Uncategorized

It was a crisp Saturday in the Autumn of 1970. My mom dropped me off in the parking lot of the old Stewart’s, or maybe it was Friendly’s, and said, “I’ll pick you up right here after the game is over.” As I crossed South Manheim Boulevald, looking straight at what had been the old High School, now the Middle School, I could hear the marching band playing their pre-game routine. For a ten year old wanna-be athlete the electricity was hair raising. In small town America Saturday afternoon football games was as big as it gets. The New Paltz High School gridders were preparing to take on our neighborly rivals the Highland Huskies. The closer I got to the Middle School Football Field the louder the buzz became. “We’re from New Paltz, we couldn’t be any prouder, and if you can’t hear us we’ll yell a little louder,” chanted a group of teenage goddess’s in short skirts. It wasn’t long before Jay Ackert was handing off an I-right 151 to George Clark, who lived right down the road from me and became my guardian angel on the school bus. Of course everyone knew Jay Ackert, a three sport star for the Huguenots football, basketball and baseball teams. As an aspiring young athlete who just moved to New Paltz is was very important to know the players you admired from afar. These were the gladiators you would mimic and come to idolize. Standing alone on the sidelines, in street clothes with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth, an entrenched scowl, and a 1970’s comb over was a man who to a ten year old looked to be at least 50. “That’s Mr. Ford, he’s the head coach,” said a bigger kid who was standing next to me.

John Ford, who came to New Paltz in 1964, fresh out of Niagara College, passed away Saturday morning after a long bout with cancer. He was hired as a social studies teacher, assistant football coach, and J.V. basketball coach. It was evident early on that his passion centered around all things football. By 1970, at the age of 29, Coach Ford became the varsity football coach and would remain in that position for 13 years. The first five years were rocky for the young coach while he was slowly building a consistent program from top to bottom. The most zealous of the parents whose kids played under Ford in the early 70’s would stand on top of the hill and scream: “Fire Ford!” Or “Run it up the middle, Ford, ya bum, ya bum ya!” Yes parent rage was alive and well in New Paltz and Coach Ford got a good dose from the know-it-alls in the stands. But John Ford’s greatest strengths turned out to be his consistency and persistence. He built a program where the kids from seventh grade on up were running the same plays.  By the time the that first class of seventh graders were seniors it was 1975 the New Paltz High School football program had established a winning tradition. “What did you think of the game Saturday?” Mr. Ford asked me as I sat in his ninth grade global studies class.” The Huguenots had upset a Jim Merriken (went on to play four seasons at West Point) led Red Hook team in a thriller. “I thought you should have let Beck throw more”, I said with a straight face. Coach gave my response his long hard deep chuckle. “Anything else Siegs,” “yeah you should have had Sciascia running back kickoffs all year.” After about 35 minutes discussing the details of Saturday’s triumph Mr. Ford looked back at the copy of the book in front of him and we spent the last five minutes of class discussing Pearl S. Buck’s ‘The Good Earth.’

It was already halftime of the first game of the 1977 season, and neither team had put any points on the board. With about three minutes remaining in the third quarter senior tailback Randy Freer took a 943 handoff from Todd Krieg and went 60 yards to the end-zone for what turned out to be the only score of the game. The 6-0 victory over Red Hook was the closet game the Huguenots played in an undefeated 9-0 season. John Ford had cemented a winning football tradition at New Paltz . In the next six seasons Coach Ford was able to direct another undefeated team(1980) and had the Huguenots in contention for a title every year after until his retirement from coaching in 1984. Coach Ford’s team’s of the early 1980’s possessed his best (I never heard him concede it) and favorite player Charles Davis. In New Paltz Ford/Davis was our Belicheck/Brady combination. Two of New Paltz’s own joined at the hip in our hometown lore. Charles Davis now calls the commentary for the the big boys of the NFL. Last Saturday I was watching the Bills-Colts playoff game and I hear the announcer say. “I want to send out well wishes to my high school football coach, John Ford, he has been under the weather and we all our praying for a speedy recovery.” Charles told me he got a text from Coach Ford immediately after, “thanks for the shoutout.” Charles went on to express his love for his old mentor. “I knew he was not doing well , and I wanted the world to know his name… and for him to know I was thinking of him. I loved that man. Just like Coach Freer. Giants in my life.”

