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“There’s daggers in men’s smiles, Double, double toll and trouble, fire burn, and cauldron bubble,” William Shakespeare was a master in terms of foreshadowing the demise of his main characters. The Bard Avon wasn’t a golfer, but I am certain if he lived today he would have had plenty to pen in regard to Phil Mickelson. In the past hundred years, after Arnold Palmer, Phil Mickelson has been the number one favorite of golfing fans throughout the world. This past Monday afternoon the pied piper of golf showed up at Massachusetts’ prestigious Brookline Country Club for the 122nd United States Golf Open Championship to confront his legacy.  “Lefty” arrived in Boston Sunday via London after competing in the inaugural event of the new LIV Golfing Tour. Together, with former number one golfer in the world, Greg Norman, they have led an effort to give current PGA Tour players an alternative choice in their golfing schedules.  A group of Saudi Arabian oil princes have agreed to pay 51 year old Phil Mickelson $200,000,000 to surrender in his PGA card in order to participate in eight LIV Tour sponsored tournaments across the world for the next four years (32 events). The faithful libertarians jump up and down and say “way to go “Lefty”. While the traditional old schoolers call him a “fickle traitor to the game of golf”. The big problem left for the PGA Tour is America’s favorite golfer could potentially destroy the very institution that helped build the ATM machine known as “Phil”. The press conference was intended to be about Mickelson’s chances to win the only major that has alluded him in his illustrious career. It quickly turned into a tumultuous day for all those who have a passion for the sport. The king had sold his crown.

This Monday in the pressroom at one of the most historical and affluent Country Clubs in America Phil Mickelson stood at the podium looking like a tattered General returning home after a crushing defeat. He did not resemble the usual smiling, cocky, affable “Phil”. His face, his entire demeanor was visibly responding to the realization that he had tainted his legacy and his status as golf’s fan favorite. The same guy who, stuck in a maze of trees, hit a 4 iron off the pine straw to four feet that helped him to go on to win one of his three green jackets. Today, standing with shoulders slumped Mickelson looked more like his partner in LIV golf (Norman) after blowing a six shot lead in the 1996 Masters. Phil Mickelson the guy with the big grin permanently planted on his mug suddenly looked tragically estranged. The gruffy beard, “Amy likes it” he wore symbolized a fallen hero whose body language spoke of shame and disappointment. Mickelson could not hide the defeat in his eyes. He understood now that his run as golf’s glory boy was over. With the cash spilling out of his pockets “Lefty’, who I have heard through the gossip of men’s grill rooms, is the biggest phony on the PGA Tour, was standing in front of the media trying to explain his justification in selling his soul to a couple of Saudi oil magnates. There were a lot of questions, but an ornery Mickelson babbled on with long prepared non answers. Mickelson, without stating it, obviously had made the decision that money was a bigger priority than his ranking in golf lore. Of course, that is his absolute right.

Phil Mickelson and Greg Norman accepted a total of $325,000,000 to kick the PGA Tour out of bed in order to canoodle with a country that was responsible for the American blood spilled at the World Trade Center attacks. What exactly is Mickelson giving up in exchange for the guaranteed $200,000,000? The first thing is handing in his PGA card tour. Mickelson, and all the other defectors will no longer be allowed to play in any PGA Tour sponsored events. This fact alone leaves an LIV player only two opportunities to play in two American Majors: The Masters and the United States Open, which is taking place this week in Brookline Massachusetts. Watching Mickelson stand in the front of the room accepting incoming fire on his character was no doubt fascinating theater. “Some of your fans consider you a sell-out to the American Tour. What do you have to say to them?” was the first bomb tossed by a reporter. “I respect everyone’s opinions,” a barely audible Mickelson bemoaned. “As golfers we are independent contractors who depend solely on our talents and endorsements to make an income. It was a very hard decision that I made with the best interest of my family in mind.” The press room had an aura of a trial that had gone bad. “Are you worried that your legacy as an all-time fan favorite of the golfing community will suffer because of this decision to partner with a couple of the world’s most nefarious characters (oil princes). “My record stands for itself, what happens to my personal legacy in golf remains for history to determine.”

In my opinion the entire issue is a coin flip. I could make a strong argument for and against the LIV Tour. Let’s start with why I see no problem with a competing Tour. Pro golfers are independent contractors who have an obligation to no one but themselves. The option for players to decide when, where, and for how much they play for is their final decision and theirs alone. If players have the talent to be paid large sums of money simply to show up, who am I to blame them for taking a big payday? It may be possible that two tours could thrive together, someday making golf an even more relevant game across the entire world. When a competitor comes after a successful corporation, such as the PGA Tour, there will be undoubtedly a plethora of obstacles in front of you. The first and most important roadblock is any PGA member playing in a LIV event will be banned from future PGA Tour sponsored events. There is not a question that the LIV Tour will have a negative impact on America’s already successful circuit. Endorsement deals may be severed  from the corporations who are tied in deeply with the PGA of America. There will be many fans who view Mickelson, Norman and the other deserters (Mike Reid, Dustin Johnson, Sergio Garcia, Ian Poulter) who are looked upon as traitors to the Tour, their country, and their fan base. At first my reaction to the situation tilted me more to the latter, then after some deeper reflections I said to myself ‘Give me the $200,000,000 and you all can do whatever you want with my legacy.’

There was irony in Mickelson’s fall from grace occurring at the press conference to the one major tournament that is a blemish on Phil’s record could not be lost on anyone who has followed his career. There wasn’t one question from the media discussing his chances of winning this week. It felt very much like an intervention between the American Press Corp. and the prodigal son reluctantly returning  home. “What do you say to the families of the victims in the 9/11 attacks at the hands of the Saudi’s?  Do you feel  guilt for taking what many Americans call “blood money?” The charismatic superstar had no answers, only a smug, “I’m sorry. I respect these people and have tremendous empathy for them.” We were now seeing the side of Phil that I had heard about in my travels within the golfing community. Phil Mickelson is a compulsive gambler. He has probably earned more money, and lost more money than any other athlete in modern times. The fact is his net worth is 40 million and should be closer to $100,000,000. Phil was a compulsive womanizer. Let’s say that him and Tiger Woods are in the same league when it comes to the ladies, Phil has simply done the wrong thing more discreetly. Phil is a compulsive phony. His continual flashing smile, his thumbs up from inside the ropes is seen by many as the play acting of a manipulative narcissist. For myself, the worst fact about Phil is that he turned state witness against a friend who, along with Phil, were under FBI investigation for “insider trading violations.” Smiling Lefty gave up his friend, and others for immunity (Mickelson also paid a $1,000,000 fine). His buddy is now serving three to five years in state prison.

