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I grew up in a house on 138 Mountain Rest Road approximately one mile down from the entrance of the Mohonk Spa and Hotel. Located directly across the street from the resorts gatehouse is the Mohonk Golf Course. My family moved to New Paltz in 1967, at the time I thought golf was a game played by the affluent. By the time I turned nine I was allowed to ride my bike any where I wanted as long as I was with my 12 year old brother Gary. It was in the summer of 1969 that we pedaled all the way up the steep hill that led to the Mohonk golf course. The first few times we parked our bikes by what is now the fifth hole which is several hundred yards before the entrance way.  We didn’t have any golf clubs but we would scurry around the woods looking for golf balls in the twilight hours of summer. One night a man came in  a golf cart and asked myself and my brother what we planned on doing with all those balls. We thought for sure he was going to take them and tell us to stay off the property. Instead he offered us a deal. “I’ll give you ten cents for every ball you bring to me as long as you only look for them when there are no golfers on the course.” My brother and I smiled and told the man we have more than a hundred at home. He chuckled and told us to come back tomorrow with the balls. The encounter was my introduction to the golfing community. It also was my first business transaction.

The man who came out to greet us was Robert Pawson. Himself and is wife Lois were long time heads of the golf course. In the summer time they lived in the cottage located right next to what is now the tee box for the  second hole. The Pawson’s were involved in the Mohonk golf course from the early 1950’s through the early 1970’s which is the longest tenure of anybody who worked directly with Mohonk’s golfing operation.

The course was constructed in the late 1800’s, and the golf cottage that acted as the pro shop was built in 1903 and enlarged in 1916. It served as the headquarters for the golf operation until 1980, when the golf shop moved to its current location in the farmhouse on the south side of Mountain Rest Road. It is now a guest rental called “Golf Cottage.” A little known fact is that in 1925 the golf course doubled in size to 18 holes when a second nine was added. The first nine was called the “Rest” course and the second the “Hillside course”. Between 1963-1965 the golf course became two separate nine hole courses and the lower “Bonticou” course was redesigned, but it was too steep for golf carts and therefore not very popular. It closed in 1968 and turned into the Bonticou Ski Center which was operational through the mid 1970’s.

Shortly after the Pawson’s retired Larry Furey and Rob Gutkin were named co-headpros. They opened the farmhouse pro shop and a practice putting green was installed in front of the shop. Larry and Rob were there about five years before Larry became a part owner of New Paltz Golf Course and Rob opened a clubmakers shop in town where he designed custom golfing equipment. Michael Scudder became the pro in 1987 and was there six years. Today the golf shop is run by Juan Weisenberg and the golf course is functioning at full force after a year of limited play due to Covid 19.

My memory of the course is all about an introduction to a lifetime sport that became an intregal part of my future. I look back fondly to many rounds played with my dad at Mohonk. I played there with high school classmates, Eric Ackerly, Kyle Peterson, and Randy Freer. There was a day in the summer of 1975 that myself and Todd Krieg played 72 holes in one day. The coolest thing were the days when me and my brother would head down the mountain on our bikes with a sack of golf balls over our shoulders. We were cruising in the summer darkness without a care in the world.

It has been a few years since professional sports had fell from grace in my world. While my dad was still with us we kept traditions alive that had kept the two of us close no matter the crisis that might be going on within our relationship. In the last 20 years of his life there was not a “Masters Sunday”, or a final round of the U.S Men’s Golf Open that we missed. The latter always fell on Father’s Day. He rooted for Phil, I rooted for Tiger. If Phil had a chance to win he would usually choke, and if Tiger was in the hunt he disappointed my father everytime by destroying all who stood in his way. It was not only golf, we shared football Sundays, and during the baseball season we talked everyday on the phone about our beloved ‘Mets’ and the mutually hated ‘Yankees’. My dad had attended many games at Ebbits Field in his youth while coming of age  on the streets of Brooklyn. Seemingly every October his Dodgers were sent home, defeated in the World Series by the Bronx Bombers. When his ‘Boys of Summer’ headed to Los Angeles my dad immediately adopted the New York Mets as his team. He set his second son up for some early exhuberation pulling for the Mets, but mostly a lifetime of despair. As the years went by myself and my dad never stopped talking sports. It was the bond that was a constant in our relationship.

Although my father and I held together our connection with sports right up until his death, private from him, my interest in watching others compete had been waning for quite some time. I gradually became a bit of a grumpy old man when it came to professional sports. I honestly don’t think me losing my passion for being a fan had anything to do with the fact that my body no longer allowed me to be competitive on the athletic fields, although I am sure it was a factor. I trace the beginning of me losing interest in professional baseball with the Mark McGuire explosion of home runs during the “steroid era”. That was followed by strikes, lockouts, and players sitting out full seasons to negotiate for more millions. As time flew by my favorite players were traded and entire franchises switched cities. Players were skipping college and going straight to the pros and when they got there they were kneeling during the National Anthem. Finally we had no fans in the stands during the Coronavirus enticing me to prefer politics over sports. The final straws for me were watching an old LeBron James flailing around on the floor every time someone touched him, and when professional baseball put a runner on second base to start the 10th inning. It had already gotten to the point that the only thing that kept me checking the standings was to keep up with my conversations with my dad. When he passed last April that was my final cue to put sports in the rearview mirror.