After leaving the playing field and the classroom behind John Ford became a school administrator. He finished his career at New Paltz as both the Athletic Director and assistant principal. In 1985, seven years out of high school, John Ford named me the varsity basketball coach, thus becoming my boss. To say myself and coach Ford had a cantankerous relationship in our roles would be an understatement. “John you know better than anybody that you need kids committed year round to a sport in order to build a successful program,” I would plead while begging for more open gym time during the off season. “Siegs, if you think you are going to come in here and not follow the rules you won’t be here long. You’re Bobby Knight act isn’t going to make it,” he would say givng me a hard look. “Your priority is football, always was and always will be,” I was at an age when I needed to have the last cutting word. The two of us had that kind of back and forth for four years before John had the final say. “You’re fired.” This was a devastating blow and for a short period of time I felt abandoned by a mentor and betrayed by my own hometown. That old saying “time heals all wounds,” is accurate in most cases. In myself and Coach Ford’s situation it was him who reached out several times to extend an olive branch. To Mr. Ford’s credit the two of us developed a friendship in the years that followed my dismissal. Although we never discussed the details of our tumultuous years together it was obvious we were both capable of putting the past behind us.

“Siegel where are you, hiding under the desk, it’s John Ford I need a favor.” It was probably 2005 and coach Ford came looking for me to help him with his new found passion in retirement. John had been instrumental in the formation of a state football tournament. Now, he was selling ads for the tournament as a part time gig. His heart never left promoting high school football and presenting more opportunities for the students. “Give me what you can Siegs,” he told me as he entered my office. “Just so you know O’Conner gave me $1,000, so I’m expecting $1,500 from an alumni.” I wrote out a check for $500 and we shared a hard laugh. It got to the point in our relationship where he would call me every couple of weeks. It was usually questions about former players or just looking to bullshit. “What’s going on with Schiller and Trump?  I heard you went to Krieg’s daughter’s wedding? How’s your dad and Argo? (Tony A-Z, former A.D. and superintendent in Wallkill).” How do I get a copy of your book?” Underneath his gruff exterior John Ford was a lamb. It was clear in his later years the sense of loyalty he had to everyone that had been part of his New Paltz family. Even a pain in the ass former student and ex employee.

In recent years I would run into Coach Ford at girls gymnastic practices. His granddaughter was starting in the junior program and my girls were on the high school team. Gymnastic practices and meets can stretch for hours giving the two of us time to gossip like a couple of old hens. In one of our sessions watching our girls I asked him what were his happiest moments in his career. “When I first started coaching those fall Saturday’s about ten minutes before the kickoff. I could smell the hot dogs, you could hear the band, and soon there would be a football in the air. I never stopped missing that feeling of the anticipation before the fight ahead.” The first time I laid eyes on John Ford he was in one of the those moments. I still see him on that electric Saturday afternoon in 1970 peering down at the other end of the field where an imposing Highland team was going through their warm-ups. Highland would finish the season undefeated, led by the menacing Monroe brothers, John Barrington and the already legendary coach Lem Atkins.  “Do you remember what you were thinking as you stood on field before the 1970 game against Highland?” I asked John. “Shit, I sure do, I was in awe of the size of Ronnie and Perry Monroe. I liked my team that year but my thought was, ‘how the hell are we going to beat these guys.’  Then I thought about asking Lem for their birth certificates.” We both had a similar chuckle and I told him I was there that day. I told him that I felt like there was nothing going on in world except New Paltz/Highland, Ackert/Monroes, Ford/Atkins.” John Ford just starred into the gymnastic mats in front of him. “Yeah, those were the best days of my life.”

The new day had just begun. It was five minutes passed the end of the old year. As I cruised my sedan down North Front Street I was alone. There were not any film production sets, not a person stirring, not even a mouse. The eateries and shops were shuttered as if anticipating a coming apocalyptic event. I noticed that not a headlight had passed me since I left my house.

If this had been a different Thursday evening in late January, or February, I wouldn’t have given it much thought, but the ball had dropped on the New Year only moments before. In the quiet I could sense the doom of 2020.  At first it seemed a peaceful way to say good bye to a year that was one like none the world has ever seen before. A certain space in time was officially behind us now. We are in the midst of, quite possibly, the worst Pandemic of the prior two centuries. It was understandable that people had retreated to their homes and hideaways on the biggest party night the calendar offered. Along with this strange serenity I felt a sadness for all that was left behind and may never be again. As the scenery remained unchanged along Fair Street, and then down Albany Avenue I wondered when this city, or this country would be ready to celebrate again. After all, wasn’t the worst behind us, shouldn’t we be ready to step out into the night again? It was January first, 2021 and all I could see now in front of me was the empty roads.