Yes , Phil is a rich man today. He has secured his family’s financial security for several generations. And for the average person, it would give ample reason to feel satisfied and comfortable. But Phil Mickelson isn’t you or I. He’s had it all: talent, privilege, fame, fortune, good looks, five majors, $40,000,000 net worth, beautiful family, and the adulation of 90% of the golfing fan base. Shakespeare would have been drooling if he had been present at Brookline last Monday afternoon. The Bard would have feasted on the ammunition that Mickelson was handing out. The plot wasn’t complicated:  the story of a broken hero trying to hold on to his “almost” glorious legacy. Shakespeare wouldn’t have missed the vast hubris in Phil, the ambition in him to be not only the best golfer in the world, but the most popular one also. Shakespeare’s prose was inspired by human flaws and how those weaknesses potentially lead to tragic endings. It is hard to paint a dark picture of a man who, on paper, looks like the perfect swashbuckling movie star. Phil Mickelson is blessed with blue bred good looks and born with his collar turned to the sky. His 45 tour wins, five majors, and 975,000,000 in career earnings certainly puts him in consideration as one of the top 10 golfers of all time. William Shakespeare brilliantly used real life characters as metaphors to the universal condition. Phil Mickelson arrived at the United States Open in a new tax bracket. After finishing miles below the cut line Lefty departed the pearly gates of Brookline Friday without a shower or a cold one. He had to be wondering if he was ever coming back.

The graduates were still donning their caps and gowns as they spilled out from New Paltz’s downtown watering holes and onto the sun drenched street. The third Sunday in May is the traditional time slot for  all S.U.N.Y. colleges to give out professional degrees with a bill attached. Scattered in my path, as I attempted to make my way uptown, were parents, grandparents, and siblings, all suited up for a day of “old fashioned” pomp and circumstances. The graduates were wearing that special Sunday smile, along with enthusiastic gleeming eyes making their youthful faces shine. For 90% of the them it would be their last rendezvous with formal education. All the exams, SAT’s, and class rankings, were simply a warm up, a walk through before the official scoreboard gets turned on. Tomorrow morning, this same crowd with fancy letters now attached to their names will awake to the first chapter of their autobiography:  ‘What I Did With My Life’. On a day my personal musings were developing endings, these baby faced generation Z’ers had yet to open the book. At 22 it is a rare happening to be capable of understanding how your future opportunities stacked up against the opportunities that were presented to the proceeding generations. In the moment of Graduation Day we take time to recognize the dramatic step we are taking into the rest of our lives. From this day on our identity in this world will be solely determined by ourselves.

It is a 40 year gap between the day I graduated from Muhlenberg College and this May day on the streets of New Paltz. For all practical purposes my hand has been played, the dealing is done, it is time to count the money and evaluate what is left in my tank. Whether we like it or not, if we live into our sixties it becomes impossible for us not to reflect on how we played the game of life. We arrive at a time, much quicker than we could have expected, when we look back and ask ourselves the tough questions. ‘Did I take advantage when opportunity presented itself?  Did I understand that education is power? By now a majority of the evidence is in on the choices I’ve made in this life. It was very early on that I bought into the idea “you only get one shot at this life, this life is anything but a dress rehearsal, there isn’t a formula for success, or a singular person who has the answers for you. On Graduation Day May 25th 1982 it became record of the court that that I had made it through my youth unscathed with a four year degree in education to pursue my passions. Unlike a majority of my college chums, heading into the summer of 82’, I had no job. Also unlike my peers I wasn’t sweating it. I was cocky enough to think ‘one way or the other I will make this life work.’ I recall waking up in the bedroom of my childhood the day after I returned home from Allentown Pa. In a strange way I was ecstatically proud and a bit numb I had arrived at the starting line ready to run my race.

Regardless of our formal education we make decisions in terms of what we want to do with the rest of our lives at a very early age. In High School we are led to choices when it comes to career path. Do we want to go to college, or maybe we want to be a tradesman, or maybe our dad and mom have a family business, or maybe we are bold enough to want to create our own start-up company? It can be a stressful time, especially if you are aware that 50% of the workforce stay in the same career till they are dragged away. In May of 1982 I didn’t have a classroom, or a team, but I was resolve in my aspirations to be a history teacher and basketball coach. I am a person who will go to great lengths to avoid commitment, but pursuing a long career in education seemed like the right path for me at the time.  All the decisions I made back then were centered around me trying to avoid the inevitable: an ordinary life. On Graduation Day 1982 I would describe my state of mind as a “blank slate”, ready to start none, yet take less. I am certain there was not a grand scheme for success. My plan was to find a teaching job at my earliest convenience…… no rush. In the meantime golfing, drinking, sleeping and following the sun were the only things on my schedule for the summer of 78. I was playing golf with a frat brother from Muhlenberg at Montclair Country Club the day I got the call from Pine Bush High School offering me the positions of Varsity Basketball Coach and 11th grade ‘American History’ teacher.

At 22 years old there wasn’t even a tiny bit of me that was looking into the future past tomorrow. I was completely focused in the moment preparing for my coming out party. I was ready to revolutionize the public classroom and to hone my coaching skills in preparation for a call from the Knicks. It has worked to my advantage that many of my friends growing up were successful adults. (teachers, lawyers, insurance men, and politicians) They gave me enough good advice back then that would have made my life much smoother if I had listened to any of it. We anoint ourselves geniuses the day we graduate from the hallways of academia, only left trying to figure out how we became so dumb, so fast a few years later. In September of 82′ I stood in front of my first history class brilliantly dissecting the New Deal, but not having a clue on how to balance a checkbook. When I look at that kid now it is easy to see he was just an ambitious boy, passionate about making an indelible mark. The algorithms was aligned: my grandmother was a teacher, my parents were teachers, some people close to me even said I was born to teach. I didn’t doubt their observations but I decided fairly early on that there was no way I was going to stand in front of classroom and teach five periods of history everyday for the next 40 years. My pragmatic (some say condescending) world view, my lust for the “good life”, and my unwavering desire to be in control of my time made the decision to depart the classroom inevitable.

