out that experts are only experts about their ownself, and not my ownself, experts in general only are experts about how they do what they do, and not so much how others do what others do.

Read up about this stuff all you want, but listen. Listen to that voice inside of you, the one you’ve been ignoring all these years. I freakin' hear it so I know you must too. The voice is the voice of the universe telling you how to stick around.

My whole approach to health rests on one simple idea.

Doors.

I'm going to open any door I can to get outside, be it the front or back door, the garage door, or the door of my 4Runner.

And I'm going to close and lock the kitchen door where the donuts and cookies live.

Take nothing I say as anything remotely medical or scientific, don't do a damn thing without talking to your doctor, attorney, or life insurance dude.

If I could write you a prescription, this is what it would be and the one I gave myself.

Take an ugly picture.

Of yer-ownself.

The grosser the better.

Freak yourself out.

Disgust yourself.

Then tape it to a place you will be everyday.  A place where the truth shows, a place that hides no lies, a place where the you, you see, is the you, you get.

The bathroom.

The John.

Stick it up on the mirror, stage left.

Stage left, the ugly you.

Stage right, the you as you get to be the you, you want/need to be.

Look at it.

Get pissed off.

Do something about it.

Fix it.

Fix You.

 

"…we ran over him years ago…"

 

Now if you are like me, all this Rah-Rah stuff may last just until the Krispy Kreme neon donut light goes on, so I've got a plan for me to stick with this.

MONEY.

Beginning this first day of 2012 (first full day of being awake and not sleeping off that there last day of 2011) I declare this:

At 6:45 a.m. when I stepped all “nekid” on the fancy see-through glass Weight Watchers scale and after a couple attempts of trying to peer over my ever-expanding belly I saw exactly this:

205.1

As in pounds.

Pounds of me.


I saw the worried look on my wife's face when I announced that I have now added 80 pounds to what was once our 245 pound marriage.

Barb has added some to the marriage as well – 2 pounds.

I still have her as she was and has always been, she now has 1.75 times me.

I don't think I will ever get back to the weight I was when I got married – 120 pounds – but what I will do is to get off the chart that lists my body mass, me, as obese!

My body mass is massive for someone my height. If I could somehow shoot up to 6 feet, 4 inches, where the longitude and latitude of me would match my weight, I wouldn't be needing to dump all the cookies in the garbage.

But I do.

So as to keep on track of trying to throw less of a shadow behind me, I'm going to do it for the money.

I am going to donate a pound of flesh to Tackle The Storm Foundation, and since I sort of run that foundation and don't want to be cutting off skin and fatty stuff and trying to deposit that in the bank, I'm going to make it easy. I'm going to donate $8.50 of cold hard cash for every POUND of me that I lose.

I picked that amount for a special reason. For $8.50, Tackle the Storm Foundation can place a rod and reel into the hands of one child.

Every pound I lose will turn into the magic wand of childhood, a fishing pole, for some child somewhere.

My goal: 50 magic wands to 50 kids.

Every Sunday morning I will weigh myself and post the weight on www.tacklethestormfoundation.org. If you would like to help me, you can hit the donate button and donate what you can per pound of db losing db.

You can follow my progress on three websites that friends of mine own and run, friends who let me write on their pages, friends who I know care for me … and care about you as well.

Look for "How To Survive As An Old White Guy (or whatever shade of human you might be)" on:

www.wired2fish.com

www.bassresource.com

www.insideprobass.com

These sites will run the stories, not because it is a story of me, but because it is a story about, The Family, Of Us.

Us, those who love the outside, and me who writes about those who love the outside.

About the why we are out there.

 

And I know you know why you are out there.

The why is them.  Those folks.

To honor the memory of those who took you out there in the first place.

To make memories for those who you now take out there.

And to do that, you need to be able to go outside.

With Them.

And not writing your own suicide note.

To Them.

Make the memory.

Instead of being one.

 

"…ghost of a dog
barkin' in the backyard."

Ghost Of A Dog

Edie Brickell & New Bohemians

 

db

The Quest: The Gift, of Giving

 

"He stands like a statue,
becomes part of the machine …" 

 

Dateline:  Christmas 2011

For Christmas, all I want, is to be of Ted Williams.

I want to see the stitches, when the universe throws the pitch.

For Christmas, all I want, is to be of Mozart.

I don't want to hear the music, I want to see the notes in the air.

For Christmas, all I want, is to be of Van Gogh.

I want all of life, in a palette in my hand.

I don't want to be them, Ted, Mozart, Van Gogh … I want to be what it is that makes them.

Of Them.

I want … their gift – a gift so precious it can't be wrapped, so rare it can't even be given.

Dear Santa:  I have been almost good all year, did some of what most people asked me to do, showered even when only slightly stinky, didn't steal anything that my family would miss, said please and thank you when I really didn't care, didn't kick no cats.

So Santa could you bring me, db, who used to be that kid Donnie Barone who you brought all the coal … Dear Santa I'm only asking you for one thing. I've “growed” up; just one thing I want. I hope you have it in that bag of yours. I'll leave you cookies and several Margaritas if you say you will bring it to me … please Santa … all I want this Christmas … and every Christmas I have left … please bring me just this …

ZEST.

Go ahead, try and wrap that.

Zest.

Ted Williams once told someone I know, when he hit the ball, he could smell the smoke of the ball hitting the bat.

Please Santa, bring me … me.

Bring me, what it is that I'm here to do, bring me my place under the tree that is the universe around me.

Please Santa, bring me, the smoke of the baseball. 

All I want … is to fit.

Show me, where the universe wants me.

My place.

Where have you hid my Zest.

I believe, all of us, have a place, here.  You know that is true, I haven't had Tequila in days, you know that no matter what it is you do, that every once in awhile, for a fleeting moment … everything lines up right.

Perfect.

It's a gift from the universe that says, "You know what dude, watch this."

And suddenly … you fit.

You feel like you are finally moving through space as you should be, and you can see yourself doing it. It's like the universe is actually YouTube, and there you are.

I believe that moment, from where ever, or whomever it comes from, is the greatest gift we are ever given.

It is a glimpse into your soul.

"… even on my favorite table
he can beat my best ..."

There are those amongst us – Williams … Mozart … Van Gogh – for whom, it is more than just a glimpse; they have found where they fit.

It could be your mechanic who knows what is wrong with your car before you get out of it.

It could be that teacher who transcends teaching by connecting with you and who stays with you all your life.

And it could be a parent, whose place on this planet was to love and nurture you, and who became your soul.

And it could be, a skinny guy in a fishing tournament jersey.

Someone, named KVD.


"I didn't buy KVD's jersey because he is a hero to me, I bought it because he is an INSPIRATION to me."

Huge difference.

It's not wanting to be the person in the jersey, it's about wanting to know how he does what it is he does, how it is that KVD has managed to fit in where he should be, on this planet.

"I want to learn from them," said Bill Leong, a 49-year-old computer technology guy who lives in Massachusetts and who bought the KVD jersey in an auction to raise money for Tackle The Storm Foundation.