By all counts 2020 was a year that the world and most everybody who lives in it will be happy to put in the rear view mirror. The biggest monster of 2020 was the Coronavirus. In February of last year the people of the United States became aware that a virus had come out of Wuhan China. It was carrying a killer strength. It wasn’t long after we were aware of the severity of this plague that the entire United States was shut down to travel, eating out, and even going to work. A mask became a required apparatus to our wardrobes, and getting closer than six feet to anybody was considered a dangerous infringement to our health. The tone was set for a country on edge of mass death. Beyond the fears of the Pandemic was the devastating economic impact on small businesses and the working middle class. On the political front a storm had been brewing since the day Donald Trump walked down the escalator in the summer of 2015. In the beginning of 2020 the rain turned into a hurricane. The president was impeached sending an already firmly divided country on the brink of chaos. When the warm weather came all sporting events and group entertainment, such as concerts, were deep sixed. Finally, in the streets of our major cities our television sets were filled with violent protests dealing with race and politics. All of this was happening as a November presidential election approached. Could it be we’re on the verge of Armageddon?

I continued my drive into the lonely night. As hard I have been making an effort to look ahead, during my search in the morning hours of the new year I allowed myself to look back one more time to try to learn a lesson from the past. I need to position this year in the motivational portion of my brain. A reminder that I am in a stage of my life that, I now more than ever, must practice what I preach to my children: adapt, adjust, and evolve. The world had a bad year in 2020, but the narcissist in me doesn’t worry as much about the rest of the world as I do myself. The facts are 2020 was by far and away the most challenging year I have faced since I was 29. The idea of turning 30 was not the problem back then, but on the other hand turning 60 early in 2020 was the start of a series of life events that spiraled into having a bad effect on my once unflappable good attitude. My father’s passing in April changed me in ways I could have never imagined. It wasn’t until about a month after he was gone that I conceded to myself I had lost my best friend, my muse, my biggest supporter, and most importantly my most honest critic. Everything in my life before his death had been replaceable, and now the guy who prided himself on being prepared for all situations in front of him had to come to terms with how totally unprepared he was without his dad.

Through the tears I started a faint laugh as I could see my 23 year old self listening to my father imparting his spin on the close of the year holiday. “New year’s Eve is amateur night, people go out for a canned meal and an expensive forced thrill. ,” he spouted. I was dying to tell him about this night’s end of the passing year drive, and remind him of that New Year’s eve he told me that. During that same day, back in 1983, my friend Bruce had called me, “Rich, I know it’s late (3:00 pm New Year’s Eve), but let’s be spontaneous, me and Stacey are going to have dinner up at Deanie’s in Woodstock. I’ve got a reservation under Phil Simms and Phil McConkey, get a date and join us.”  ‘Ok, sounds good’, I said as I hung up the phone. I can remember the names of the five girls I called that night who gave me polite (already spoken for) rejections, or excuses. My curious self wonders if any of them recall my arrogance. I know for sure my sixth caller does. ‘Hello Donna, this is Rich Siegel, we met a couple years ago at Joe’s East West. I realize this is late notice, but I would love to take you out for a  New Year’s Eve dinner?’ There was silence on the other end. ‘Well, what do you think it will be fun,’ I stuttered. Then in a matter of fact tone she replied, “Everything I heard about you is true, you’re a total asshole.” Then there was a click. Thank God Donna believed in second chances. Myself, Bruce, and Stacey arrived at Deanie’s at 12:30 am and were greeted with a standing ovation. My dad was right; this night was made for the amateurs.

It was 30 minutes into the new year of 2020 and I still hadn’t found the house I was looking for. As a matter a fact I could not find a single dwelling with a light on. I was driving in circles in one of Kingston’s  maze like neighborhoods looking for a party. At last I came upon a house that seemed to have a veneer of life to it . There were a  couple of cars parked on the street in front of the two story house and the downstairs was well lit. I beeped the horn, a very dangerous thing to do these days at such an ungodly hour, without a response. Finally, I got out of my car finding the courage to ring the doorbell. Still, no reply. Like a cagy cat burgler, or a peeping Tom, I started peering through windows for confirmation that this was the party I was looking for. Through the screened pane on the backside of the house I could see familiar faces. I knocked on the glass just hard enough not to make a crack. I could see was Pat drinking from a bottle of champagne, there was Taylor dancing with her boyfriend, and Corrine playing beer pong with Tori. I had found the place I was looking for. I was truly on the outside looking in as I gave a couple more hard bangs. “It’s only Richie Rich,” I heard Taylor scream. That proclamation was enough for me to head back to the car and resume my role as designated driver for my daughter, Lexi and their boyfriends.