I would never trade in the seven years I spent education. There were many days I regretted leaving the school gig and wondered ‘what if’. At the same time I didn’t shed too many tears the day I jumped  of the classroom and into the business arena some 33 years ago. It was getting around that time on Graduation Sunday when reality sets in. The weekend is over and it is time to put all the travails you hid from yourself on Friday and Saturday back into the forefront of your agenda. The following Monday morning is the first day of your life in the “real world”. In 1982 that Monday, the day after my glorious return from Allentown I arose at 6:00 am ready to start collecting more worms than anybody had before. I put on a the pink shirt and tie combo, given to me for graduation by Mr. A to Z, drove to the hamlet of Wallkill and substituted for John Monihan’s 8th grade social studies classes. “Hey, who is that?!” I could hear the giggling from the young teens as I searched for Mr. Monihan classroom. And just like that I wasn’t a cocky, wiseguy, conman, hustler Richie Rich anymore. It appeared likely that my identity into eternity was going to be Mr. Siegel, or Coach. My dreams were all in front of me, the last thing  on my mind was some sort of hypothetical finish line to push across 40 years down the road. The only plan or goal I had simply was to leave a permanent impression on as many people as I possibly could.

The line of cars on Main Street trying to make their way up the hill to the New York State Thruway was at a complete standstill. The passengers had at least a half hour before they could get a glimpse of Route 87 where the Sunday afternoon traffic heading south was building to a jam. The SUNY graduates were pouring out of their college towns riding off to the rest of their lives. It had been a celebratory day for all that had been accomplished, it was a day to reflect on what was left behind before the hour glass gets turned over in the morning. On Graduation Day 1982 I arrived home back to New Paltz and headed directly into town by myself to a bar called McGuinn’s. I had worked at McGuinn’s the previous four summers, the place had become my primary hangout spot when I found my way back into town. John Ginty,  a local guy who returned from three years of hell in Vietnam and found his way into the bar business was making his way down the long rail. “Now what big guy?” he chuckled pushing a cold PBR in front of me. ‘I don’t know John. I’ll teach some school, find a girl, settle down in a quiet little town, raise a family, give up the booze and the one night stands. After I do all that I’ll see if I got some time left to save the world.’ Forty years have past since my college graduation night of 1982. One moment the world is right in front of you, ripe for the taking, and the next thing you know it is 40 years later. All of the in-betweens blur into the essence of my life. Those of us who make it into our 60’s can’t help but look back and see ourselves frozen in time standing in cap and gown whispering one question to yourself: ‘How did I do?’

An unforeseen happenstance forced me to change direction. Sometimes we end up back to where we started from without even trying. As I turned from Springtown Road onto Mountain Rest a sign flashed in front of me: “Freshly paved highway, proceed with caution.”  Those words were the green light to turn the playlist up, apply more foot pressure, and to place my brain on “cruise down memory lane mode.” Most of the titillating stories of the glory days growing up in New Paltz occurred in the town located now directly behind me. Today I was starting my journey to Kingston from the West side of the Wallkill River. Over the mountain towards all things that mean home to me. Not that there usually is, but today  there certainly wasn’t a premeditated plan, simply a quest for a bit of self therapy. When my tenth grade English teacher said to the class, after giving us our first creative writing assignment was, “write about the people, places and things that are foremost in your mind.” On this beautiful cloudless May day it felt like everything was alright, and even if it wasn’t it would be real quick. Since my dad passed the trips on this ride are not getting any less emotional. This pavement was filled with bittersweet memories of my life before adulthood. The windows were up, radio blasting, and air was cranked up high. ‘Damn, you never stop wanting to go back,’ said the guy who never really left.

I was traveling on the road that held the secrets of my life. If Mountain Rest Road could talk this new layer they were putting on would drown out the noise coming from the layers below, but it couldn’t obstruct the view, though the steam was trying to. The haze rose off the pavement pushing for the sky. Through the smoke I could see all the vibrant blues and greens of a perfect spring day. The pavers hovered atop the mountain passageway appearing to be some sort of alien gladiators flying singular aircrafts. Realizing I was still sitting still, a bit of road rage began to brew. “They pick today to pave this highway? Look at these county worker’s; three guys working, three guys standing around… Unbelievable.” I declare punching down on the steering wheel. The conversation I was engaging myself was in need of a pile of enthusiasm and hope. ‘Stop it Rich. It’s the kind of day dreams are made of, traveling  on a freeway that runs through the sacred grounds of my childhood.’

After my mental reboot I looked up to see the head flagman waving the parade on. Following the stream of vehicles, it took only two minutes for my mind to find myself in a mental malaise moving past 138 Mountain Rest Road in virtual slow motion. The solar panels were still in the field, a new basketball hoop had risen and there was a kids playground near the stone wall. I saw myself and brother Gary having a classic battle of “don’t make an error baseball” against the driveway’s retaining wall. There was John Schulte, my mountain road best friend hacking my limbs as I drive in for another two. ‘Come on, man this ain’t wrestling,’ I pleaded to the massive young man that always had my back, “that was no foul you little pansy.” There was my dad throwing the football with his two sons, just like back in the day his passes to Gary were perfect and the ones to me sucked. Those times were truly “the days” only nobody let us in on the secret and even if they did we wouldn’t have heard it. My eyes remained on the left preceding passed the New York State Aquaduct. In a house, 100 yards north of the pipeline, that only a keen eye could spot, lived my first “dance with romance.” In the summers of the late 1970’s I made numerous night strolls up the mountain to the waterway. “Over here Richie,” I would hear, and quickly retort “Where?”

There was still another mile to the top, and the gateway to Mohonk Resort. Passing the Spies’ home brought back visions of ‘Dark Shadows’, capture the flag, and my friend Erich Spies’s mature (voluptuous) older sisters. Erich passed last year at the age of 62, but today he was 15 with his shirt off running for a touchdown like it was his God given right. Up the road approximately 100 yards away sits the entrance to the old Mohonk Ski Center. Back in the 70’s Friday skiing was all the rage for 12-18 year olds in search of fun and romance on a chilly winter’s night. Right before Mohonk’s hairpin turn, practically out of sight, was the Westin’s house. Leslie, who was a sophomore when I was a senior, was one of the top “unofficial” social directors at New Paltz High. The Westin house had it all for teenagers looking for a retreat from downtown. There were great views, a sauna, swimming pool, refreshments and usually a bevi of underclass damsels (I heard). Approaching the pinnacle of the mountain, right before the official gateway to the resort, you can’t help but notice some golfing flag poles. On this bright May day a crowd of golfers was milling around the first tee in what looked like the first day of a summer golf league. The small gem of a golf course was the training ground for me learning a game that turned out to be such an integral part of my life. When we were kids myself and Todd Krieg carried our clubs up and down the hills of that course some days from sun up to sun down. I looked over to see two kids, with wild dreams dancing in their eyes discussing if they had enough light to go around one more time.