Bill, bought several signed Bassmaster Elite jerseys over the past couple of months, I never asked him why. I was curious, but once his bids cleared Ebay and Paypal, frankly I moved on to putting up the next jersey for auction.

I moved on, until I got this email:

I know what these jerseys mean to the Tackle the Storm Foundation, but I wanted to let you know what these jerseys mean to me.

I am a first generation American. Both of my parents immigrated to America from China when they were young. They had no influences or anyone to look up to and made their way through society the best they could. The U.S. was a different place back then. Neither of them went to college when they were young as they had to work.

My mom was a housewife, and my dad went into the military after he became a U.S. citizen. When he came out of the military, he leveraged the skills he had learned and went to work for IBM as an engineer and retired after more than 30 years at this one company.

They raised four kids and lived in suburbia. During summer vacations, my dad often dropped me off at a pond close to his work so I could go fishing during the work week. He would stop by at lunch, fish and eat lunch with me. He would fish with me during the weekends. During those times, he shared his values with me - the American dream, hard day's work for a hard day's pay, go to college, etc.

 

My dad is my hero and will always be my hero and at the top of the list.

I realize that today's world is different, and the work environment is more complex. With the media and technology, you can truly have heroes above and beyond family and follow everything they do.  Through the years I have tried to draw inspiration from others that I admire.

Similarly, when I look at jerseys of athletes I admire, I think about what makes them who they are and at the top of their games. With KVD, it is the preparation, planning and confidence. With Ike, it is never give up, etc.  All of the jerseys I have purchased from you have different meanings to me.

Hopefully you can see that this is more than just hero worship and is based on what parallels I can make in my life. Anyway, just thought I would pass that along to you so you understand the why versus how.

To me, it is the most eloquent explanation I have ever read of why someone would buy sports, or any, memorabilia.

Inspiration.

It's my books on my library shelf.

It's my Aunt Erma.

Aunt Erma was the first adult in my life who didn't call me stupid.  Aunt Erma bought me the first book I ever owned that had more words than pictures.

Tom Swift and His Jetmarine

To this day, I still have the book.  It is my … KVD Jersey.

"…I must have played them all.
but I ain't seen nothing like him… 

Bill met KVD a while back, and at the meeting Bill gave KVD a gift:

I gave KVD a rare autographed photo from the original negative of Ted Williams many years ago and tried to explain how similar he was to Joe DiMaggio and Ted Williams and how he has helped me to be who I am - similar to how my dad and Ted had helped in the past.  I often wonder if he understood what I meant by giving it to him and the importance as I am sure he, like other athletes, receives a ton of things from fans and I only had a few minutes to speak to him.

Guess what Bill … KVD gets it.

"I remember meeting and talking with him, and yeah I get lots of things,” VanDam said. “That photograph, however, was so special to me, I don't even have it out where anything can happen to it. He gave it to me rolled up in a tube, and that's exactly how it is today – tucked safe away. That will be one thing I will always keep.”

I told Kevin about how Bill once attended a lecture he gave, not so much to learn about how to fish, but about Kevin's constant desire to excel.

Bill told me KVD reminds him of the people profiled in the Sundance Channel's TV Series, Iconoclasts. Just like those people, KVD is a creative visionary who transcends the sport.

I ran that by KVD and there was pretty much just silence from the other end of the cell phone.

I am sort of new in talking to KVD, I've been leaving him alone, the dude gets enough press, doesn't need me following him around. We say "hey" back and forth, and then I go hang around with my good friend Skeet.

I would watch him, and he would look at me, as an eagle does a mouse.  I won't say who is the eagle, and who is the mouse, but to know the eagle, you must know the mouse.

So for about 5 years now I just sort of stood back and watched.  Watched this KVD, not for how he fishes, don't really care, but why he fishes.  If you talk to KVD, and you only talk of the "how," you have pretty much missed the whole point.

The whole dude.

So as either, the mouse, or the eagle, I finally had a conversation with KVD, and I began it simply like this, "You can't not do what you do, can you?"

I knew the answer before I asked it.

"Never thought of it that way before, but I can tell you this, what I do, I do because it is ingrained in me."

I know.

"The catch, or the find?" I said.

"Oh db, it’s definitely the find,” VanDam said. “There is nothing better than going out on a lake, a big lake and finding the fish. For me, that's the biggest thrill. And then it is the challenge of the competition."

I couldn't see him on the other end of the phone, but I know as he spoke, his face got all tight, his pulse sped up as if he was walking and talking on the phone to me, he stopped, and I could hear, feel, his posture blow up all straight like."

The eagle, and the mouse.

"…how do you think he does it
I don't know!
What makes him so good…" 

 

There is something I call The Champion Essence, it is the subtle difference between winners and champions.

It is the difference between hitting the home run and smelling the smoke of the ball and the bat.

I believe winning happens when everything lines up, when you suddenly fit in your place in the universe.

 

I believe champions can make that fit happen.  Make everything line up.

 

It is because they embody the soul of what it is they do.

KVD is the soul of competitiveness wrapped up in skin and bones.

His greatness comes because he is exactly where he should be, he has found how he fits in the universe, and honestly, I think you could take the fish part out of it.

This dude gets all whipped up when competition is on the line, any kind of competition.

I think, and this may be blasphemy in the business, I think you can out fish him, actually I'm pretty sure you can out fish him, but I don't think you can out compete him.

And to me, that's a Champion. That's Kirk Gibson's 1988 Home Run and hobbled trot around the bases.

To me that’s Brett Favre's 399-yard, four-touchdown game the day after his best friend, his father died.

That is, The Miracle on Ice.

By looking at those who have it, we know it is possible.

Zest happens.

It is around us, everyday, everywhere.

Zest, is our essence.

KVD has zest for what he does, and it is that zest that makes him a champion.

Dear Santa, leave the damn flat screens in the sled. Bring us Zest!

With Zest, you will fit.

Zest in work.

Zest in life.

Zest in love.

Because when you have Zest, you give Zest.

Ted Williams, Mozart, Van Gogh, and yes, KVD…their zest for what they do makes everyone around them better.

Makes everyone around them, fit in.

And that, is, the gift, of giving.

 

"…plays by intuition…"

Pinball Wizard

The Who

Merry Christmas,

 

db

The Quest | Iron Skillets & Flat Scrambled Eggs

"Feel the quiet in the thunder…"

Dateline:  Thankful Things

What is thanks?

Thanks.

What exactly does "I Give Thanks" mean?

Is thanks, relief – relief that things are good, relief that things aren't worse?

Relief Day, not the most marketable of holidays.  The Hallmark Relief Day card would pretty much only have to say, "Whew…made it."

Families all over America would cook the Relief Turkey, set the Relief Table, Relief Day travel would set new records.

Whew.

What is ... thanks?

Is thanks, them, those not you, those over there, them without, you with?

Them Day…a celebration of Them, they who don't have what you've got.  Every Hallmark Them Day card would begin with, "At least we…"

Whew.

What is, thanks?

Is thanks, luck, lucky are those who can give thanks?

Luck Day…a celebration of gee whiz, don't know how, but yippee.