The drive home, through the silent streets, erupted into a one man monologue . ‘Can you guys believe how quiet it is for New Years Eve?  Do you think this is what the future looks like, or is this just merely about Covid and the shock of 2020? Over the years I was never big on partying on New Year’s Eve, Grandpa called it amateur night. It appears the amateurs have turned professional.’ “Dad do you ever shut up?” my daughter queried to a spattering of drunken giggles. She was right, as usual I was overthinking my own self. Only time will tell, but the reality is that 2020 was an aberration. I had far too much “woe is me” going on in my head. Life had been rough on everybody in 2020. Personally, I had let it get the best of me, and had withdrawn inward. I lost a step, a laugh, a free pass. Deep down I still have not found the courage to write about the answers I knew I had. For sure, Covid, losing my dad, business challenges, political divides amongst some friends, and not being able to play golf due to a much needed hip replacement was enough rationale for me to call 2020 a personal disaster. But I am aware that all of the before mentioned are just excuses for not being the best person I can and want to be. They are all obstacles that can either be used to bring you down, or to motivate yourself to greater heights. I turned my car into the driveway, at the same time I turned my mind to 2021. New Year’s resolutions are for amateurs, I am determined to attack 2021 with a resolve like I’ve never known before. Go ahead dad, call me an amateur.

It was getting dark on an autumn Friday evening as the yellow school bus was pulling back into the New Paltz High School parking lot. I still can discern the quiet that completely contradicted any other school bus experience of mine prior to this moment. The players, uniforms on, shoulder pads in hand, filed off one by one. I was sitting alone in the second seat from the front, the coaching staff were the only people between me and the bus driver.

As was the protocol, the coaches watched as each player departed down the steps while searching for their ride home. Within a few minutes the bus was empty except for myself and the driver. “Hey coach, you got a player still here.” Coach Freer made his way up the stairs. “Come on big fella,” I was maybe 5’2 at the time but coach had a habit of calling everyone “big fella”.  As the tears were pouring down my face I could see coach Freer gesture to the driver ‘to give us a minute.’  “You learned a lot today,” I could hear him say over my sniffling. “We’ll look back on this someday and laugh, you’re a good kid, and a good athlete, now let’s move on.”

New Paltz High School’s legendary coach and physical education teacher William Freer passed away this week after a long illness at the age of 78. From the years 1964-1997 every student who passed through the halls of New Paltz High School could probably tell a story about “Coach”. Very few people find their true niche in this life, the ones who never doubt themselves about whether or not they discover their calling. There is little doubt that Coach Freer was born to be a teacher and coach in New Paltz. There was never any pretense with coach, you always knew right where you stood. It took me many years to realize all the valuable lessons I learned by watching Coach Freer do his job during my four years of high school. As a freshman I played on both his J.V. football and basketball teams. He was my physical education teacher all four years. In high school I spent most of my gym time with him learning how to read the racing forum and discussing the plight of his beloved, stuck in a 1970’s quagmire, New York Giant football team.

It wasn’t until I became a teacher and a coach myself that I began to appreciate the essence of Coach Freer. Coaches in high school become father figures to many of the athletes and students. In some instances great coaches replace the father as a role model and confidante. Coach Freer had a style that was totally unique to himself. When crazy coaches like myself modeled themselves after the likes of Bobby Knight or Bill Parcells, Coach Freer was totally an original. His natural personality was easy going and amicable. Before the term “players coach” was fashionable he was exactly that. He believed in second chances, of letting the athlete learn from their mistakes while he subtlety held their hand. You knew he was there for you while never allowing himself to get inappropriately close. Better than any coach I ever played for Coach Freer saw that coaching and teaching at the high school level is a long game. That the lessons of athletics went well beyond winning and losing. He was a voice of reason and common sense to thousands of students and hundreds of athletes in his 35 year career. It seemed to me that he consciously did not let him get himself get too “high” or too “low”. As a young coach he understood that there were years he would have great teams and years that the results would be lean, yet in either season he would maintain the same demeanor and treat each athlete with equal respect. His biggest strength was his consistency. He was a constant in all our lives, the steady “Big Fella”, who was always there for you whether you were on his team or not.