For over a year now I have been reading the newspapers from the front cover to the editorial pages and then tossing them. That was a big change from 40 years of opening tabloids from the back. I rarely say “never” but I had given up on sports being any kind of priority in my life. My immediate family rarely showed much desire to watch golf, football, or baseball on television. Without my dad to commiserate with on a daily basis, plus the reasons I stated above, I didn’t see much point of being a lonely fan. As I stated, Phil Mickelson did not manage to capture my heart, and when Phil turned 50 I had boldly predicted that ‘Phil was officially done winning golf tournaments on the regular tour.’  So, it got my attention when I heard this past May that Phil was in contention to win a major professional golf event (PGA Championship). I tuned in on a beautiful Sunday afternoon to watch and see if Mickelson could temper father time to hold off the young bucks over the treacherous Kiawah Island Golf Course. There were two things that stuck out that made this particular golf Sunday unique from any other I had experienced; my dad wasn’t there to listen to my banter through out the broadcast, and I was actually pulling for Phil to get a win. It was after Phil had hung on to become the oldest golfer to ever win a major event that I understood I was subconsciously channeling my father and all the countless hours I had spent with my dad on the golf course and viewing his lifetime passion on T.V.

In the last few years of his life the conversations me and my dad had in regard to our beloved Mets were regulated to only the positive things that were happening to the Mets. There wasn’t a gluttney of highs for Mets fans with the exception of Jacob deGrom. My dad was not easily impressed with the talents of any athlete. He would say he had seen them all, and unless they were an old Brooklyn Dodger, Jack Nicklaus, Walt Frazier, or Michael Jordan he considered them overrated. But when deGrom won back to back Cy Young awards, with a non supportive team and an unimpressive won lost record for the best pitcher in baseball, he made an exception.

“This guy is special, he is a fragile artist who performs his art at the highest level. Keep an eye on him Rich, it is my experience that when artists peak the perfection doesn’t last long.” Last Wednesday, as the Mets were riding in first place I tuned into the game against the Cubs knowing that deGrom was working on a 28 inning streak of not allowing a run. He also had the lowest Earned Run Average in the history of baseball at this point in the season for a staring pitcher. As I watched his mastery coming out of the tube I was reminded of why I loved sports in the first place. He held the Cubs scoreless in the first three innings, striking out seven of the nine batters he faced. Keith Hernandez, the Mets commentator, a great hitter in his day, marveled at deGrom’s ability to move his pitches with flawless precision. “The hitters are taking the approach, if you can’t hit it, then why swing,” Hernandez said in awe. I called my daughter and her boyfriend into the room having the feeling deGrom was going to make history. It didn’t matter because at the start of the fourth inning Jacob deGrom had left the game with potential problems in his throwing arm. My dad was right about the adroitness of top performers, they are brittle and are constantly on the edge of being a “flash in the pan”.

Three days later as I sat back enjoying a wonderful Father’s Day glued to the exciting finish of the 2021 Men’s United States Open Golf Championship two things dawned on me. The first was something I still have not come to grips with,’I miss my dad’. The second was I had been watching a lot of sports on T.V.  I was happy to see John Rahm win the trophy for “karma’s” sake and for Spain (Rahm was the first Spaniard to win the Men’s U.S. Golf Open). Once Rahm held the trophy high it was time for me to turn on some playoff basketball. Along with myself, my daughter and her boyfriend enjoyed the revival of the Knicks this year. We were happy they made the playoffs for the first time in eight years and rooted hard for them in their five game series defeat by the Atlanta Hawks. While Mary Kate and Shawn found other teams to root for in the playoffs I adopted the Hawks. I found myself enamored by the shortest and skinniest guy on the court in the name of Trae Young. On Father’s Day Young and his brass gang of Hawks were in another tough series on the road, this time against the Philadelphia 76ers. Little, even tiny, by NBA standards, Young plunged into the city of brotherly love with the courage of a gladiator. He gleefully embraced being anointed with the role of the “villian” stepping into the heart of the lion’s den. On the road in a game five he had scored 36 against the Knicks and on this Father’s Day game seven against Philly he put up 21, including ten in the fourth quarter, enroute to the Hawks dramatic victory. The game had been over about five minutes when Trae Young came back out of the locker room doing a striptease and heading into the stands as the disappointed Sixer fans filed out. At first I felt concerned he was doing something unprofessional before I recognized his intent. Trae Young was searching the crowd for his dad. Bare chested he handed his father his victory jersey, the father and son clutched together in a long happy Father’s Day hug.

The practical part of me says my recent fixation on the sporting world is temporary. But on this past Father’s Day I was reconnected to old memories of days gone by of myself and my dad sharing afternoons together rooting on our favorite teams or players. He pulled for Phil, I pulled for Tiger. He always rooted for the Giants in football and my team was whoever I placed a bet on. We’d argued who was better, Mickey, Willie or Duke, Lebron or Michael, Jack or Tiger. Together we saw Bobby Knight and Mike Krzyzewski coach at West Point. We were in the stadium together the day Tom Seaver got his 300th win. Side by side we watched Tom Watson and Jack Nicklaus compete in the U.S. Open at Winged Foot. We shared so many good times watching and talking about sports together. As I got ready to go up stairs to bed Sunday I decided to ring him up for the first time since his death. I told him about Phil Mickelson winning the PGA at age 51, igniting me to think that it was possible to taste youth again. I told him all about Trae Young’s Hawks slaying the Knicks and  the 76ers behind enemy lines. We both always rooted for the ‘David’ of the day to take down Goliath. I shared my analogy of Jacob deGrom painting corners of the strike zone with the efficiency of Vincent Van Gogh drawing sun flowers. I told him how much I missed him, that I had, for the moment, found the passion again for the the sporting world I had grown up in. This past Sunday I could feel my dad sitting besides me listening to me rant and rave about lion’s dens, villians, chokers, and all the stuff that dreams are made of. This Father’s day my dad and me were back in the game.