I lost, thanks.  Lost thankful.  Thank you, was meaningless, a common courtesy like asking "How Are You," while not really caring.

58 years of Relief Day.

58 years of Them Day.

58 years of Luck Day.

Then came this year, the 59th year of my life. It may be the best year of my life; it may be the worst year of my life.

Whether the best, or the worst, doesn't matter, what matters, is simply this, it will be my first, Thanksgiving.

Talk about come late to the party.

I had to be the object of Relief Day, to get it.  The same with Them Day, the same with Luck Day.

It took, "At Least I'm Not db Day," for me to finally know the meaning of, thanks.

Thanks, means love.

To say thanks, is to honor how fragile life is, how special everything around us is, how special we are or we can become.

I believe the act of being thankful is so special that the universe, gave us, and only us, a special place where thanks lives within us.

And we call that place, our soul.

"…sense of wonder

sing your praises…"

Sunrise, is how the universe says thanks.

You can not stand on a dock at First Safe Light and watch the morning sun come out of the lake, or up from behind a hill, or burst from the clouds, and not be thankful.

Be thankful for another chance, for another shot at it.

Give thanks the sunrise comes.

Give thanks the universe is an optimist.

No sunrise would come if out there somewhere, something, didn't believe in us, even when we ourselves might not believe in us.

People, if the sun is on your face, quit bitchin'!

On this, my first Thanksgiving, it is this opportunity that I will say thanks.

I will say thanks for the soil I stand on.

I will say thanks for the air I breathe.

I will say thanks, for freedom.

The freedom to be thankful.

Free, to be, free.  To stand there and watch the sunset and yet know that, the sunrise comes, and with the sunrise comes, opportunity.

"…sing the changes…"

In the 59th year of my life, I became a child.

Childhood came late for me.

I'm thankful, it came at all.  I was born grown up.  Born as I was, in a storm.  Storm of health, a family in a storm.

Sunrise, not a given.

Born, old.

Lived, old.

My childhood was a monopoly game, played alone.  You age quick when you grow up trying to beat yourself.

And then suddenly, I was old.

Hair fell off my head, but suddenly grew out of my nose.  I got shorter and wider.  I became a symphony of sounds, creaks, gurgles, pops.

Hips taken out, metal put in.

A CVS Pharmacist who knows my name, a pill box with the days of the week marked.

Cancer.

This year I wrote of a young man named Kevin, I wrote of his life, asked questions of his life, did so knowing that at some point soon I would write of his death from cancer as well.

Did.

This year one of my best friends on the Bassmaster Elite Tour. Kelly Jordon, came up to me and told me he had cancer, skin cancer. Told me he had cancer only a couple of months after he told me he was about to become a dad for the first time.

Cried.

I wrote of  a cop busted up on the job, protecting and serving, busted up for life yet fired…county policy you know.

I wrote of when hell scars the earth, saw the path hell took in Cullman, Ala., met a young boy, a young family who's life was strewn through the trees.

I wrote of  floods, worried over Oklahoma fires, listened to my doctor tell me I had cancer.

A year of challenges, health wise, financial wise, mentally wise.

And yet, I'm thankful.

More thankful than ever.

Thankful for Iron Skillets & Flat Scrambled Eggs.

"…everybody has a sense of…"

I barely knew them, 37 years ago.

Them being Mike and Marlene, my new brother and sister in law.  Liked Marlene, thought Michael, was, you know, different.

I barely knew Barb back then.  Barb my wife.  We were newly everything, new to each other, new to those around us, new to couplehood.

As a present, Mike & Mar gave us an Iron Skillet.  It was the first cooking thing I was ever given in my life.  Pretty much just handed it off to Barb, said thanks, didn't mean it much.

I gave them a book, I thought they won the present contest.

I was wrong.

As a child I know that now.  Missed it as an adult.

That skillet they gave us, we still use it to this day.  37 years later, I even cook on it.

Turns out, it wasn't a gift of some kind of cooking thing, it was a showing of faith, trust that Barb and I would love each other for a long, long time.

To me the cast iron on the stove is more a symbol of love, then the diamond on Barb's finger.

I'm a flat scrambled egg kind of guy, like the diner version done on the grill, all flat like and not puffy, so I went shopping to buy my own cooking thing to make my own flat scrambled eggs.

I bought a cast iron skillet.

A flat one.

Come my first Thanksgiving as a child, I will give thanks for an iron skillet and flat eggs.

Because as an adult, I only saw the sunset.

Because as a child, I now also see the sunrise.  See the faith in the iron, the trust that there are still many new days to come.

What is, thanks.

Thanks.

To be thankful, is to be human.

To be human, is to give thanks back, to the universe.

Thanks, for the trust.

Thanks, for the love.

Thanks, for the sunrise.

Thanks for iron skillets, and flat scrambled eggs.

And for childhood, whenever it may come.

"…childlike wonder."

Sing The Changes

Paul McCartney & Youth

The Firemen

Thank You,

db

THE EXAM

"Now, most days…"

Dateline:  Where The Sun Don't Shine


I lie, on new patient forms.

I lie, on most forms.

Except for the IRS 1040 form of which I tell the absolute truth on it all the time.

My lies begin with me.

I always check, Native American.  Being that of course, I am.  I was born in Buffalo, NY, which makes me a native of Buffalo, NY which is in America.

Native American.  Me.

I do this, as a protest.  I do it, because as of yet I've never seen a box that said simply … human.  Which I would check, honestly.

Why you need to know where I came from to fix my broken arm is beyond me.

I came from Mom and Dad, they were in America when I happened, I am as Native American as you can get.

Quit asking.

My lies begin with me.

Sometimes I draw in my box.

I always label that box…Beige.

I do that to be honest…I am not white, unless I'm really sick, and then I'm pretty much just, pale.

I'm not any of the other colors they want me to be.

So, in forms all over America…I'm a Beige Native American.  Proud of it.
I figure I'm going to keep messing with those forms until people stop asking.

Or have a box, called, Human.

My lies begin with me.

I take the "write in" approach to forms.

I have written in, "Saturday night," for the sex box.  I've also written in "Yes."  Even, "Please."

For my prostate exam, I checked female.

I never check any of the boxes asking me what I'm there for.  If it is a new doc, and I'm not sure about him yet, we'll see how good he is, no hints from me.

If he can tell me what I'm there for, he becomes my new doc.

If he can't, I go somewhere else and fill out more forms.

I believe, New Patient forms, are my first line of defense.

"…I spend like a child…"

On my new patient form in the section that wondered why I was sitting in the waiting room and why I was here today I wrote this: "Prostrate."

I wrote that because I'm just a working stiff writer, not a medical doctor.  I have no idea why I'm here other than some PSA numbers said I better get to the Urologist quick.

Now I'm sure some medical coder somewhere will see that and make some crack about, "the moron can't spell," and as you know, the medical coder would be right, except that even if I can't spell the word, I know exactly what the word means.

Form Question: "Why are you seeing the doctor today."

Form answer by me: "Prostrate."

Because I know for a fact that in a few minutes I'm going to be laying face down with my boxers around my ankles.  Pretty much the exact definition for the word, Prostrate…except maybe the boxers part.