Coach Freer bled New Paltz maroon and white his entire life. He was a star athlete for the Huguenots in the early 50s when he lettered in four sports (football, basketball, baseball, and track). I have heard New Paltz historians claim that he is the last Hugie four sport varsity letterman. Baseball was his biggest passion of all the sports. After being all league at New Paltz he went on to be a catcher for the Cortland Red Dragons where he earned his bachelors degree. After college Coach Freer returned immediately to his hometown to begin his career in education and coaching. As the head baseball coach at New Paltz he won several UCAL, MHAL, and sectional championships. As the assistant head football coach to John Ford he was instrumental in two undefeated seasons; my senior year of 1977 and in 1980. The latter year Charles Davis was the quarterback who I heard coach say “was the best athlete he had the privilege of coaching.”

Later in our years us ex jocks look back at our coaches and we forget a lot in terms of specific games but think more of what we took away from our mentors. It was the winter of 1976 and the J.V. basket ball team was practicing the press breaker in the Middle School gym. I recall a lady with tinted red hair coming in through a door that had been closed. She walked up to coach Freer and handed him a set of keys. They chatted for less than a minute and she was gone. I never saw the woman again and I don’t know if coach did either. What I did know was Coach Freer had two young boys, (Matthew and Michael) that as far as I know, he raised by himself in an apartment over Gardner’s Ireland Corners Restaurant. For me that is his greatest legacy, yes he had many athletes who saw him as a father figure, a mentor, and an ear to lean on. But there was never any doubt about where Coach’s heart was. Matthew and Michael is where Coach Freer did his greatest work.

As the years passed I would bump into Coach from time to time, and always have a nice reunion, catching up on our families and the old days. The last time I saw him was about five years ago. It was at a high school basketball game in Kingston. Coach Freer was with John Ford sitting together in the back row of the bleachers. I had been fired from my job earlier in the day and looked forward to talking with a couple of my old mentors. I didn’t see much of the game that night but I laughed harder than I had in quite sometime reminiscing with the veteran coaches. ‘Hey coach, do you remember the game at Rondout when Kyle Peterson was sick from school and I had to start at quarterback?’ Coach Ford wasn’t there that day long ago but he must have known the story because the two them started laughing hysterically. “I think that was the maddest I ever got in all my years in education,” started coach Freer. “We we losing 14-0 and had the ball down on the goal line. I sent in a 943 crossbuck to the tailback, Randy Freer (no relation) and the next thing I know you’re handing the ball to Dino on a 50 blast,” he was explaining to Coach Ford to refresh his memory of the details. I finished the story for the both of them ‘The play ended the half and you immediately came storming straight at me. You grabbed me by the face mask, said a couple unkind things about my play up to that point and told me that if I ever pulled a stunt like that again it would my last play of any sport ever at New Paltz High.’  Coach Freer quickly jumped in and denied ever being that mean to anyone in his entire career. The three of us went right on laughing. Rest in peace Big Fella.

Here we go again! Let’s see who can connect the lyrics to the songs of the 70’s. Remember no song titles are in the lyrics. Get 15 or more right you are far out groovy. Ten or more and you probably had a sweet collection of 45’s. Under 10 I bet you were a stoner listening to Black Sabbath.

It was fun the first time, so here we go again. Below are 20 song lyrics coming from my tune list. Can you match the words with the song titles? Get 15 right puts you inside my head. Get 10 and I will take your call. Under 10 then you and I are on different wavelengths.

Read the quote and then click it when you are ready for the answer!

It was mid November of 1985 and it was the first day of varsity basketball practice for the Huguenots of New Paltz High School. There was new young coach in town, barking instructions, encouraging, and conjoling, determined to make a good first impression. Equally intense, trying to do the same, was a group of 40 wanna be hoopsters ranging from freshman to seniors. Whether for better or worse it was apparent this neophyte mentor was ready to put his own stamp, and bring a novel approach to the New Paltz High basketball program. The gym was locked off to all observers and there was not an actual basketball anywhere in sight. About halfway through the three hour practice you could hear the 25 year old coach screaming, “This is the stance you will be in on every defensive possession,” as he dropped into a squat. “You lower your butt down, keeping your back as straight as possible while your head and palms are in an upright position. Pretend you are about to sit on a cold toilet seat.” In the middle of this offensive defensive dissertation one of the potential candidates had the gumption to burst out a simple inquiry, “Hey coach are we ever going to play some basketball? I’m at the right try-out? This is basketball practice? It was my initial introduction to Oliver Spencer, who the next day would be known to me from that moment on as “Ollie.”