On the other side of the the road from the golf course is the official gateway to earth’s closest thing to heaven. The Mohonk Mountain House established by the Smiley family in the late 1800’s was the backyard of my youth. One mile from my house was one the most unique and well established resorts in in the entire world. The 260 guest room framed Victorian hotel resides next to a glacier lake, both peering up at the famed landmark tower. My brother Gary left New Paltz permanently when he was 18, but almost every year he brought his growing family back to the mountain for a week. Mohonk adventures included getting through the lemon squeeze, rock rift crevice, the granery, and the massive putting green in front of the hotel.  There were the summer nights quietly skinny dipping underneath the sleeping vacationers. I would guess close to 50% of the kids who grew up in New Paltz worked at Mohonk at some point. Some of my friends lived on the property, most of them of high I.Q. It was definitely exciting to have a world renown resort in our backyard. My dad used to laugh about the guests that inhabited the getaway to, and, for the stars, “a bunch of newlyweds and almost deads”.

Sometimes a story falls right into your lap: when the date, the month, the weather, and the place, come together with a force of intensity and clarity.  We spend a lifetime driving on a litany of roads on our way to the next destination. Mountain Rest Road is the road that takes me back to my own home. It is also the road  thatI took when I needed to escape. By the time we reach the zenith of the mountain the paving had stopped and the caravan of cars had broken up. Now I was heading down the hill, away from my old hometown. The visions of the past were sprinting towards me, I was becoming desperate to stop and scribble down some notes to rekindle the images.  I pulled off the side of the road searching for my pad and pen to pin down the story. I realized the last time I was parked in this pull off was a summer night in 1977. John Ferrante was driving faster then he should have when we collided with a deer sending us, and his blue Pontiac spinning into a bed of rocks causing a flat tire. I was sitting in the same spot I was in 44 years later writing “code words” onto the front of an old newspaper.

We don’t stop going back, no matter how hard we try to run from our past we inevitably can not escape.. We grow up, have families, chase our dreams and perpetually challenge the plethora of obstacles that stand in our way. For me, Mountain Rest Road is a slow and mirandering ride back into the times of my life.  It has always been the road that takes me home. 

When you’re a ten year old fanatical Met fan Sunday afternoons are all about baseball and nothing to do with Mother’s Day. On this particular Sunday back in 1970, myself, and my brother were glued to the Mets/Giants first game of an afternoon doubleheader. Tom Seaver, was 3-1 already in a season he would end up 25-7 as he and his teammates basked in the glow of their amazing 1969 World Championship season. But on this Mother’s Day Seaver was in a jam. The bases were loaded in the first with no Giants out. Heading to the plate were three of the best hitters in baseball  (Willie Mays, Willie McCovey, and Jim Ray Hart. As Mays stepped into the batter’s box I heard a 1967 Ford Convertible come rumbling down the steep driveway leading to my house. A woman with all the accouterments of the “Little Old Lady from Pasedena” pounded the breaks just before nearly slamming into our garage doors. ‘Hey Gar, did you hear Grandma pull in the driveway?’ “Yeah, I’ll go out, Seaver’s getting bombed anyway.” Gary and me were blessed with two special, yet very different, grandmother’s. We went down to the car where we knew Grandma had the goods that were far more satisfying than the Mets. “Happy Mother’s Day” we shouted to the beaming white haired granny who was finding her way out of her ride. Her hands were filled with 20 dollar bills and a bag filled with our favorite Easter Peeps. In the backseat was the biggest bouquet of flowers for her only daughter. My Grandma, mother, and Gary were on our way to a very memorable Mother’s Day.

Every Sunday, in good weather, Grandma would drive over the Old Storm King Mountain Highway which overlooks the United States Military Academy at West Point enroute to our family’s home in New Paltz. My Grandmother and mom would sit at our kitchen table and have what they called their “secret mommy daughter talks”. Gary and me never discussed it but as the years passed  we became familiar with some typical family dysfunctions. Our guess was that the main topic of their conversations centered around the men in their lives. Gary and me went back to my room to discover that while we were gone, my favorite baseball player of all time, Tom Terrific, struck out Mays, McCovey and Hart to end the Giants threat in the first. Oh what our heroes could do. On her usual Sunday visits Grandma would leave our house around 3:00 pm, head towards the Bear Mountain Bridge, then make a pit stop at her favorite restaurant.  Her routine was consistent: two straight up Beefeater’s (gin) martinis to go along with her one two pound lobster. On this Mother’s Day in the year 1970 the plan was for our family to follow Grandma over the river and through the woods, all the way to Milton New York to encounter a dining experience at ‘The Ship’s Lantern Inn’. Our grandmother had told us all about the vibrations, the professional wait staff,  the oak bar, and the fabulous food. The two mates hopped into the back of my Mother’s bomb of a Buick off to the Ship.

Before that day I hadn’t given much of a thought about Mother’s Day, or why it was given more than one look. There wasn’t a moment of my life that I ever doubted the greatness of my mom. But a full day to celebrate her doing the job that I assumed she was put on this earth to do seemed excessive. My excitement on our way to the restaurant had less to do with Mother’s Day then the idea of me having a lobster in a fancy restaurant I had heard so much about. I am less than 100% sure but I would speculate myself and my brother were dressed in some style of Sears kids suits. I had not yet heard the expression “ignorance is bliss” allowing me to present myself with adult dignity. The highlights when dining at ‘The Ship’ were plentiful for a young lad with delusions of fame and fortune. ‘Why don’t they have waitresses here?’ I whispered in my mom’s ear. My mother leaned down and lightly said “because males are better servers.” It would be years before I understood how married to “old wise tales” my mom was. Everything about my dining adventure that day was memorable; from the “table-side salad,” to all the “very good choices” George our waiter kept telling me I was making, to Grandma showing me how to crack a whole lobster, all the way to a fire lit dessert. Most of all I recall the hug my mom gave her mom when we went for our cars. Beyond the hug, the glow in my mom’s face was a painting for two boys…. a picture of Motherhood.

In the present , Mother’s day of 1970 puts a big grin on my face. That exact day didn’t start any traditions, more importantly it gave me a perspective of the way I perceived the person formally known as “Mother”.  I sat in both awe and embarrassment as my grandmother dissected a two pound lobster, sucking the last minuscule of meat out of each leg. My vision will forever be etched seeing ole gramma balancing sips of her martinis between bites of her, oh so good, morsels. She handled her martini like one of her lover’s from the jazzage, sizing it up, staring it down before taking control. She caressed the rim of the stemmed class gently before pressing the rim to her lips enough to take a few nibbles. My grandmother, the so-called pampered rich girl who was only guilty of allowing her husband to piss on her dreams. Seeing opportunity in gloomy times 45 year old Winnie Vail stood tall and pursued new found dreams (college, teacher, administrator). She didn’t say much that day at the  Ship’s Lantern’, her smile and her eyes displayed a proud independent woman who never expected to get to this moment. It was easy to witness the pride in her face and the smile she wore.  It was even easier to see the kinda of love my mom and grandma had for each other. It was the kind of love myself and my brother grew up around. The little old lady from Peekskill always found her way home despite her intake of a wee bit of high octane. I watched her drive off in the very automobile that I would be making high school memories in seven years later.