"…who's afraid of ghosts in my mind…"

"Okay Mr. Barone, we'll see you at 10:15 am on Monday, just make sure you prep 2 hours before hand."

PREP!

I hang up the phone and turn to Barb and say exactly this, "I'm not going."

Barb says nothing, which means exactly this, "Why…and yes you are."

"I have to PREP!

I'm not going!"

I know this word PREP! It's medical code for PREPARE to sacrifice, or worse, PREPARE to be humiliated.

PREP! It’s why I don't go to those who want me PREPARED in the first place.

If I can't just show up and you surprise the hell out of me, I want no part of it because I'm telling you, PREP means coming attractions, and if the preview sucks … the show is going to be worse.

You know I'm right on this.

PREP! is the leading cause of bad things happening.

So here is how I'm supposed to PREPARE…Fleet Enema.

"Fleet" being the key word there.

Here's the problem…I live in a small town.

A VERY small town.

A town you might say that is "Fleet" of gossip.

So, there is no way I'm going down the street to the local CVS, picking up a box of Enema, Fleet or Not, and then going up to the cash register and handing it to our ex-babysitter to ring me out.

Ain't going to happen.

So I do what any small town person with PREP issues does, AMAZON.com it.
Search … PREP … ENEMA … UNMARKED BOX.

Bingo.  Lots of small towns in America.  So I hit the instant order button, two days later it is sitting on my front porch for all my neighbors to see how much of an educated reader I am.

I pick it up, tell Riley the dog in my outside voice how much I have been looking to read this, and bring it inside.

Unwrap it, and find myself staring at 12 BOXES, two to a box, of Fleet Enema – 24 Fleets in all.

Seems I didn't see the "Wholesale Lot" part of the description.

Email me if your PREP calls for 23 of these things.

"…I know, there aint nothing out there…"

I'm in the "examining" room, never good for the examinee.  Here's my "examining" room PREP:  "Take your pants off."

I expected this being that I figured I had something like tonsillitis of the bottom area and that at some point I was going to have open wide and say, "ahhhhhhh."

I didn't expect any woman but my wife to ever say that to me though.

So this is what I say, "Okay."

And then I stand there.

As does she.

So I stand there.

As does she.

So I stand there, and she says to me, "Is there a problem," and I nod my head yes, and she says, "What's the problem," and I say…."You."

Ma'am I don't really care if you are a career Urology nurse/doctor's assistant and that to you this is "nothing," but to me it is really "SOMETHING," and these pants ain't coming off with you standing there looking at me.

And so you know … she isn't holding that apron thing that your butt hangs out of, she isn't holding a towel, she isn't holding a blanket.

She's holding a pen.

And the room isn't that cold.

So I say this, "Not to be rude, but you are a stranger, a WOMAN stranger, I know this is old hat to you, but not to me, so you understand, I'll take my pants off if you take your top off."

At which point she left the room, and I took my pants off.

Prostate comes from the Greek word, Prostates, which to the ancient Greeks meant "standing in front of."

A couple thousand years ago I'm assuming if you were meeting someone at the local baths you would tell them, "Hey when the sundial hits IX I'll be prostates the towel rack.

We have “medicalized” it to mean, standing in front of the bladder.  A guy’s bladder.

So as I'm Prostates with my doctor he explains to me what a biopsy is … an ultrasound and ten needles.  

"I'll numb it first, and then all you will feel is some pressure and a snap.  Takes about 10 minutes."

I just nod my head yes, not mentioning that, no offense new doc dude, but before I came here I downed 4 Margaritas and a handful of ibuprofen.

No offense, but that's how I PREP.  Just, in case.  You know, the miracle of modern margaritas.

But here's what you need to know, it's no big deal.

It's uncomfortable, but I can't say it was painful.

Death, is painful.

A needle up your butt for a couple of minutes, is not.

An ultrasound wand up your butt for a couple of minutes, is not.

I'm not going to volunteer to have it done again anytime soon, but that 10 minutes … SAVED MY FREAKING LIFE.

About 2 minutes after I had the procedure done, the government comes out with some sort of announcement saying that maybe having your PSA tested is not needed.

The government is wrong.

Don't buy the cost of the test stuff.  My PSA test cost $71…about four pizzas with everything in my neighborhood.

I don't care what the government says, on most things, but especially on this, and here's why: we guys are for the most part, knuckleheads, and you know as much as I do, if one knucklehead hears what the government says and takes that to mean he doesn't need to be tested, or that the test doesn't work, he bags it and doesn't get tested. Then he dies from it. If that’s what they think, we need to overthrow the government.

I'll stop getting tested when my Congressmen and Senators stop getting tested.

I'll have no problem with my insurance not paying for it when my Congressmen and Senators government insurance stops paying for theirs.

Tit for Tat my rulers, tit for tat.

Get tested … in spite of the feds.
 
Get tested for your family.

I'm a wimp, and I survived the EXAM and you will too.

No test in my life has ever been as important.

No exam in my life has been as important.

Do it.

"…I'm still afraid to turn on the lights…"

Arms of a Woman

Amos Lee

db

The Quest : Plastic Glove-itis

"There's a darkness upon me that's flooded in light…"

Dateline:  The Penny Slots…


You want to cure colon cancer in men.

Develop a polyp satellite.

Get the feds to build a camera that can spot polyps from outer space, instead of, you know, inner space…and next week every guy on the planet will be standing outside, butt pointed to the equator for his annual checkup.

You want to catch prostate cancer early in men.

Don't let any large handed guys in urology school.

I am working stiff, regular dude – sometimes unshaven, sometimes smelly, many times not paying full attention to those talking around me, or to me. I sometimes forget where I am and scratch in places that should be forgotten in public. I enjoy airborne smells as much as any teenager. I can burp for 7 seconds and HAVE ACTUALLY TIMED IT.

I wear black shoes with brown socks.  Boxers not briefs, and truthfully nothing Michael Jordan ever says or does will have an influence on what kind of underwear I wear.

The only person who has an influence on what I wear is my wife and only because she buys most of it.
 
When it comes to clothes, I would go naked if I could, if it wasn't for the naked part of being naked. Trust me, you'd thank me for my timid reluctance about the naked part.

I see these skinny, gasping-for-air guys running all around jogging for exercise or working out, and yes, I work out everyday, and have done so since I was 16.

I call it – WORK.

I work 10 to 12 hour days, from first safe light, until the night lights go on.  If someone chases me, I'll run, until then, after work, I'm going to bed.

If my wife, my children, my friends were sick and the cure was to fly a 747 up my butt, you would get the clearance to land.

If on the other hand, any checkup of ME that involves someone in latex gloves holding a tube of Vaseline … the annual checkup will be about once every 10 years.

And if you are a woman and you know a regular arse working stiff man, and they are honest with you, not emotional that's a bit much to ask, but honest, they will tell you the exact same thing.

Which is why we men are morons when it comes to screening for Prostate Cancer.

A Prostate Satellite would change all that as well.

But until that device gets built, let me explain to guys like me, just what this is all about. 