There are critical factors in this life that are out of our control. At birth we do not get to select our gender, we don’t get to choose our parents, and we don’t get to pick the community where we will come of age.  For all practical purposes my home today is Kingston, New York, but when I have traveled around the world and been asked where I am from, I do not hesitate with my reply: ‘I am from New Paltz, New York.’ No matter how rocky the relationship between myself and my hometown has been over the years, New Paltz will always be ‘Home’. The place where I came of age, the place where I learned to love athletics, the place where I learned to love the arts and the place that I learned their were so many different points of view other than the ones my parents held. It never mattered that after graduating high school I promised myself that I was leaving New Paltz in the dust. It is natural for some of us to narcissistically think we are bigger than the town that raises us. Despite my intensions of world wide fame and glory it turned out that besides four years of college and a couple years living in Orange County ‘New Paltz’ always stayed in my sights. Today I only live 20 minutes from the home I never really left. Last Friday afternoon, as the pandemic was reaching its climax, I hopped in my car and got ready to take a spontaneous visit back to the place that through observation and participation taught me so many valuable lessons in the convoluted game of life.

I hadn’t found my way to Mountain Rest Road since my dad passed last April. As I navigated the winding road and looked to the west at the Catskill mountain range I was reminded of the majesty of the Hudson Valley. I had the feeling of a driver competing in a Grand Prix race with a lead that I was not going to led go of. Before starting my descent I slowed a bit to checkout the entrance to Mohonk on my right and the scenic nine hole golf course where I discovered golf on my left. Mohonk, one of the most spectacular resorts in the world, was the backyard of my childhood. Alone, I crank the music to a sad song about finding your way back home. “All my sorrow, sad tomorrow, take me back to my own home.” About a half mile down the mountain I slowed again to see if the house I grew up in had been razed or was still breathing. It was a strange relief to see a children’s outdoor playground and a basketball hoop outside what use to be the ‘Siegel Family’ residence. Within two to three minutes the terrain was flattening opening up the view to the familiar sight of the Ferrante Family Farms. The corn was freshly planted reminding me of the old saying in regard to corn on the cob: “Knee high by the fourth of July.” The fields seem to go as far as I could see. I looked back to the mountain and saw the landmark tower of Mohonk before I turned the car left onto the Main Street of the village that raised me.

New Paltz on a late Friday afternoon is typically busy with traffic. The cars poor off the Minnewaska and Mohonk mountain ranges following long hikes, mountain climbs, or simply leaf peepers. The cliffs along the Lake Minnewaska ridge are considered the best place in America for beginner rock climbers to hone their trade. It took me ten minutes to make the left hand turn into town before I parked my car along side the relatively new Water Street Market located parallel to the both the Wallkill River and the Rail Trail. I stood on the edge of a street that I had been up and down more than any other thoroughfare in my life. As I waited to cross I looked both ways, to my left I could see the village of my youth and to the right was the old familiar picture that takes a back seat to none. Behind me, right near where I parked the car was Huguenot Street which became a National Historic Landmark in 1960 because it is considered one of, if not the oldest streets in the United States. There are still ten houses on the historic street that are now a combined museum. The houses were built at the turn of the 18th Century by a religious sect of French Huguenots who were fleeing discrimination and religious persecution in Europe. A smirk crossed by face thinking that it wasn’t until I was in high school that I understood why our mascot was something called a Hugie (New Paltz Huguenots).

Not wanting to fight the uptown traffic and bar crowd I walked halfway down the walkway of the market place until I came upon a cozy little tavern called Jar’d Wine Pub. The quaint bar is owned by a former student of mine from back in my teaching and coaching days. The inside was just opened again right after the Covid restrictions had been lifted. Unfortunately, my old friend was taking a holiday and I had to settle for a pour from a gentleman named Matt. There were only three people inside when I entered, a single male, and a couple in their 30’s. New Paltz is not a place where people sit around and stare into their beers without striking up conversation. “Where are you from,” the man who was alone, asked me. Not usually stuck for a response I was silent for a few seconds as if I didn’t understand the question. ‘I grew up in a house about a two miles from here, right below that tower you can see, I said pointing to the famed Mohonk landmark. I went to high school in New Paltz, today I live in the town just north of here called Kingston.’ There may have been a moment of silence before the other male who was with his girlfriend, soon to be wife, chirped up. “You’re just the person we want to talk to. We live in New Jersey, before we get married we are visiting several small towns in upstate New York because we want our kids to be brought up in a town in upstate New York. This weekend we are here to check out New Paltz.’

For the better part of an hour the couple from New Jersey (Mike and Nicole) drilled me with questions about New Paltz. While I am far from proficient in the history of my home town I rarely pass up an opportunity to get nostalgic. From where we were sitting you could see the open farm land that appears to reach the base of the spectacular mountain range. There isn’t another view in this world that makes my eyes mysty. I’ve taken this vision in thousands of times in my life, but the visual had not evoked the kind of emotion that I was feeling talking about my home town. ‘I do not consider myself a world traveler, yet I’ve been around some and it doesn’t get much better than this,’ as I pointed to the pararomic landscape that was before us. The Jersey couple nodding in silence prodding me to continue. ‘Looking back I consider myself one of  the lucky ones to have come of age in this community. My parents were conservative, middle class, second generation immigrants. They met at Pat and Georges bar and restaurant while attending college at New Paltz State. They built a house on the land that extended off of my great grandfathers’ boarding house which was a summer retreat for German immigrants wanting to escape New York City. Growing up I played little league baseball, joined the boys scouts, I learned my religion at the Dutch Reformed Church on Huguenot Street, I saw Vietnam War protests on main street, I got a first hand look at the hippy culture, and I snuck into concerts at Elting Gymnasium that included The Who, The Band, Van Morrison and Jefferson Airplane.’ The couple sat quietly wanting to hear more, but it was time for me to move on.