That effusion didn’t get our relationship off to a good start. Yet, it didn’t take more than two practices to figure out that if I was ever going to be accepted as the voice of this team the first step was going to start with Ollie. In a subtle way I understood quickly that the way to this team’s heart was going to go through Ollie. At the early examinations of my new team Oliver Spencer did not like the kind of player that was going to help New Paltz win games. He wasn’t tall, certainly not quick, and most definitely not strong. Judging by those first few weeks of pre-season practice I could not foresee Ollie getting much playing time. Still, I knew he was not only going to make the varsity but he was going to be an important part of everything we did as a team. Ollie loved basketball, his initial wisecrack aside, I was beginning to notice that Ollie was buying into everything I was preaching. More importantly his teammates were following his lead. Despite trying to maintain my distance and tough guy exterior both Ollie the player, and Ollie the person was beginning to impress me.

He worked hard, he listened, he encouraged others, and to my surprise he began showing signs he could play some hoops. As a young teacher I tried to make sure I didn’t have favorites, but Ollie was becoming one I admitted to only myself. He carried a huge infectious smile, along with an intelligent wit that no matter how much I resisted I couldn’t ignore. “Why did you come back to your alma mater to coach us basketball misfits,” he asked me one day in the coach’s office. At least he had stopped asking these penetrating questions during practice I thought to myself as I shook my head. “That is a good question, I’ll have to think about that one,” was my straight faced retort. I chuckled to my myself ‘that this kid was going to weaken my image.’

By the time the first game of season rolled around Ollie had earned a spot in the starting five. I never asked why him he picked number 33 as his jersey number, I can only guess now it had something to do with a guy named Larry Bird. That first season at New Paltz was a true test of everybody’s involved patience, as we were only able to win three games. Through our struggles Oliver Spencer emerged as one of the better players on the team and it was apparent he would have to be a key component if we were going to improve our record in following campaign. “Ollie you have to play in pick-up games everyday, lift weights, and stay out of trouble,” is what I told him going into the off season. “You’re going to be one of the captains next year so it is important you set a good example for our younger players coming up in the program.” Everyday, from the day after our last game, Ollie would drive his dilapidated light brown box of a car from his grandmother’s house in Rosendale (where he resided) to New Paltz College to get in his hoop runs. I would stop by some nights to watch him honing his skills via the only avenue possible; playing against better competition. Two things happened on those spring evenings: Oliver was developing into the best player he was capable of, and the two of us struck up the beginnings of a friendship.

The following season with Ollie leading the way we won eight games, including a couple of monumental upsets over Wallkill and Ellenville. If not for a few distractions it could have been even better. The kid with limited tools and talent had a good career. He started every game we played during his junior and senior years. Our connection had been built around basketball and now only time would tell what the future would be like for the coach and player going forward.

It wasn’t till our attachment to basketball was over that I began to become acquainted with Ollie’s personal history. The genesis of our relationship took root in the spring of 1987 when myself and my former student went to Boston together to have a tour of Boston University where Ollie had been accepted. Ollie’s biological parents, I learned directly from Ollie on that trip, were everything but conventional. During his years playing for me at New Paltz I only met his mom once and still have never laid eyes on his dad. This is not to say Ollie didn’t love both of them deeply, because he did. His mom was a flower child of the 60’s who Ollie would readily describe as a “classic hippy.” His dad was of the same ilk and even less committed to being a full time parent. One would think with that kind of parental foundation  Ollie could have turned out as a bitter, neglected, and angry young man. It was the opposite; he wore an impressive grin constantly, he had a keen wit to him, he was wise beyond his years, he was the life of the party, and without a doubt the most popular person in every room he entered. Beyond his effervescent persona, he was an excellent student, intelligent, well-read, and a person that I could talk to about a variety of subjects ranging from movies to politics. Ollie loved people and people loved Ollie. After that trip to Boston I was sure the two of us would be loyal lifetime friends. I found a confidant that I could speak as myself about everything (with the except basketball lol)  and knew that my secrets were safe. There isn’t a former player that I had a closer off the court relationship with than Oliver Spencer.