This Prostate Cancer stuff.

"…in the fine print they tell me what's wrong and what's right…"

To me, waking upright is good health.  When I don't wake up, then there's a problem.  So far I have managed to wake up most mornings.

So, I'm healthy.

You need to listen to this if you have a loved one who like me, is a regular-arse working stiff guy, because I'm going to let the secrets out, on us, regular-arse working stiffs.

I don't give a crap about my health. I only care about my health when it affects what I can put on the table to feed my family.

I don't give a crap about all the little vials of antiseptic hand washing stuff around, don't give a crap about the right way to sneeze into my elbow because frankly my elbow is too messed up to bend that much anymore.

I don't give a crap what Dr. Oz says.

I don't give a crap what all the books on healthy living say.

I'm too busy trying to make a living regardless of how healthy I may be while doing it.  If I punch a time clock, I could have an alien growing inside me, but I'm still coming into work.

Being able to survive, living day to day is my long range goal.

I don't have time, to have time.

I've looked at our mortgage on Bank of America online, and you know what, under the FAQ section there is no answer for, I've got the flu do I still have to send the mortgage payment this month.

Yeah moron, you do.

The only health I care about is that of my family, I have told doctors exactly this: Just shoot up the knee/hip/ankle/elbow/shoulder and just keep me in the game, let me worry about "down the road."

Well, "down the road" came.

"…and it comes in black and it comes in white…"

I'm screwed.

To a point.

I have cancer, Prostate Cancer.

I may have cardiac stuff going on.

I have torn meniscus in both knees.

My right ankle doesn't bend much, my left ankle rolls all the time.

Both hips have been replaced.

When I get up in the morning I can barely move.

When it is cold and rainy I can barely move.

I am a card carrying regular-arse working stiff guy.  Damn proud of it too.

I have never been ahead, sometimes I'm so far behind I may actually be ahead for a moment right before I get lapped.

And you folks out there in the health care business, you need to know this so you know us, not just our insides.

You need to know, I don't have time to die.

In my life, there is no Co-Payment.

I'm it.  My "Co" is working her arse off too.

Yesterday...I left the planet.  For a few hours.  Zoned out away from reality.  Left my cell phone in the car, took out my iPod and earphones, and left the world behind.

Went to a casino.

Just sat in front of a slot machine, one with a bunch of lights and bells, and lost contact with the world 40-cents at a time.

Didn't care if I won, didn't care if I lost.

Reality was out there beyond the spinning wheels.  Sometimes you need the facade, sometimes you need the real thing.

Yesterday I needed the Triple Wild Cherry World.

I came home with the same amount of money I brought...so no Co-Pay was needed.

Please know, that I'm alright. I'm not in the fetal position somewhere. I'm actually starting to pack to hit the road to do some stories.

I feel fine ... which is the scary part of prostate cancer.

But if you are like me, a GUY, you need to get checked. And if you are unlike me, a woman, and you know a guy, make him get checked. Nag him to get checked. And that's what you will have to do, because to be frank, it's the finger up the ass that leads to this disease not being found early.

If all we had to do was pee in a cup, we guys would be all over this, but anytime there is the slightest possibility someone in an examining room will say, "Drop your drawers and bend over," we choose death.

We are all manly men and will protect all from the savages and commies of the world in a heart beat, but at the sound of our doc snapping on that plastic glove, we're toast ... milk toast.

Which is why I'm going to De-HIPPA myself.

In plain speak, I will talk about the unspoken.

I will tell you when it hurts and when it doesn't.

I will tell you the options and which one I choose and why.

I will help your wife nag you about this…in fact if she is tired of nagging you about your health, know this…I'm not…and I have a bunch of computer geek friends who will put together a Regular Arse Guy Nagging Program that will spam your arse right into the doctor’s office.

If you are going through this, are afraid to go through it, or just want to talk about it…email me at don.barone@gmail.com and I will go through it with you.

We will not make a dent in this disease if we keep it to ourselves, hide it from each other.

Trust me, I would prefer not to be the poster guy for Prostate Cancer, but if that's what it takes to save YOUR life, follow me through this.

Don't do it for me.

Don't do it for you.

Do it for them.

Those who love you.

As I was leaving the make believe casino world, before I left the penny slot machine I was at, I reached up and hit the Max Play button.

$2.40…and lost.

But it dawned on me that in the Max Play button of life, I believe I hit it…and won.

Won, because we caught this early.

Won, because I have family who love me.

Won, because of all the people out there sending kind words and prayers my way.

But if you don't get checked for Prostate Cancer, when you hit the Max Play button of your life….

…the odds will be against you.

"…and I'm frightened by those that don't see it."

Head Full Of Doubt/Road Full Of Promise

The Avett Brothers

Next Up, The Exam!

db

And With The Next Story Comes …

"Suddenly…"

Dateline: Today

My next story will begin simply.

Will begin with three words.

Or.

Will begin with just four words.

It can be no other way.

Simple.  Straightforward. To the point.

Honest.

It will begin like this:

I have cancer.

Or.

I don't have cancer.

In the next few days, one word will change my life. In all the words I have written, one word will make all the difference.

And that word is …

… Love.

"…I'm not half the man I used to be…"

It was in the rainy mist of the B.A.S.S. Northern Open last week on Oneida Lake where I learned I was focusing on the wrong word – cancer – and not the word I needed to be focused on – Love.

As I stood on the beach in the morning fog waiting for launch, I watched as a figure also started walking along the sand.

Watched as the figure walked past the docks.

Watched as the figure walked past the B.A.S.S. workers.

Watched as the figure walked up to me.

The figure was covered head to toe in rain gear, it was only when the figured pulled the rain hood back, that I knew it was a woman.

A stranger.

Middle aged maybe, hard to tell.

Makeup on maybe, hard to tell.

Tears on her cheeks, not so hard to tell.

And when she pulled he hood down, she looked up, and straight into my eyes, and this is exactly what she said, "Don Barone, I love you."

Then she pulled the hood back on and started to walk away.  When she did I reached out and gently touched the yellow rubber slicker, and the arm underneath.

"Excuse me, do I know you, who are you."

"Doesn't matter, but I came here to tell you I Love You because you saved my husbands life. He reads you, and he read about your health problems. When he went to his doc to get checked, they found four blocked arteries in his heart …"

I just stood there, not know what to say. I didn't know if I could say anything IF I had something to say.

"… you saved his life."

And with that she walked away back into the mist of Oneida Lake.

And I stood staring at her footsteps in the sand.

And then I walked over to my 4Runner and climbed inside, out of the mist.

And fell apart.

"…there's a shadow hanging over me…"

It is the thought of death, that has brought me life. I do not have a death wish, and I do not have a life wish.

I have a NOW wish.  Today.  This moment.  Now.

And so I write this not for me, not so much for you, not for the stranger who came to me in the mist.

But for the husband of the lady who stood in the cold wet sand and told me of her heart, while fearing for his.

We as stupid old guys need to know this, our health is not just ours, it's their health too.