I wanted to say so much more, but I didn’t want to sound like a member of the Chamber of Commerce. I only lived in New Paltz 18 years, but it will always be home to me. My car crossed over the recently named Carmine Liberto bridge confronting a scene out of a movie. How many times I had been heading West on Route 299 making the right hand turn onto the ‘flats’. It is difficult to understand why people don’t see the inspiration that is right in front of them. I had to leave New Paltz to appreciate all it means to me. I grew up in a historic town filled with culture and diversity. My mind went to the couple in the bar and their exploration to find the right place to raise their family. I was wishing I had made a harder sell to that couple back at Jar’d. I should have told them that they didn’t have look any further, that there was not a better place to call home than New Paltz. Driving over the mountain and back past the entrance to Mohonk resort, a location my brother, who has traveled the world many times, periodically comes on vacation I gave into the my emotions. I pulled off the side at rode and gazed at the valley below. I’ve spent so much energy attempting to leave New Paltz and the truth is I never lost the desire to return. The couple in the bar would be making a wise decision to raise their kids as Huguenots, in a place they would always be proud to call their home town.

• 

• 

The beach attendants were struggling to secure the umbrellas in the soft sand. A strong wind out of the east was causing havoc, especially with the ocean, deeming it off limits for human entry. The unmagnanimous riptide of the world’s largest organism,  a constant rapid fire of crashing waves was creating a sound I long to hear into eternity. The white capped water rushed to my feet only to return back to whence it came. Early in the morning,  the deep blue sea, is a sanctuary to the dreamers, the thinkers, and the writers who sporadically line the beach sharing the same muse. They are alone with their thoughts, their dreams, their reflections, staring in awe into the abyss searching for the horizon, trying to find the words that can make some sort of sense of this enigmatic world we inhabit. If there is one thing that gives an individual a perspective of their significance in this life it is the ocean. The science says the ocean is where we all originate and there comes a day we all return home. Possibly, it is why I have my most clear vision, my sharpest memories, and my heart is fuller. I have this feeling that I have indeed returned all the way home, or at least close enough to touch the serenity I have sought in so many of my lives that came before.

At last I am the tortured proser searching for a unique grain of sand on a beach full of an infinite amount. In the presence of the ocean the words come easier, I see the pain and the joy of the past in the distance. My hopes and dreams of the future seem touchable. James Agee, in his novel ‘A Death in the Family’ makes the point that “we can never go home again.” On the surface this sounds like such a sad message, yet when you stop and contemplate Agee’s words, the “home” he is talking about is that short span of time we are young and innocent. The magical portion of adolescence when we are in the comfort of our parents bosom. That moment, that not all of us are fortunate to share, when we haven’t a care, except for running through the grassy sun filled fields of our youth. The “home” that is the preparatory laboratory, which is the training ground for departure. As the foaming white water approached my bare toes I watched a small seabird picking up a morsel of a snack before flying off to eat in peace. The little fellow did not appear to be intimidated as he flew out over the vastness of a domain that was its abode.

We had come to the home of the seagulls and pelicans, a place where even the proudest amongst us, full of self esteem and self worth, can’t help but to check their egos. A place where left alone, it is possible to make a rare connection to the cosmos. The French philosopher Pierre Hadot has referred to it as the “oceanic feeling”. A sense of belonging to something larger, understanding that “humans things are an infinitesimal point in the enormity.” Facing the ocean there is no place for ego, only the opportunity to reflect on the quintessential questions of who we are and what our purpose is in the crazy scheme of life? In the midst of my reflections, and sunrise aloneness, I was otherwise surrounded by family consisting of my wife, two daughters and their boyfriends. We had traveled from New York and Atlanta respectfully to a secluded waterfront house in Northwest Florida. We were all running away for a variety of reasons including; work, grad school, politics, Covid 19, but mostly the annoying noises of our daily lives. For a broader project I have in recent months been doing some writing in regard to the concept of “home.” Somewhere in the sounds of the roaring waves I was reminded of answers I had heard before. Home is where your heart is. Home is where family is all together as one.

It has been nearly 20 years since my parents and my immediate family went on vacations together. We were so fortunate to be able to have five or six years where my parents were healthy enough to enjoy helping their daughters build castles in the sand. It is still easy to see the look in my mother and father’s eyes holding hands with my girls walking to dinner. There was never anything said but it was easy to read their faces. The look of a couple who had been married, at the time some 45 years, who were reaping the awards of  putting a loving family together. The son who they thought would never grow up raising a beautiful family of his own, a dynamic independent daughter in law who they loved like their own, and two cute, eager little cherubs to spoil excessively. I couldn’t help to think of my mom and dad as I watched Laura and Mary Kate searching for a giant wave while the guys threw the football around on the water’s edge. This life is mostly about suffering and overcoming a constant series of obstacles. It is the days like the one in front of me that makes every inch of pain worth those struggles. I have spent far too much time searching for the perfect wave, waiting for the time when all my problems are behind me. We all know perfection doesn’t exist and our lives would be meaningless without problems to solve.

We all spend so much energy, me included, trying to live life balancing the two popular concepts of; “pay attention to details,” and “don’t sweat the small stuff.” Of course the ideas contradict each other on the surface yet we all understand the importance of implementing both in moderation. At this stage in my life the details are about doctors appointments, perpetuation plans in business, and family. The small stuff that I try to no longer sweat include; car problems, bills, work, and daily time schedules. Although I was wasn’t very good at it, I am a big believer in a long term plan. I would guess I am normal in that I never allowed myself to think or envision life more than a year out. The ‘curve balls’ that get thrown to us all, make it hard to write a script with an ending that we can predict. I am a big fan of happy endings but practical enough to understand nobody escapes disappointment and regret. The sun was reaching it’s zenith for the day and my skin coloring was turning a fiery red. Before I headed back to the house to seek shelter from the rays I watched two pelicans dive bombing the water in search of their prey. After five or six dives the pelicans had their fill and headed off to swoon over their boundless empire, and I headed back to my ocean home.