The car ride home from our fancy dining experience was quiet. It was Gary who broke a long silence  “Hey mom, I forgot to tell you Happy Mother’s Day”.  Not one to be left out. ‘Yeah Happy Mother’s,’ I quickly stated before making a request. ‘Mom can you put on the Mets?’  It was normal procedure for my mom to oblige nearly any request without fanfare, or ever looking for something beyond thank you in return. ‘Why did grandpa die Mom,’ I blurted out. My mother looked perplexed, after a pause she started to speak. “Your grandfather was quite the individual, he had so much love in him….. Richie you and him are two peas from the same pod. I loved my dad more than anything in the world.  He let the demons he possessed (gambling, hard drinking, smoking and women) destroy him.  The lessons I was learning on this Mother’s Day 1970 were aplenty as I reflect back.  That day was the first time I  ventured into contemplation in regard to how fortunate I was that my mom was my mom. There is no one in this life who gave me more unconditionally. My mom didn’t say much that had to do with introspection or philosophy of life, but when she did I usually stored it away in the brain compartment marked ‘don’t forget’. “Richie always be patient and kind to others, especially those not as fortunate. But it is also important to put yourself first. It is impossible to help and love others until you understand and love yourself.”

The “oldwise tales” tells us that we marry a woman that meets the approval of our Mother. In selecting a bride I never for one second put “what kind of mother they will make” into my formula. I was looking for a tall, hot, smart, ambitious girl, never once speculating about what kind of mom they might become. I eventually chose a girl named Donna Susan Burnham, or as she will probably more correctly  say, “I chose him.” While Donna had all the traits I was looking for, neither one of us were unselfish enough to even mention kids. Both, without trying, or preventing, Donna became pregnant twice without us having one conversation mentioning parenthood. Donna, the stunningly independent career woman took to motherhood like a duck takes to water. Hopefully both parents play equally important roles in raising children. That said, a daughters’s relationship with her mother is priority one or two. The greatest gift Donna gave our girls was the example of herself. All Laura and Mary Kate had to do for 18 years was watch how their mom lived her life. My two girls had the perfect role model who they ended up mimicking instead of repelling.  My daughters only needed to observe the work ethic, her commitment to family, and her financial and emotional independence. On this day, Mother’s Day 2022, my two independent daughters will be doing their thing in Atlanta and New York City respectively. Myself and their mother will have a lobster tonight, sleep late tomorrow, and go our separate ways in the afternoon. There will be several times tomorrow I will take a breath and appreciate all my blessings so far in this crazy universe. There is will be plenty of thanks to go around for the women in my life who gave me everything.

Just like events and people in the annals of history, our personal legacy goes through critical transitions and interpretation.  For reasons I can’t explain Spring has been a time through my personal history when my mind finds its highest efficiency. There is no hedging the fact that The Covid Pandemic and our manipulative government gave us all a chance to reconfigure our priorities over the last two bizarre years. On the down side, Covid 19 stole the headlines, as well as the countries attention the last few years. Covid stifled our children, killed our elderly, made us completely lose our confidence in the main stream media, and went a long way to destroying the trust that the American people have for any government institutions. But this spring America is more than ready to put covid in the rear view mirror and appreciate the enchantment  they remember from the spring times of yesterday. There are very few who came of age in the northeast that don’t relish the majesty of April May, and June. We hear the sounds of mowing machines, the click of a Titleist golf ball colliding with the head of giant driving club, and birds serenading our waking morning hours with sweet songs. After the shut downs, school closings, athletic events cancelled, people working from home, and overall restrictions, this Spring represents a new beginning. While I am busy vaulting ahead, to an adjusted tune and beat, I like to reminisce back to the times when springs were full of eternal hope. Every single dramatic and transitional time of my life have songs whose lyrics stimulate me to re-visit the old friends and memories of my history.

April Come She Will: (Simon and Garfunkel) “April come she will, When streams are ripe and swelled with rain. May, she will stay resting in my arms again.”

Last Sunday standing on my back porch, working the grill, I had a good view of the golf course through the still leafless saplings. All the signs of spring were right in front of me and for the first time in a couple of years I was ready to soak it in. We all have reflections from our past that make spring both inspirational and magical. Tis the season that never fails to give us unconditional hope despite the fact that we have lived through more than one disappointing summer. When the cold winds of March have subsided even the strongest of pessimists has hope, everybody is undefeated and improved. We feel the stability of being in a place where our dreams have not yet bumped into reality. No matter how bad the crash was in the prior months we hold on to a strong belief that our scars are healing, and that this summer will repress the wounds of all that has gone before. In the spring we are treated with the anticipation that goes along with preparing for opportunities the summer has in store for us. Most of us get off on the expectations of what is ahead more than what actually is going to come to attrition. The springs of my youth were filled with; baseball and golf, studying for exams, being a teacher, and facing all the highs and lows which go along with the romantic pursuit of the opposite sex. Shakespeare wrote “April hath put a spirit of youth in everything.” For me, spring represents new beginnings, a chance for renewal and redemption. Spring is a time for stepping out, for finding a new stride that you’ve been working on while the competition hibernates.

Betcha By Golly Wow: (Stylistics ) “Never thought that fairy tales come true, but they come true when I’m near you.”

When spring is in the air love cannot be far behind. An old friend of mine, who nicknamed himself, ‘Dr. Love’ had an explanation. “I wanted to get my doctorate in a field that was unexplainable.” For a moment in the spring of 1972 I thought I, had both, discovered and conquered love. Kristen Grant’s family moved to New Paltz in 1969 and by the time we were both in the same sixth grade class at the New Paltz Campus School a romance had begin to bud. I had been smitten with her from the first day she stepped onto my school bus. By the spring of my twelfth year on earth any lust I had been contemplating was now all about love. Our first date found us on an April Friday night at a make-shift amusement park that was set up in the Barkers Mall parking lot. Two kids, walking hand in hand dodging the carnival barkers on their way to the top of the ferris wheel. That same year after  I was the star pitcher for the Senators of the New Paltz Little League. On the night of the championship game with the Red Sox I noticed Kristen sitting on the hill taking in the game. What could be better than a May day on the mound winning titles with your girl looking on. The Senators hung on for a 7-4 victory, and afterwards me and my girl went for a walk before the presentations of trophies. “I am breaking up with you, Kyle Peterson is taking me to the movies Friday. You’re a good friend Rich, let’s hold on to that.” The tears were falling on my trophy on the car ride home with my mom. “What’s wrong Richie, happy tears?” I nodded, but we both knew it was a lie.