Mainly THEIR health.  For that moment in the sand, I saw that it wasn't only you that had a blocked heart, the woman in the mist had some heart blockage too, from you.

When we don't take care of ourselves, we don't take care of our loved ones either.

I know my wife Barb lies awake nights worrying about me, at some point that will affect her health as well.

And I caused that.  Plain and simple.

My NOW wish for the husband of the lady of the mist is this, do not let her walk alone on the sand, take care of yourself, take care of her.

Walk together on the sand, look not at the footsteps of where you have been, but at the sand waiting for you to leave your mark.

I don't know, after tomorrow, what the next beginning sentence it is that I will write.  Be it one of three words, or one of four words.

But a sentence, and a story there shall come.

And it will come out of the mist.

And it will be about love.

And it will be about the beach in front of me.

Not the beach I've come from.

But the beach I'm going to.

Where this time my footprints in the sand …

… will not be there alone.

"… oh, yesterday came suddenly …"

It is not the footprints in the sand already left by Elite Angler, Nate Wellman that I care about, it is the footprints facing him, facing the sport, facing us, that worry me.

I've read some stuff about the alleged incident.

I've been asked some stuff about the alleged incident.

As a crime reporter/investigative reporter for over two decades, this is my opinion – I  HAVE NONE.

I don't know the facts.  Facts are all I care about.  Never let emotion into it.  Never ask a question I don't know the answer to.  Never assume anything.  Never buy a shadow of a doubt theory because there is never a shadow of facts theory.

Not going to get into the alleged incident.

Can't, don't know much about it.

But here is what I do know.

"Shoeless" Joe Jackson.

1919 World Series.  Chicago Black Sox.

Nate Wellman if you do not know about the above…you need to do some heavy google reading right away.

Especially about "Shoeless" Joe.

Because he, young man, is you.

He did it.

He didn't.

Some said yes.

Some said no.

He said no.

He was kicked out of the sport he loved.

He spent the next 30 years, THIRTY years of his life trying to prove his innocence.

After being banned from baseball, "Shoeless" Joe opened a liquor store down south, and one day one of the most famous outfielders of all time came into his store, but Mr. Jackson never said a word to him.

Finally the outfielder said something like "you don't know who I am," and Shoeless Joe is said to have said back to Ty Cobb, "yeah I know who you are but I didn't think you wanted to know me, most don't …" or something to that effect.

That's your future right now.  That's your precedence.

If you don't think so, you are only fooling yourself.

You need to do something, and then we and the sport need to do something as well.

You need to tell the truth.

And then we, with that truth, need to begin to forgive.

That's right, forgive.

The Chicago Black Sox made baseball a better game.

Once the truth comes out on the Steroid Era of MLB … it will be a better game.

And once we forgive, we will be better fans; we will be better people.

Nate, I'm going to give you a little piece of advice after covering the theory of sports for two decades now, especially all the bad parts of sports.  I'm going to echo what dozens and dozens of fans have told me over the years, what they scream at the TV sets newscast after newscast …

… JUST TELL THE TRUTH … SAY YOU SCREWED UP … YOU’RE SORRY.

And then move on.

And in time we will.

There is one rule I have never seen quoted. You can throw all the rule books you want at me, count all the pages, and look for all the loopholes, but this rule remains quote less.

Forgive each other.

Nate, the footprints you leave in the sand can be ones filled with questions that will follow you for the rest of your life.

Only with truth, will come forgiveness, and only forgiveness will wash away the doubt you leave in your footsteps.

You only need to look to "Shoeless" Joe…to know that.

"…oh, I believe in yesterday."

Yesterday

The Beatles

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Backstage at B.A.S.S.

"I hope that the days come easy and the moments pass slow…"
 
Dateline:  Backstage @...    

Tell me.  

Where's your stage?  

Where do the lights shine on you?  

Who are you, when you dream?  

Where's your stage?  

Are you meant to be where you are at?  Or should you be over there – somewhere, not here?  

There.  

I believe that dreams are the universe’s way of telling you … there! 

It whispers when your eyes are closed … you toss … the movie of … there … starts playing … you turn … the soundtrack starts playing … you toss … and then you start falling, falling, falling …  
… and you wake up right before you land.  

Right before you fall into … THERE.  

I often wonder about those who have followed their dream, who have landed where they are supposed to be. Do they toss and turn like me?  

Or do they peacefully sleep?  

Because when they fell, they landed.  

And I'm still falling.    

"…and each road leads you where you want to go…"
   
Hang with me here for a minute.  

We're going backwards.  

In time … story tellin' time.  

Falling back to last week.  Vermont.  Lake Champlain.  The B.A.S.S. Federation Nation Eastern Divisional Tournament (won by the B.A.S.S. dudes of my state, Connecticut).  

I'm searching around for a story, come across an angler from Maine, Joe Holland is the dude, great angler, could be a future Elite if he gets the bucks to make the jump.  

As a human being, the guy is already an Elite.  I tell Joe, I tell all those who ask me what it takes to be an Elite, tell them all the same thing …

Be an Elite in whatever it is you do.  

That's how you get to “The Show.”  No matter what your Show may be.  

So this Joe guy tells me about his dream … to be a pro on the competitive fishing gig.  And it's 5:30 a.m., and it's cold. It's that sticky misty rain stuff, and it's cold. AND IT'S 5:30 a.m. IN THE MORNING and not in the night which is slightly better because it must have been a really good night if you are still up and in it instead of a really bad morning because you are up and in it.  

I am not awake.  The fish are not awake.  The lake is not awake.  And Joe is standing there smiling.  

Big ole smile.  

In his dreams, Joe is still falling, but he is so close to landing he can smell the ground.  

Something dreamt his way comes.  

You can read his story over at Bassmaster.com:  http://www.bassmaster.com/blog/if-%E2%80%A6
So I write that story about Joe, "If…" hit the send button, and move on, take a shower, get looking almost respectable, and head to the Jr. Bassmaster Welcome Dinner where I know there will be parents, young anglers and chocolate frosted brownies.  

Right on all counts.  

I do my welcome to all the kids, while at the same time scaring all the parents.  

Then the official B.A.S.S. welcome begins, and as I stand in the back of the room eating what possibly might be my third brownie.

I'm listening to B.A.S.S. dude up at the podium thing talking.  
And he's talking about dreams…and following your dreams.  
AND I'm thinking this…

Attorney…Plagiarism…another brownie….thinking this because this B.A.S.S. dude obviously read my story and is taking whatever he just pleases out of it like it's his own darn dream thing and not giving me the atta-boy I deserve for putting my words in his brain in the first place which is the exact definition of court induced suffering from plagiarism.  

So, the moment he ends his stealing words way I go up to the podium, as if that would protect him, and I say to him…dude what are you doing, at least say something modest like, "What an amazing, intelligent, bazillion hit kind of story db wrote today and let me QUOTE his words NOT mine," something simple like that and when I SPIT that out he just looks at me and says …  

"What are you talking about?"  

Which I reply something about my lawyer (which I would actually have to go find one somewhere) and the B.A.S.S. dude is looking down at me, not socially but taller legs wise, and he says, SAYS, "db, I don't know what you are talking about, I didn't read your story yet, have no idea what it is about, but I love songs, singing, and I have always wanted to be a Rock Star."  