According to google the ocean makes up appoximately 65% of the earth’s surface. The human body is made up of 65% water. I am not much of a scientist but those two facts are enough evidence to convince me that we were spawned by the ocean, and to the ocean our physical remains will return. ” How far we all come from ourselves, so far, so much inbetween, you can never go home again,” James Agee wrote. In a very personal way those words have haunted me since I read them in my junior year of college taking a literature class. Most of us spend ample time in our lives attempting to get away from home only to find once we leave an immediate search to find our way back. The ocean has a way of putting our significangce in this life into perspective. For a very short time humans get a chance to be part of a universe that is infinite. Throughout our living years we toil in day to day activities trying to make ourselves better, our families stronger. I am convinced life has meaning and we all have a purpose. Still, sitting in front of God’s most amazing creation I found myself challenging Agee’s assertion. As I looked over to Donna getting drenched by the warmth of the sun and my favorite four adults within view, I knew I had finally come all the way home.

The closest parking spot at the Albany New York International Airport was a half of a mile away from the United Airline terminal. The all of a sudden crowded conditions were a combination of two separate items. It was the week of the Lord’s ressurection which is traditionally one of the busiest travel weeks of the year. Secondly, it appears the noose of the Coronavirus around our neck’s is finally loosening. It was apparent that a large contingent of New Yorkers were prepared to put their Coronavirus fears away and get back to the life they once knew. It has been a full year since the people of this country have been restricted by a virus delivered to the world via China. A virus that has become weaponized not only for the physical damage it can cause but also for deep seated political reasons. A virus that has changed the fabric of this country in too many destructive ways. Since last March people all over the world have been running for shelter from a disease that is particulary diabolical toward the elderly. Many of the United States citizens who are venturing out have turned into control freak volunteer police. At 7:20 am, March 31, 2021 myself and a traveling companion boarded a United Airlines flight heading south. We were escaping our dark, fear mongering, desolate home state and heading to a life style we used to know.

We were on our way to the “poor man’s” section of South Florida looking to escape the quiet that has taken over New York State this past year. The taxi moved over the rise in the road that led to the Atlantic Ocean. Fort Lauderdale beach was filled with college spring breakers, vacationing families, and flocks of old northerners searching for some noise. As the cab made a left onto Ft. Lauderdale Beach Boulevard there was zero doubt we were no longer in New York anymore, Toto. My friend stared out the window in awe at the bodies that were spilling out of the watering holes and into the street.  Live music could be heard blasting out of the amps and into the Florida sunshine. We were greeted at our hotel by warm friendly hosts who made us feel like welcomed guests and not like lepers who should be quarantining. “Our entire facility, all restaurants, bars, pools, and spas are fully open. Please wear a mask in common areas of the hotel. Otherwise have a great time.” There were not hand out sheets telling us where we should stand, how early the bars closed, or what time we needed to be in our rooms. It was obvious we were in a territory that was attempting to treat the formerly quarantined sheep like humans. Unlike the totalitarian state of Cuomo, Florida has a Governor who understands we’re smart enough to make our own safety decisions.

The sun was all alone now, there wasn’t a cloud in sight. My face was absorbing the vitamin D like a sponge. The long cold lonely winter was in the past now. The worst was behind us, we were returning to an atmosphere not controlled by Covid and the so-called health experts. Right from the start of the Pandemic, Florida’s approach to the the Covid 19 has been in stark contrast to my home state. There were scantily clothed bodies in the sand searching for the perfect tan, surfers perusing the ocean for the perfect wave, elderly couples barefooted holding hands walking along the surf. There was a vibe of happy people enjoying the spring break leading up to Easter weekend. There wasn’t a mask to be seen on the beach. The citizen corona police were no where to be found. Not once during our trip did anybody yell at me to pull my mask up or suggest that I was invading their space. The sun worshippers kept a common sense distance and there there was an overall attitude of mutual respect and understanding. Laying back in my lounge chair, fixated on the powerful ocean I soon forgot that back in New York kids are still not in school and the timid remain in their basements awaiting orders from Dr. FooChi. The Pandemic took a toll on all of us. Above the steady clapping of waves there was only one voice I was going to being listening to from here on in regarding Covid; my own.

Around twilight myself and my friend were looking to grab a relaxed meal somewhere on the Boulevard adjacent to the ocean. The maskless college students were not waiting for any official word on the end of social distancing. They were dancing close and holding each other tight with very little clothing on and not a mask in sight. We waited on line at Bubba Gump’s to get two seats at a crowed bar. In a straight forward tone my friend laughed “Are we in the same country?” Florida was sending a message that this pandemic was over for them and it was time to take chances and make your own educated decisions. Back at our hotel I enjoyed a cigar and a cosmo on an outside deck. It was a perfect view to safely watch the shenanigans going on below me. The cars and motorcycles revved their engines in drag race style I would assume, to represent fearless independence and freedom. It was past 11pm when I pushed the remains of my cigar into the ashtray and made my way to bed. The downstairs bar was still filled and the band rocked on. A year and a half ago all of this would not have been a big deal. In New York we are still in the mist of draconian government rules and regulations. By 8:00 pm New York City streets still have a post apocalyptic atmosphere. The Floridians and the road warriors have found that life truly goes on in the sunshine state.