Baker Street: (Gerry Rafferty) “He’s got this dream about buying some land, he’s going to give up the booze and the one night stands.”

Frank Sinatra never wrote a lyric, but man could he deliver one. “Riding high in April and shot down in May,” that might have been the appropriate words for my life in the spring of 72, but ten years later the spring was setting me up for the adult I wanted to become. I had been through a challenging, yet rewarding, year in the the final season of my collegiate basketball career. I was injured in the autumn and was faced to come back to a new coach who did not have a plan for me. In the course of battling in basketball arenas throughout the winter I discovered a different person developing within me. A person who wanted to throw away all shelter and fight for what was mine. In the spring of 1982 I was starting to understand all the nuisances that went along transitioning from child to man. My life was coming into focus, not unlike the recent day standing on my back porch. I was committed to being a history teacher and a basketball coach. Standing in front of my classes as a student teacher at Allentown High School I was confident I had found my calling. I was a master teacher in the making. Somewhere imbedded in my DNA I am a teacher and I was experiencing all the intrinsic rewards that go along with being pied piper of the public school hallways. It had taken me till my senior year at Muhlenberg but finally I embraced the concept of being a fraternity brother, partaking fully in the social activities that go along with Greek life. I was financially impaired (could have cared less about money), I had no job waiting for me in the fall, and I was single, yet never had I been more assured about my future. That spring of 1982 the world was my oyster and all that I could see in front of me were endless summers.

“Steppin’ Out”: (Joe Jackson) “We are young but getting old before our time”

In the spring of 1985 I had completed my third year at Pine Bush High as the the J.V. basketball coach and 11th grade history teacher. From day one I loved everything about Pine Bush. And for my first three years, Pine Bush loved Rich Siegel. During this time period I was awarded tenure for my efforts in the classroom. Right around the same time my High School Alma Mater, New Paltz, expressed interest in me being their varsity basketball coach. That spring I took a few Friday ‘Personal days’ that included full days of golfing and partying on the road. It was the first Friday in May of 1985 as I stepped out of an Armonk N.Y. steakhouse at about 8:00pm after a great day golfing in the sun, a few pops of suds, and a solid meal. Stepping out of the shaded ambiance of a fine dining establishment I was expecting the weather to still be damp and dark. To my astonishment the bright warm sun hit my face and I recall saying to myself, “I am going to write about this moment some day.” It felt as if I had stolen spring, at least a few hours, from the grip of winter. I had a nice buzz going and was bubbling with the excitement that the night hadn’t even gotten started. “Let’s head back to New Paltz and get a day-cap at P and G’s,” I said laughingly to my traveling partner. By 11:00pm I had found my way uptown to Joe’s East West where occasionally I would be fueled with enough alcohol to cut some rug. At the bar getting a club soda was a tall beautiful blond who I had never met but she looked familiar. ‘Do you want to dance?’ saying words that didn’t usually come out of my mouth. The blond and I walked towards the flashing lights in silence. I didn’t see her again for five months until she showed up in the gym to pick up her brother from basketball practice. Four years later Donna S. Burnham changed her name to Donna Siegel.

Pieces of April: (Three Dog Night) “We stood on the crest of summer Beneath an old oak that blossomed green”

In so many ways the seasons are metaphoric to the life we live. If we’re clever in our reality I believe it’s possible to embrace all four seasons with the spirit of spring. Winter, Spring, Summer and Fall collide into each other seemingly faster and faster with each passing year. I like to think of myself as one of the original boys of summer, but on closer self-examination I find it was in Spring that I discovered my best self.  My energy and emotions have always been far more intense with the renewal of spring and a chance to start over. If there is a fearless season, one lacking regret, and filled with promise, surely Spring would be swimming in lane four. Spring brings us more heat and light creating a propensity for us to loosen our step and attire (“Spring Fever.”) The fever of love, attachment, commitment, and spirituality were in full bloom during those special Springs of my youth. April transports me back to lighter times of green grass and ballfields. It ushers back memories, and the moments that we will find comfort in as we make the turn for home. When I am alone at the typewriter, or driving the glorious mountain roads of the Hudson Valley the music of my lifetime echos around me. My days as a “front man” for the band ended the second my mouth opened, still, I sing the words with the same passion of the smooth crooners. As the words come out the visions join them. I find myself in places I haven’t been in decades. Places where forgotten friends have a way of showing up. The songs are the codes that open the doors of my soul. In the spring of 2022 the words continue to spin in my head often tumbling to a new perspective.  All I need to do is hear the song. Somewhere in the first three or four notes I have the code that unlocks the story. 

“If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you,” said the famed 17th Century German Philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. I was first introduced to Nietzsche, and this quote, in an elective Philosophy course I took at Muhlenberg College back in 1980. In one of the earlier classes of the fall semester the professor gave the class an assignment to pen an interpretive essay in regard to Nietzsche’s meaning in his prose. When I was a 20 year old sophomore in college I barely knew what the word interpretive meant, leaving me to agonize for the two weeks we had to turn our analysis in. I searched hard, but there was no where for me to copy the answer out of some encyclopedia or microfiche. There was no google search back then, only your own original thought. I was rewarded with a D for my efforts on this task which, at least, gave me a very good idea how little I understood about Nietzsche or his philosophies on life. Despite my unimaginative self, and the grade I received, I had discovered a healthy curiosity about different philosophies the class had exposed me to. It was rare for me to save my notes or tests after a course was over, especially ones that I struggled with, but for this class I made an exception. As the years grew between my bad start in “Philosophy 101” and the present I have referred back to the quotes we dissected back in the halls of academia, always with the intent of inspiring my personal evolvement.

“Life is more fun if you can treat the entire process as a game.” This is a simple philosophical quote that I am sure some great mind has uttered before, but for now I am attributing it to myself. It was approximately 25 years ago that I developed a strategy of turning in-cumbersome challenges into a game. Whenever I got myself into a jam, or was getting prepared for an adjustment in business, I turned the situation into some sort of contest played between myself and me. I played games and gave tests, all organized by me with the strict intention of a rewarding outcome for myself in the long run. Most recently my challenges and goals are centered around making a concerted effort to implement life style changes that are appropriate for my age and health status. The adjustments include; less alcohol input, more family time, better diet, and more of a focus at work. The light and optimistic side of myself says the motivation for these changes is preparatory work to be in my best possible condition entering the golden years. The darker and more tainted side of myself was bitching about the purpose, if there was any at all, for me making changes. ‘What do these doctors know? I’m in great shape for my age, I only need to keep doing things my way like I have always. Regardless of purpose, my future was in the balance and I felt an urgency to give myself a self examination of the most difficult magnitude.