Which is almost exactly what my story was about.  

Except the Rock Star stuff.  

I just wanted to write the songs, write the lyrics.  

But he wanted to stand on his stage and sing the lyrics.  

Yep, Jon Stewart, the B.A.S.S. Fed Nation Tournament Director dude wanted to be a Rock Star.  

"db, I used to have hair halfway down my back."  

And now, his hair is halfway to his ears.  

That's a story.  

But only half of it.    

"…I hope that the days come easy and the moments pass slow,
And each road leads you where you want to go…"
 
Meet, the lead singer of…"Xenolith," as he announces how much your bag of Bass weighs.  

"Xenolith…it means something like the Pillars of Rock," said Stewart.  

We are sitting in a pizza joint. He's waiting for his Lasagna, I'm waiting for my baked Ravioli and the two other B.A.S.S. dudes have gone the Chicken Parm and Spaghetti route.  

They have their mouths open.  

And the food isn't here yet.  

This, it seems, is all new to them as well, Jon Stewart…Rock Star.  

"As a kid, I grew up wanting to be a Rock Star, told people when I was a freshman in high school that's what I was going to be."  
Jon came from a musical family, his father played trumpet in the Army Band, and both mom and dad sang, and according to Stewart, "They are very good Christian Music singers. In fact I'm betting that was my true calling, but I wanted to be a Rock Star."  

Christian music…Xenolith…The Pillars of Rock…you know where this is going.  Yep.  

"My high school band we were invite to play at some big school concert, I was the lead singer, started playing the drums but couldn't do both at the same time, sing and play drums, so I was the lead singer and when it was our turn we got up on stage and I sang the song, "Highway to Hell" by AC/DC…came home from school that night and my father grounded me for a week.  

After high school Jon went on to major in Music at Cloud County Community College in Kansas … for awhile.  Singing, studying, singing, studying, hmm, which one do you think wins.  

It was here that Jon got a taste of Rock Star fame, 14 seconds or so of Rock Starism.

"We sent in a tape of our band to MTV and they actually played a bit of it on some sort of segment like Basement Tapes or something like that."  

"Cool…did you see it on MTV."  

Jon smiles, takes a bite of Lasagna…."Nope, never did, no."  
Could be because his classroom, was the road.  

"We played all through Kansas and Nebraska, mainly played Rock n' Roll and Heavy Metal like Judas Priest, Guns & Roses, Cheap Trick … in fact we opened every night with me singing "Surrender" by Cheap Trick.  

I would have used that song to open this story as well until, you know, I googled it and read the lyrics.  

I need this job.  

And Jon doesn't open the weigh-ins singing Cheap Trick songs, so I took a pass.  

"We played a bunch of bars that had chicken wire protecting the band from stuff being thrown at them.  I remember one place when we walked up to the door to get in it had a sign on it that said, "No Guns, No Knives, No Glass," and when we ordered beer they gave it to us in plastic cups, they really meant No Glass…so I asked the owner 'Well how are we supposed to know if the crowd doesn't like you," and he laughs and all he says is, 'Oh you'll know, you'll know, trust me you'll KNOW."  

Tell you what I do know … Jon Stewart is a great singer.
 
I know, because I have heard him, if you have been to some events you may have heard him as well.  Not so much the AC/DC stuff anymore, but the Stars & Stripes…many times Jon will belt out the National Anthem at the event.  

He did so in Vermont, and when he was done, when I watched the crowd, more than one mouthed WOW to those around them.
 
I myself mouthed WOW, not so much for his singing, but for what he told me next at the Pizza Joint.  

"I tell you my real dream … what I really dream to do now … really dream … is to umpire the Little League World Series.  

Wow.  

"…and if you're faced with a choice, and you have to choose,
I hope you choose the one that means the most to you…"
 
"I think the Little League is one of the purest sports left out there, I watch every game I can of Little League."  

On his vacation … VACATION … Jon volunteers to umpire Little League baseball games in the town of Celebration, Fla. where he currently lives.

"I'm one of 3 regulars, I do as many games as possible, I just love it."  
Jon has worked his way up to umping at the state playoff level and hopes to someday be chosen to ump the Little League Show … the World Series. 

"How could you not? All that those kids go through to get there; they dream about being there, and so do I."  

There.  

Where's your there?  

As you drift off to sleep.  

What's the voice behind your lids whisperin'.  

Falling.  Falling.  

As you drift down, in sleep, in flight, my wish for you, for Jon, is that someday, your feet touch down.  

And when you open your eyes, there is here.  

There is happiness.  

There is where you belong.  

On your stage.  

The one, the universe built for you.  

Dream, on…
 
 
"…my wish, for you, is that this life becomes all that you want it to,
Your dreams stay big, and your worries stay small."
 
My Wish
Written by Jeffrey Steele & Steve Robson

for
Rascals Flats
 
 
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Blue Sky Tears

"Yesterday…"  

 
Dateline: Connecticut

If only I could have grabbed the sky.

That September morning.

Ten years ago.

9/11.

It was a beautiful fall day, clean cool air, leaves just starting to turn on the block I live on.  

And a sky of blue.

I'm a sky blue fan.  Always notice the sky when it is just all blue.  Growing up in Buffalo, at the cloud end of Lake Erie, a cloudless sky made you look up.

I still do.  Look up.  Marvel in the blue.  The universe, unwrapped.

And look up I did, on 9/12…at the bright blue sky.  And wished as tears formed in my eyes, as tears ran down the face of those around me, ran down the face of America….

… wished that on the day before, I could have reached into the sky and rescued United Airline Flight 175.  Saved the 65 passengers on board that plane.

Saved those sitting at their desks working in the North & South Towers.

And I could have saved them had I been able to grab the sky.

I know I could have because when the flight path UA 175 was published, to my horror I saw that its path took it over Connecticut.

And damn near, right over my part of Connecticut.

If only …

… on 9/11, I grabbed the sky.

"…all my troubles seemed so far away…."

I want you to listen to this phone call that came to an Easton, Conn. dad:

“It's getting bad, Dad. A stewardess was stabbed. They seem to have knives and Mace. They said they have a bomb. It's getting very bad on the plane. Passengers are throwing up and getting sick. The plane is making jerky movements. I don't think the pilot is flying the plane. I think we are going down. I think they intend to go to Chicago or someplace and fly into a building. Don't worry, Dad. If it happens, it'll be very fast....Oh my God... oh my God, oh my God.”

The phone call ended with a woman's scream.

The phone call was from passenger Peter Hanson to his father Lee Hanson, who lives not far away from our town in Connecticut.  On board UA 175 with Peter were his wife Sue and their 2 ½ year old daughter, Christine.

On the memorial website for Peter, Sue & Christine, last year his mother, Eunice, wrote this:

"Peter, I still feel the terrible pain that went through my whole being when Dad, holding the phone heard your last words. As the plane banked and crashed into that tower and exploded in a burst of flame, I screamed, I knew that all the joys we had together, all the love, care and good times we shared all the dreams and hopes we had were gone…"

If only…

…on 9/11, I grabbed the sky.