Shortly after he graduated from Boston University Ollie moved to North Carolina. Besides distance, all the life events like marriage, careers, kids, and daily obligations got between our bond for many years. I abandoned teaching and was forced out of coaching at New Paltz. I started a new career in the business world while Ollie started his own ventures in the entrepreneur and purchasing spectrum’s. I believe his first get rich quick scheme was a basketball clothing catalogue that he started with former teammate Cael Lewis. I am not positive but I might have been their first client when Ollie called me up to say “Hey Rich, it’s been a while but I just ordered you 10 sweatshirts and 10 tee shirts that say C.O. Hoops on them.”

Ollie eventually got hitched up and his marriage lasted 1 year without any offspring. We weren’t communicating much in those days but when we did I would tell him he would make the perfect father. At such an early age he understood so many lessons in life that the rest of us our still learning. Boy or girl, healthy or weak, an athlete, or a quiz bowl all-star Ollie’s kids would have been independent, smart, empathetic, with open minds, and certainly the life of all parties. Ollie’s great gift was his mastery of how to love, and how to be loved in return. Unlike hoops, which Ollie had to work at, love came easy for Ollie. Myself, being the classic cynic, asked him one time ‘how do you do it, how do you get everybody to love you, and in turn get everybody to love you back?’

He shot that smirky huge grin at me, “It’s easy, I’m actually a big phony.” That was Ollie, always real with a tongue in cheek twang. He had a special way of turning a phrase that made you laugh, and also think about an inner meaning.

Last summer the two of us met up in downtown Manhattan. He was in the “big apple” for medical treatments related to a cancer that had invaded his body the year before. Ollie picked a cafe right off of Christopher Street on a mid afternoon bright august day. I hadn’t seen him in person for at least five years, the noticeable weight he had lost only made his gigantic smile look wider. Seeing him come through door, light on his feet, looking so positive and vibrant took away any anxiety I had of seeing my old friend in bad spirits. This was the beauty and the pure magic of Ollie. With out stating his objectives Ollie was going to teach his old mentor a few lessons. In our time on this earth everyone  yearns to be loved and we want to receive love back. It sounds so easy yet it is one of the universal human quests that most of us can’t even obtain let alone sustain.  Ollie appreciated it better than anyone I’ve ever known. Loving people came natural to him, and even when his diagnosis looked bleak nothing could get in the way of the love Ollie spread. We stayed in that café for over three hours, talking about everything that had ever mattered in both our lives. We talked about the hope of the future as if we were still two kids back in school.

When I started to get emotional Ollie cut it off fast with reassurance that he was going to beat the cancer. He wanted to talk about about all the wonderful things we were going to do together in the future. During the period of his medical bout Ollie had been chronicling his tales of his therapeutic struggles and of a life well lived. His stories and themes were gracefully written as if he was chatting to his friends. They were funny, they were sad, they made you cry, but mostly they made you laugh at yourself and this crazy world we are a part of. We shook our heads at the fact that later in our years both of us had found our affection and passion in writing. We agreed to collaborate on a book surrounding our experiences coming of age in a small college town. Ollie was meeting his aunt for dinner and I had a long drive back upstate. We left the café together and walked out into the twilight of a darkening New York City. “I love you man,” Ollie blurted out. ‘I love you too, I love you too,’ I repeated. It was the last words we would speak to each other.

Sitting at my computer on a Saturday afternoon listening to my play list, of over 500 songs, I thought it would be fun to add some levity to my writing and these intense times. Everyone’s taste in music varies, mine is predominantly an old school sound. As a writer I am always impressed when I hear lyrics that move me to think about the people and the cadence of my life.  Often music lyrics inspire me to develop the themes for my own prose. I jotted down twenty lyrics from popular songs spanning the last 45 years.

Without using google how many song titles can you name from the provocative verses I have extracted from twenty different iconic songs.
Two hints…..

1. None of the selected lyrics have the title within them.
2. The lyrics are from twenty separate artists (no repeats).

See how you do. If you can get ten correct you can hang with me anytime. If you can’t get five then go on listening to Jazz, Rap, or Opera and leave me alone. lol.
 
Please do not give answers on this post and I will reveal the correct answers in a couple of days.   Again, please no artificial intelligence!