“If you gaze for long into an abyss, the abyss gazes also into you.” Songs, quotes, books and our personel history take on different perspectives and meaning as we grow older. Today, my interpretation of the Nietzsche quote is totally different than the garbage I wrote back in college. Nietzsche could have meant that we can only overcome our most harrowing fears, we can only defeat the demons that torment us by staring directly at them. A high percentage of us spend a lifetime slaying personal dragons, no matter how often we put the fires out, a tiny spark seems to find a way to remain. Last week I went on a mission to administer a self exam that included a trip to a land where my dragons live. There I could face my opponents eye ball to eye ball on their turf. I was partaking on a four day, three night excursion to Hollywood Florida’s Hard Rock Guitar Casino. Being a person who has, at times, fought to control a gambling problem and more immediately has put himself on a strict non alcoholic diet since the turn of the new year, a gambling joint in South Florida can be an extremely dangerous place. A fair analogy would be offering a person with a fear of heights $5,000,000 to rescue Faye Ray in the grips of the mighty Kong from the top of the Empire State Building. The odds are slim that a person who panics at high altitudes could save beauty from the beast. Last Monday I arrived at the Hard Rock to spend some quality time with my favorite person. The test was for me to ask myself two questions at the end of the trip. 1. Did you consume any booze? 2. Did you gamble?

From the moment I put my suitcase down inside the big guitar….the game was on. I thought Ft. Lauderdale Florida was the right location for me to find out if I could regain control. The many compulsions that had gotten the best of me were never going to completely disappear, but for now, I needed to stand up to them. The mission was to send my demons a reminder that I was the commander of my ship, not them. After checking in Monday night I made a bee line to the bar in the Sushi Restaurant where I ordered a club Soda and the short ribs, sushi style. There is no doubt that I was craving a good steak and martini, but I was not on a vacation of the usual sort and I don’t like starting out behind when I am wrestling myself. In a past time I would have hurried my dinner only so I could spend the next 24 hours watching my beard grow in the mirror as I grinded away at a green felt table. In more recent years I would have passed on the gambling for a couple of Cosmos, and then a couple more Coronas. But those were the days when I didn’t have a game plan to protect me from the self inflicted pain of booze and betting (laughing at myself). This trip I was alone, the only game of chance I was going to play was going to have nothing to do with the exchange of C-notes. I grabbed a chocolate milk shake at the snack shop, purchased an expensive cigar, and proceeded to the 24th floor to think things over. I put in a wake up call for 8:00am to be prepared to get a good seat poolside. By 11:00 pm not a creature was stirring in room 2414.

“There are two great pleasures in gambling, that of winning and that of losing.” I was having less anxiety about the not drinking part of my plan than the not gambling part. By late Tuesday night I developed an urge to play some blackjack. I have done limited gambling in casinos or sports betting parlors in the past 20 years. By the time I decided on comfortable gaming table it was about 10:30 in the evening. I choose a seat that was on the main floor where the minimum limits were 4 times less than what I normally wagered. I bought into the game for $1,000 and asked the one other player sitting alone on first base if it was O.K. to join him mid shoot. “Come on in, you’ll be sorry,” he chuckled. I pushed my first two chips on the board as the pit boss made his way over to me. “Do you have your players card sir,” I was hesitant realizing I didn’t bring the card I had. ‘I haven’t been here in a while, I forgot my card,’ I said meekly. “No worries give me your license and I’ll print you a new one.” The Hard Rock has three classes of gamblers with three different player cards so the suckers can be clearly identified: Black is for “high rollers”, Silver for “almost high rollers,” and Red is for “average schmuck.” I was involved in two hands, which both caused havoc with numerous splits and double downs. The two hands probably took 10 minutes as the dealer made change, welcomed a new player, and told me to pull my mask up through the barrier between us. Truth was I felt bored, impatient, tentative, and reluctant. The pit boss handed me a red players card and said “Good luck” Although I said nothing, I must have worn a bewildered look. “I guess you’ve been downgraded,” smirked the pit boss. I stayed quiet as a new player showed up on my left. That was my cue to call it night. I pushed my chips forward which were cashed with one $1,000 chip and one 100 dollar chip. I was content to accept my new “regular schmuck” status so myself and my new red player’s card headed upstairs to my room for another good night’s rest.

“Battle not with monsters, lest ye become a monster.” Correct. That is Nietzsche again bringing me back my personal War. Last week’s battle was a premeditated test, a check-up to find out who was in control of my soul. I had traveled into my personal abyss. Like a dragon slayer in mythical times I went into the beast’s belly. I willingly entered the abyss, it was my decision (part of me says courageous, part of me says far too brazen). I faced off with the monsters that I believe have gotten in the way of me reaching my maximum potential. To have goals is a positive thing, but to predict the future is something I leave to the soothsayers. An old college friend of mine talks often of the skeletons he hears rattling around in his closet. He told me he freezes when he thinks of addressing the past and the discomfort it causes him. Over the years he is usually the one who offers me advice, but in regard to my dilemmas and his skeletons it was me with the recommendation for him. “The only way your monsters can defeat you is if you do nothing.” Isn’t the essence of what Nietzsche was trying to teach us about ourselves? The easiest route in this life is to ignore your demons, to keep moving as if they do not exist, hoping that someday they will go away and die. It is urgent we come to terms with the fact that as long as we live our skeletons live. I went down to Hollywood Fl. to see if I have the fortitude, determination, and ambition left in myself to fight the final battles of my life. I arrived home last Thursday night. “How did you make out,” Donna inquired upon my arrival home. “It absolutely sucked, but I think I won.”

It was long ago, and not that far away, in a time well before anyone understood “Sweet Sixteen” as a basketball reference. In the late 1960’s my dad would often take myself and my brother to the United States Military Academy at West Point. We attended many events at the Point at a variety of venues, but basketball games at the old “Field House” were our favorite. The three of us got to observe the pomp and circumstances of a “full dress parade”, we saw fall football spectaculars at Michie Stadium, we were there a day in the spring of 1968 when Mickey Mantle hit a home run off a pitching plebe in a spring exhibition game the Yankees played at West Point on an annual basis. I don’t know where he got the pull but my father even got myself and my brother to eat a meal in the Army mess hall. For years later we would have a blast mimicking the fork to mouth ritual the cadets endured. As a young eight year old I fell head over heals with the idea that someday I would walk among the echoes of Generals at the place where future leaders of the world were developed. Even at that naive age I was practical enough to realize I was not West Point, or any kind of military, material. There are very few things in my personality that have not evolved to some extent. One of those exceptions is the concept of taking orders from authoritative figures, with no questions asked, was never going to work for me.