"…now it looks as though they're here to stay…"

At his desk in the North Tower offices of Cantor Fitzpatrick, 35 year old bond trader Donald Gavagan could probably see the waters of the Hudson River and beyond from the office windows of the firm that took up the 101st through 103rd floors of the building.

Two floors above where AA Flight 11 hit.

657 of Donald's co-workers were killed that day in the attacks.

Donald Gavagan was like you.  A hard working stiff who loved his family, who also loved to fished.  A guy who was about to buy a 31ft Chris Craft so he could fish with his wife and young family.

Jackie Gavagan, his wife, in a published news story two years after his death said she takes their children to the beach where Donald loved to fish, and they build sand castles there and take his jeep for a spin with the kids.

Donald is survived by twins, Lara & Donald III.

And by his youngest son, Connor.

A son, he never met.

Connor was born six weeks after 9/11 on October 23, 2001.

A son, born to an angler, who will never be able to fish with his dad.

And it is for that reason, I don't just “remember” 9/11 …

… I never forget it.

Neither should you.

It wasn't America that got attacked.

It was you.

You in Alabama.

You in Arkansas.

You in Georgia.

Chicago…Los Angeles…Buffalo…St. Louis…Fresno…

… and if there is a Mayberry out there, especially that small town.

You.

Rural you.  City you.  Suburban you.

The attackers came for you.  Be you in those buildings or not.

Be you in the Pentagon or not.

Be you in the Pennsylvania field.

Don't sit back and think this was a New York City or Washington, D.C. thing.  Make no mistake, they came for you.

The came for US!

Our way.

The American way.

The flew through a Norman Rockwell Fall Painting on a clear blue picture perfect New England Day.

On the best of days, they brought the worst.

On the best of days, they came for one thing…to take away our freedom and all that is America.

They came looking for you, and found 3,000 others.  Three thousand of your neighbors no matter where you live.  Pull up the lists of victims, take the time to go to Ground Zero and read the names yourself.

All races.

All nationalities

Executives  … Clerks … Window Cleaners.

Police … fire fighters … security guards.

Men.  Women.  Children.

Don't remember them; never forget them.

Which is why I have listed those killed in the attacks from just Connecticut alone.

Listed them, because these were my neighbors.

As far as I know, I didn't know a one of them.

But knew them all.

As do you.

They are us.

This upcoming week you will see a lot of stories asking you to remember the horror of 9/11 … I'm asking that in fact you never forget it, because 9/11 is with us each and every day.

Not just on its anniversary.

You see the faces of 9/11 … today.  Yesterday, tomorrow, in your office, where you shop, the street you live on, where you pray.

For those wanting to attack us, everyday is 9/11.

Here's those, my neighbors, who died for you.

Who would still be here …

… if on that fall day …

… I could have grabbed the sky.


Laurence Abel * Bryan C. Bennett * Jeffrey D. Bittner * Christopher Joseph Blackwell * Allen Patrick Boyle * Alexander Braginsky * Frank H. Brennan * Thomas M. Brennan * Edward Calderon * Sandra Patricia Campbell * James Christopher Cappers * Christopher Carstanjen * Juan Armando Ceballos * Stephen Patrick Cherry * Geoffrey W. Cloud * Scott Thomas Coleman * Keith Eugene Coleman * Margaret Mary Conner * Kevin P. Connors * Joseph J. Coppo Jr. * Dolores Marie Costa * Brian Thomas Cummins * Paul Dario Curioli * John Bruce Eagleson * Michael Egan * Ulf Ramm Ericson * Eric Brian Evans * Wendy R. Faulkner * Edward T. Fergus Jr. * Bradley James Fetchet * John Fiorito * Bennett Lawson Fisher * Peter Christian Fry * Richard P. Gabriel Sr. * Richard S. Gabrielle * Osseni Mama Garba * James Andrew Gadiel * Thomas Edward Galvin * Christopher Gardner * Peter Alan Gay * Peter Gelinas * Robert J. Gerlich * Lawrence Daniel Getzfred * Evan H. Gillette * Ronald Gilligan * Steven Lawrence Glick * Wilder Gomez * Kiran Kuman Gopu * Edwin John Graf III * Donald F. Greene * James Arthur Greenleaf Jr. * Pedro Grehan * The Rev. Francis E. ``Frank'' Grogan * James D. Halvorson * Sean Hanley * Christine Lee Hanson * Peter Hanson * Susan Hanson * Timothy John Hargrave * Michele Heidenberger * Howard Joseph Heller Jr. * John Henwood * Robert D. Higley II * James L. Hobin * Judith Florence Hofmiller * Paul R. Hughes * William C. Hunt * Thomas E. Hynes * John F. Iskyan * Michael Grady Jacobs * Mark Jardim * Robert Thomas Jordon * Richard M. Keane * Maurice Patrick Kelly * William Hill Kelly Jr. * Amy R. King * Glenn Davis Kirwin * Stephen LaMantia * Gary E. Lasko * Robert A. Lawrence * Joseph A. Lenihan * Adam J. Lewis * Garry Lozier * Michael J. Lyons * Edward Francis ``Teddy'' Maloney III * Ada L. Mason * Kevin M. McCarthy * Juliana Valentine McCourt * Ruth Magdaline McCourt * Eamon J. McEneaney * Michael Gregory McGinty * Francis Noel McGuinn * William J. Meehan Jr. * Raymond J. Metz III * Joel Miller * Michael Matthew Miller * Cheryl Ann Monyak * Lindsay S. Morehouse * Jude Joseph Moussa * Cesar Augusto Murillo * Christopher William Murphy * Daniel R. Nolan * Robert Walter Noonan * Scott J. O'Brien * Timothy Michael O'Brien * James Andrew O'Grady * Christopher Orgielewicz * Margaret Orloske * Thomas Anthony Palazzo * James Matthew Patrick * Michel Adrian Pelletier * Joshua Piver * Jean Roger * Sean Rooney * Michael Craig Rothberg * James M. Roux * Jason E. Sabbag * Jesus Sanchez * Stacey Leigh Sanders * Sean Schielke * John Schwartz * Randolph Scott * Michael John Simon * Heather Lee Smith * Dianne Bulls Snyder * Gregory T. Spagnoletti * George E. Spencer III * Derek James Statkevicus * Craig William Staub * Madeline Sweeney * Michael C. ``Mac'' Tarrou * Thomas F. Theurkauf Jr. * Eric Raymond Thorpe * Amy Elizabeth Toyen * Tyler V. Ugolyn * Jonathan J. Uman * Allen V. Upton * Bradley H. Vadas * Edward Raymond Vanacore * Frederick T. Varacchi * James Thomas `'Muddy'' Waters Jr. * Candace Lee Williams * John Williamson * David H. Winton * Christopher W. Wodenshek * Martin P. Wohlforth * John Bentley Works * Edward P. York * Charles A. Zion

"…oh, I believe in yesterday."
Yesterday
The Beatles

RIP my friends; we will never forget.


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