After 5 days of sun and respite, free from Coronavirus citizen police it was time to head home. Judging by the lines going through check in and security you would have to guess that people are back flying the friendly skies. Our United Airlines flight was filled to capacity. I nudged my way into a middle seat in the coach section already sensing my civil liberties under attack. “Pull your mask up tighter,” was my greeting from the mate on my left. “There will be no food service on this flight, when you take a sip of your water you may pull your mask down and then immediately pull it back up,” announced the flight attendant. My road mate gave me the signal to stay calm, ‘yeah, yeah, it was nice while it lasted,’ I whispered back with a forced grin. I dug into Dr. Scott Peck’s book ‘the Road Less Traveled’  while I took three deep breaths into my sweating irratated face. Peck helped to make the three hour flight, stuck in the middle, seem much shorter. My friend and ‘the unfriendly shmoe next to me each occupied an armrest , leaving me no choice but to sit in a mummy like position as I read about the importance of individual accountability.

Back in New York it had already turned to Monday morning. Myself and my friend wandered far out into the airport parking lot muttering in unison, “It can’t be this far,” Finally, in parking lot Z we located our ride. On the excursion home we laughed about what a good time we had and how different the atmosphere, in regard to the Pandemic, was in Florida. It was quite obvious now that the Governor of New York and the Governor of Florida have two entirely different approaches to the on going Pandemic. Governor Ron DeSantis’s approach from the beginning of the Pandemic has been focused on the most vulnerable amongst us, which clearly is the elderly and the nursing home patients. DeSantis has taken to a light touch on government restrictions to try to get through this crisis with the minimum economic damage. After a year the evidence says Florida’s death rate from Covid 19 is about the national average, while Florida’s economy is in much better shape than New York’s. One sure thing about this Pandemic is that nobody has had the right answers. The contrast in methods between two states was clear as day in my recent trip to the south. Only history will tell us which approach was more effective in the end. Monday evening I made my daily jaunt to Hannaford. My mask was securely on under by tanned skinned as I bounced through the aisles determined to have a positive attitude moving forward. “Hey you’re walking the wrong way, can’t you see the arrows?” I stopped in my tracks and was faced with a moment of decision. ‘Oh, I am sorry,’ and turned around like a trained animal.’ My new motto is “go along to get along.”

The natural light had faded on the grand ole city. The line of limosines were stretched for three blocks almost reaching 8th Avenue. It was still three hours before the bell would sound to begin the most anticipated war of the 20th Century. Frank Sinatra, commissioned by ‘Life’ magazine to take pictures, stepped out of is ride in front of Penn Station with a camera draped over his neck. Walt “Clyde” Frazier, having just led the Knickerbockers to a World Championship a year earlier, could be seen leaving his Manhattan pad at The New Yorker Hotel beginning his short walk over to Madison Garden. Diane Ross, President Nixon, and astronaut Buzz Aldrin were more discrete slithering through side entrances to get securely inside the world’s most famous mecca. The constant current of the energy felt in midtown was exaggerated. There was an electric storm brewing in the front of Pennsylvania Plaza. It was March 8, 1971, a lifetime ago, two of the greatest heavyweight boxers ever to put gloves on were just hours away from settling a score that transcended a common sporting event. Muhammad Ali, the graceful light-footed carnival barker out of Louisville, Kentucky, was trying to get back his heavyweight boxing crown. It was a title that had been stripped from him stemming from his opposition to the Vietnam War. In the other corner was Smokin’ Joe Frazier, the brawler from the hard streets of Philadelphia determined to stop his foil on this earth from taking his belt.

A few minutes before 10:00 pm, in red shorts with white trim , 29 year Muhammad Ali emerged from a tunnel on the west side of The Garden. His gloves were raised in the air as he was serenaded to chants of “Ali, Ali, Ali!!” A figure emerged from an east end tunnel dressed in lime green with gold trim trunks. It was the reigning Heavyweight Champion of the world Joe Frazier. Two great warriors, two legends of our time were now about to be pitted against each other in arguably the biggest battle between two men since Cain and Abel. Going into the bout both men were undefeated and had never been knocked to the canvas. Muhammad Ali, born Cassius Clay, knocked out Sonny Listen in 1964 to become the undisputed Heavy Weight Champion of the world. In 1967 Ali was convicted of dodging the draft. His title was taken away without a glove being laid on him.  Frazier became champ in 1970 and was the man that was blocking Ali’s quest to get back what had been ripped from him. At the time of the fight the public was divided approximately 50-50 on who they wanted to prevail. Frazier was seen as the establishment’s champion. Joe Frazier was a man standing for the American flag, Christianity, and President Richard Nixon. Ali was known as the “Man of the People” to all that fell in love with his mystique. To his distractors Ali was a radical American Muslim who had betrayed his country by refusing to fight in Southeast Asia.

Although the two had a mutual respect for each other prior to their first fight being scheduled (Frazier helped Ali financially during the former champ’s exile from the ring) the media circus that was built leading up to fight would cause scars for both men that had nothing to do with physical punches being exchanged. Ali was the classic showman, talking in rhymes and insults that Frazier believed hit below the belt.

“Frazier ain’t nothing but a “Uncle Tom, he ain’t black, he just does a dance for the white man.” Smokin’ Joe in turn refused to call Ali by his Muslim name. Instead Frazier called him “Cassius Clay, the traitor to America.” By the time the fight came around the two combatants developed a personal hatred for each other that was very real. When you look at highlights of the fight it is apparent each fighter went into the ring with the intent of maming the other. “I’m prepared to leave my life in that ring,” Frazier said in the days prior to fight.

“I am going to whoop that ugly Gorilla Joe Frazier so bad he will be begging for his life. The man stole the title that is rightfully mine, it’s time for him to be punished for his crime.”  It was hard to tell how much of the rhetoric was part of the show and how much of the insults were pure animosity between two men who both felt they were the true champion of the people. Because of the circumstances of the time in American history and the contrast of personalities between the two men the fight was billed as the “The Fight of the Century”. To this day I cannot think of an event that lived up to the massive hype the way Frazier/Ali I did. Two heavyweights fighting for principles, fighting for their large armies of supporters, and fighting for their own lives.