Up until 1982 Army’s men basketball team played in what looked like a dilapidated barn. The Gillis Field House was built in the early 1900’s, and since being refurbished is still used by the Army track and field team. My family always referred to it  as the “Old Field House”. I recall feeling a large adrenaline rush walking to games through the blustery winds coming off the Hudson River that bordered the “Field House”. The first time I entered the building I was surprised by the overall vastness of the darkened building. Off in the distance were bright shining lights that I immediately recognized as the arena. Before making our initial trip to an Army basketball game my dad prepped myself and my brother on what to look for. “They have this very young guy who gets extremely excited on the sidelines as their head coach. He rants and raves at his players, the officials, and anyone else who would listen. I hate to say it, but I love the way this guy coaches his team.”  It was 1968, I was eight years old, I was going to turn nine the next day. Walking towards the light of the Basketball court I felt like I was in my own personal Magic Kingdom. “Hey, Richie keep a close eye on the Army coach tonight.” The coach he was talking about was a 25 year old kid in the infant stages of becoming one of the great coaches to ever lead college basketball teams into battle: Robert Montgomery Knight.

I followed my dad’s advice and checked out the spectical that was Bobby Knight, but there was another person in the building who made a far greater impression on my influenceable self. A lean, awkward looking kid with a oversized beak would turn out to be who I talked about on the car-ride home. “Did you see that guy ‘sheshefski’, both his knees were bleeding from floor burns.” The ‘sheshefski’ I was talking about was Bob Knight’s senior Captain Michael William Krzyzewski.

Yes, that’s correct, the cadet’s name was Mike Krzyzewski who would go on to be the greatest college basketball to ever lace ’em up. Mike Krzyzewski came of age on the hard streets of Chi-town, ending up being the first recruit for a man who would come to be known as ‘The General”. Once you understand the historical connection between the two men you could fairly deduct that the famous Coach K. was bore from the womb of one Bobby Knight. Although the two would be tied at the hip for much of their careers the record books will clearly say that the pupil reached a higher mountain top than his mentor’s best day. On that ride back from West Point on that long ago January night there is no way we could have imagined that we just witnessed two kids who would go on to be arguably the number one and two greatest teachers of the game of hoops in a big old barn hanging on the edge of the Henry Hudson River.

This coming week-end  Captain Mike Krzyzewski, West Point alum. with the big snooze has his 42nd Duke Blue Devils roster headed for the final four for the 13th time. Mike Krzyzewski, now 75, announced his retirement as basketball coach at Duke University before this season began.  After completing his military duties in 1973 Coach K. spent one year working as an assistant at the University of Indiana under his mentor Bob Knight (1974-75), five years as West Point’s head coach (1975-1980…. his record at Army was 73-59), and the remaining 42 years at Duke (1980-2022…. record at Duke 1,129-308, overall 1,202-367). In those years Coach K’s teams won five National Titles, 15 Conference Tournament Championships, 13 Final Fours. His win number stands at 1,202 which is the most of any men’s NCAA basketball coach in any of the three divisions. Most casual hoop fans are aware of Coach K.’s record of brilliance in  terms of victories and championships, but few know that his roots were grown on the windy tough streets of Chicago and the United States Military Academy at West Point. Somebody better get started now if they think they are ever going to touch the incredible resume he built.

Growing up in New Paltz, New York we were a 45 minute car drive to West Point. In the time span from 1975-1980 I found my way to the old Army “Field House” probably 20 times. It was on these occasions I observed a ‘Maestro’ in the making. I’ve been a big fan of the hardwood most of my lifetime, I played college hoops at the Division III level, and coached for seven years in the public school system. Still, to this day I never witnessed any coach who could take any group of lemons he was given and make great lemonade.

Mike Krzyzewski teams at Army were in better condition, better drilled, more prepared, and played the most consistent defense than any other team I observed in my trails as a basketball connoisseur. Back in the late 70’s and early 80’s I was convinced my future was as a teacher and basketball coach. I thought as a coach I wanted to be a blend of General Bob Knight and his star pupil. Every game competed for in the “Field House” was filled with off the charts intensity.  The energy that the Army team put out overflowed to the 5,000 fans that packed around the make-shift basketball court. My favorite part of attending the games came about five minutes before the tip. The Black Knights locker room was located in what appeared to be the rafters. The players would be on the court finishing their final warm-ups. From a place high in the air a single figure could be seen making his way down the longest staircase in the entire universe. Coach K.’s attire included a thin 1960’s tie, a crew cut hair style, and a royal blue suit. The hair on the back of my neck would rise as the new young General sauntered to the battle field in front of him. The crowd roared but I was sure Coach K. couldn’t hear a sound.

This week-end the final four tips off in New Orleans and the big story is Coach K. hunting for a “swan song” sixth National Championship. My compulsion for professional and college sports has waned in the past decade, but Saturday at 8:37 pm I will be glued to my television rooting hard for one more game Monday night. To get to the final on Monday Krzyzewski’s Blue Devils will have to find an answer for Coach K.’s long time nemesis, and Duke’s arch rivals, the North Carolina Tar Heels. If ever there was a more anticipated college basketball game I can not recall it. When Coach K. moves towards the bench to do his duties, for possibly the last time, I will not see a bloated, limping, 75 year old grandfather sprinkling positive energy everywhere as if he were the zen master “Yoda.” My eyes will look past the screen in front of me and back to my formative years where I’ll see a Black Knight wearing number 12 diving right at me going for a loose ball. I’ll see a 27 year old man pounding his palms on the floor imploring his team to find an even higher level on the defensive end. I’ll see myself in the “field house” as a little boy focused on the bench jockey’s every move, thinking that one fine day I would be coaching a team with the same unlimited passion of Mike Krzyzewski. Still, today when I visit “The Point”  I hear the echoes of the great Generals who made their bones on the shores of the Hudson. I often reflect on the band of legendary coaches spawned at Army: Vince Lombardi, Bill Parcells, Bob Knight, and Earl Blaik. Now the kid from Chicago is walking away after 50 years of working his craft with more efficiency than all that went before him. Late Monday night, in the bowels of a New Orleans arena, after winning his sixth National Championship, a reporter will ask Coach K. where he honed his skills. I think the old Captain in the Army will give the reporter his classic friendly smirk before saying: “A old barn down by the river.”