There wasn’t one student in my fifth grade class who didn’t pick a side in this classic bout.

My best friend, Kevin Kenyon , and my teacher Ms. Meng were big Ali fans. I was a Frazier man. My parents were conservatives who didn’t find Ali’s act amusing. They were Nixon Republicans who supported the war in Vietnam and looked at Ali as an unpatriotic draft dodger. At age 11 I wasn’t ready to embrace a contrarian and maverick such as Ali. Joe Frazier seemed like a hard working honest guy who had been unmercifully insulted by is old friend and commrade. Ali, in my opinion had gone over the line with the lack of respect he showed Frazier. In my little world of the “Campus School” in New Paltz New York Ali carried more support than Frazier. Ali was the voice of the anti-establishment. If you were against the Vietnam war and Richard Nixon you were probably a fan of Ali. 

Frazier was the lunch bucket  boxer with a low center of gravity who never stopped pursuing his opponent inside the ring. He was a fierce puncher who stalked his prey unrelentlessly inside the ropes. Going into the bout Frazier was 26-0 with 23 TKO’s. Ali was tall and handsome as heavyweight boxers go. He appeared the opposite of Frazier as he glided around the boxing canvas like a tadpole skipping on a pond. His lightness hid the power and speed of the man. As much as I rooted for Frazier I couldn’t help notice the magical foot movements, quick hands, and rhythmic glide. He was an original and there will never be another Muhammad Ali.

My bedtime on school nights in 1971 was 9:00pm. The fight was on a Monday with a scheduled 10:00pm start. By the time the ring announcers introduced the fighters it was closer to 10:30pm. There was no television coverage with the exception of closed circuit pay per view. Under my bed covers with my Met game transistor radio I was able to find a feed that provided round by round updates. On rare occasions events with super high expectations actually exceed them. Through 14 rounds the judges had the fight very close, giving Frazier a very slight advantage.

This is all I knew as I laid in my bed waiting for the results of the final round. “Frazier connected with a left hook straight out of south Philly to begin the 15th round that put Ali onto the mat,” the radio announcer declared. Ali’s trainer Angelo Dundee would later say Ali tripped and easily bounced back up. Nonetheless the knock down propelled Smokin’ Joe to a unanimous decision and he retained his title in what  would be described by most of the boxing community as the greatest fight of all time. It turned out both men would never fully recover from the beatings they imposed on each other that March night. They would go on to fight each other two more times, Ali won both. The rematch returned to Madison Square Garden in 1974 and the finale was the “Thriller in Manilla” in 1975.

The two men left their entire beings inside the ropes in the those three bouts. But it is the night of March 8th, 50 years ago tonight that will continue to hold a special place in history. A night when hype and unfettered anticipation of an event met all of our expectations, and more. Two great champions in the greatest arena in the world trying to destroy the other. Two men from similar backgrounds believing in their own way they were fighting for principle, even justice. It was years later that I  watched the fight in its entirety. What I saw was two proud warriors leaving every ounce of energy they had on the New York canvas. In proper perspective it is fair to conclude that both men died early deaths because of what they left behind on the ropes at the garden that night. In the days after the fight the pictures in the tabloids and Sports Illustrated told the story of the two champions future. Both men looked like they had through hell and back. There was no way they would ever be the same. It was evident this was a climax in a sense, they had given this war too much. They both entered that ring prepared to trade death for victory. Their sacrifices may have been lost on themselves but the memories that they left for history will not soon be forgotten. They were the gladiators of our lifetime and we all know that our heroes primes are fleeting.

To my eyes the photograph is not impressive. The black and white film only makes it look dreary and old. The snapshot has been in my dwelling’s downstairs family room for 25 years. During that time I don’t recall giving it a thought. It was not until my recent hibernation that I even remembered it being there. During the midst of my holiday funk I spent way too much time aimlessly walking around the house in an attempt to exercise my completed hip replacement. It was during one of these strolls that I stopped and looked at this ancient framed glossy.  ‘Why in the world had I let this picture stay in public view for so long?’ I looked like a malnourished waif with long, stringy, unkepmt hair. ‘I can’t believe I was that short and skinny,’ I said to myself with a cringe.  Why I had let such an unattractive view of myself hang around for all these years? I took the photo from the shelf and held it closely to my face. It was taken on January 30, 1976, one day before I turned 16. New Paltz High School was playing Pine Bush High School in New Paltz’s  recently named, Larry Johnson Memorial Gymnasium. The longer I transfixed on this picture, the more I loathed my physical appearance. Just when I was contemplating hiding it in the cabinet I began to see beyond myself. My perspective of the picture suddenly was altered. Sometimes in life moments connect both the past and the future. You’re lucky in this lifetime if you are able to capture one.

The guy at the scorers table running the clock with a black mustache is Ed Beck. At the time he was the owner of Pat and Georges restaurant located in the hub of New Paltz. Ed is still alive and his son (Mike) and grandchildren now own the famous New Paltz landmark. Mr. Beck had been the clock operator for both the football and basketball games at New Paltz High through the time his son Mike starred in three sports. Mr. Beck was quite a character. He had a quick wit to go along with a joke for whatever the occasion called for.  As a shot clock operator he was the best “homer” in the league. If we had the ball with five seconds  left in the game, or half, I would hear him whisper to our coach. “You’ve got about eight seconds to get the shot off.” If the situation was reversed the opposition only had three seconds to do their work with.

The few times I spoke to Mr. Beck were memorable. It was forty years later when I was thinking of a title for an autobiographical book I had just written and one of Ed Beck’s story’s of long ago came to mind. A young man had told Ed that when he reached adulthood he wanted to be just like him (Mr. Beck), to which Ed’s fast response was, “Son, you can’t do both.” Surprisingly, I didn’t learn until many years later that Ed Beck was there the night my father met my mother in P and G’s in 1954. Not only did he introduce my parents but Ed turned out to be my father’s best man. Ed Beck is 86 and still hitting life hard. His grandson and myself are part owners of a golf course that is adjacent to my house. The deeper I looked into the picture the sharper my memories became.

John Wirth is the man sitting on the bench close to me with a towel in hand. He was my middle school physical education teacher. He also was my coach when I was the quarterback of the 8th grade football team, and my coach for 8th grade basketball. Exactly two years before, from the day this picture was taken John Wirth was sitting at a downstairs bar stool in my parents house. At the time he was the 8th grade basketball coach and I had a party for the basketball team after we had defeated Rondout earlier in the day. After the players had gone home my father and coach Wirth were on their third or fourth scotch and I was sitting on the  staircase, out of sight, listening to their conversation. “I think I have a shot to be the Varsity Coach next year,” I could hear Coach Wirth saying from my perch on the steps that led to my downstairs family room. John Wirth found his way to New Paltz via a small Indiana town.

His dream was to be a gym teacher and be a head varsity basketball coach. The picture is proof that his dream came true, although short lived. The night this picture was taken he was in his second year of coaching the New Paltz varsity. His first year had been quite successful led by a core group of seniors and a talented junior named Lorenzo Simmons.  But in his second year the roof caved in on coach Wirth and the basketball program. The season was filled with losing and player suspensions. This was my fifth game on the varsity and John Wirth’s last game he would ever coach. John Wirth was 32 at the time with three young boys and a wife. Within a year of resigning his coaching position he was divorced and at by the time he was 50 he passed away from the complications related to alcohol.

Pine Bush N.Y. to us cool cosmopolitan kids from New Paltz was known as “farm boy country.” Pine Bush was a geographically vast, yet scarcely populated school district located at the far southwestern tip of Ulster County. On the “Bushmen” bench at the moment this picture was taken is Bob Peay (first in on the Pine Bush bench sporting a mustache) and Jim Caputo (siting in the middle of the bench, 4th down, watching the cheerleaders). There was no way of knowing on that night, but approximately six years into the future I would be starting my first year in Pine Bush as a history teacher.

Both of the fore mentioned men would become my colleagues and friends. Bob Peay graduating from Middletown High School before attending Yale University. He was both a literature buff and a sports fanatic making it easy for the two of us to have a fast and lasting connection. Bob would always openly pick on me whether it was in private or in front of others students. “There goes Siegel, thinks he’s smart, but he’ll never be anything more than a career jock. What’s the last book you read Siegs?” he would ask me in front of faculty members. He seemed to have a hard on for me and I loved every minute of the attention. In our quieter moments together over a beer at the Erie House he would encourage me to write and to read the classics. Bob Peay passed away October 17, 2019. I hadn’t seen in 25 years. Jim Caputo just recently retired from the Pine Bush School District where he was a teacher and a coach. Coach Caputo was one of many of the excellent staff I worked with in Pine bush that made the five years I taught there memorable.

Leaning against the matting, as he was known to do at every New Paltz basketball game is Pat Masson, my 10th grade English teacher (white shirt, mustache). Mr. Masson chaperoned the ball games from the time I was 10 years old all the way through the years I coached at New Paltz. When I rank the top five teachers of my youth Pat Masson might be number one. Mr. Masson came to New Paltz at the age of 23 to teach high school English and coach football. He probably never imagined when he left his Pennsylvania home that New Paltz New York would be the place he would spend the greatest portion of his life.

During my high school years when I showed some interest in writing I leaned on Mr. Masson. “Rich if you want to be your best self you have to work harder than 99% of the others,” he said to me one day in study hall after I turned in a sloppy piece of work. “If you want to be a writer you have put forth your best every time.” I was a lazy kid then, looking for the easy out, but Mr. Masson believed in me more than any teacher I ever had. His impact on me wasn’t immediate. As the years went on I would hear his voice from time to time and it was always straight forward wisdom that I could apply to the situation in front of. I remember him saying to me in class the day after the game. “Nice game for a 5’3 varsity player, now if you could learn to pass you might develop into a good ball player.” It was eight years later that I came back to New Paltz to coach the varsity basketball team. Pat Masson was still standing where he is in the photo. His son played for me for four years. Steve Masson was great passer and outstanding young man. He followed in his father’s footstep and became an English teacher in the Highland School District.

One snap shot on a long ago January night  captured a moment when all eyes were on the smallest player on the floor. Photography has the magical power to make our lives standstill for a split second in time. Photographs hide in our bookshelves, albums, and  scrapbooks waiting for us to remember the past. The pictures tell the stories of our lives. Sometimes they bring back sad memories of friends and mentors gone too soon, or of a time period in our lives we would prefer to forget. And sometimes photos, we haven’t seen in years, can make us recall people and events that we had put in the further recesses of or our mind’s long ago. It was 45 years since I gazed into a print I had walked by a thousand times and never took the time to let the moment come back to me. I could see Mr. Wirth, Mr. Beck, Mr.Masson, Jim Caputo and Bob Peay. It was fun to think about how this photo ended up connecting my past with what would be my future. I stared hard at the kid in the picture. He was so fragile, so skinny, he was a boy competing against men. What would become of this scrawny kid in the multiple colored floppy socks? No photo can see into the future but when I looked deeper into the eyes of the kid with the ball I felt better for him. My head was up and I was just beginning to gain my stride.