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Approximately one mile north of the hamlet of New Paltz the music was crashing out of the amplifiers. The summer of 1978 had officially started only a few days prior. Orleans, a Woodstock, NY-bred rock band, who had recorded their share of top ten singles, was playing to a full house. For an 18 year old, small town jock, working his first night behind the bar, this was as good as it gets. It was sometime during the final set that I heard her voice over the crowd, “I’ll have a Stoli and soda.” I knew immediately who it was. Almost six feet tall with long blond tresses that fell halfway down her back, with a figure to rival any model on the catwalk; she made an impression that stayed with you. Making every effort to play it straight, I delivered her libation simply stating, “That’s a buck twenty five.” She handed me two George Washington’s and coolly posed the question that kept my attention for years to come. “Are you Rich Siegel?”

By the time she turned 16, Chris Casper had the kind of looks that made any man’s neck swivel. I was playing basketball for New Paltz High School when I first saw her. We were visiting Onteora High in Boiceville, NY when I felt a tap on my shoulder. My teammate Todd Krieg leaned his eyes to the left, “Hey Richie, check it out.” I turned towards the home team’s locker room and let the basketball slip from my hands so it would find its way into the vicinity of Todd’s sighting. The stray hoop was right at her feet as I reached down and straightened myself to be face to face for my forced introduction. It turned out to be more of a face to neck meeting. My six foot frame was about a head below my new acquaintance, who’d had her hands filled with a rack of water bottles. The manager for Onteora’s basketball team had high heels on and was drop dead stunning. “Hi, do you know who I am?” was the best I could stutter. Chris Casper looked at me blankly and continued on her way.

From out of the throngs of drunk teens that summer night in Speakers, she was standing in front of me once more. Only this time she acknowledged knowing who I was. “Yes, I am Richie Siegel, I kind of introduced myself to you this winter.’’ Miss Casper smiled and we shared some small talk about why she was visiting my hometown. I was unaware at the time that one of her friends snapped a polaroid of the two of us during our brief exchange. As it turned out, Chris was in Speakers club that evening to watch her boyfriend Lance Hoppen who was a guitar player for Orleans. She was the most beautiful girl I had ever seen. Twice our paths had crossed in close up settings and yet I was unable to make a lasting connection. I would never see Chris Casper again; still I never got her face out of my mind. Over the years I continued to wonder what could have become of that radiant girl that flashed through my life. I was pretty sure she married Mick Jagger, or maybe Michael Jordan. The girl from Woodstock with the looks of a movie star certainly was destined to live a large life. Maybe she married a rich Sheik, had six kids, and lived in a Saudi Arabian palace. I always wondered about people who grow up fast. Eventually all of us have to run out of time and youth.

I knew where the road began for Chris Casper, I had an idea of where the trail led, but not a clue as to where she would end up. I hadn’t thought much about it in recent years, so when a Facebook friend request came in, it took me a second to grasp who it was. The girl who had been only a vision to me in my youth, was now looking at me in a photograph some 40 years later. Chasing a good story has developed into a passion for me, and I was sure Chris had some stories to tell about the decades that had passed. I wanted to know what she recalled about our brief passing moments. I wanted to hear the highlights of her journey between then and now.

The returned messages came from all the way across the great divide, from the little town of Laguna Hills in California. Today, Chris Casper is a California girl through and through. It turns out her life on the periphery of the rock world was fleeting. She lived with rockers Kane Roberts and Alice Cooper for several years, and owned a private investigator business. At 41, she married a high school football coach, and the two have enjoyed a fulfilled and content life together.

Like all of us, Chris Casper has no choice but to live with the decisions she made along the way. We can never turn back, we can only move forward powered by the past. All those years ago Chris Casper was a barely heard whisper in my ear. She was there, and then she was gone. To hear her story today causes both a smile and a tear. I had always envisioned that bigger-than-life young girl was enamored by my achievements on the basketball court. That she was so star struck, she picked me out in a bar that led to a few blissful rendez- vous’. Her version differs slightly.

Okay, maybe more than slightly. She contends we met one night at a club, snapped a picture together never to see each other again. She did not recall me scoring 50 points against the team for which she was the student manager. She has no recollection of the two of us looking for love under the dashboard lights. It is painfully humbling for me to think  her memory of how it all happened may be better than mine. I have come to understand my past gets more out of focus as I put more and more years behind me.

In the big scheme of things we are here for a flash of time. During our brief moment we have so many choices, so many decisions to make. I am not aware of one person who is here after a dress rehearsal. We, succeed, we fail. We win, we lose. We build, we tear down. For sure, we only go around once. On an individual level when our time on this earth is over, nothing much matters. But while we live everything matters. Chris Casper is all of us. Her journey still has some avenues left. It is human to look back and second guess, to reach into one’s soul and see victory and to see defeat, to see fulfillment and to see emptiness.

One soft summer night, nearly half a century ago Chris Casper and I shared a wink, for just a moment in time. It was inevitable that we headed down the road in opposite directions. Catching up to her in the present is unlikely.  Our points of view on our meeting in Speakers are totally opposite. To me, it was some sort of validation of who I was at the time. To Chris Casper, it was a photograph with a cute guy in a bar while her rocker boyfriend preformed on stage. Still, we share an uncommon bond. Sometimes in my quiet moments, I turn around sensing something sneaking up behind me. When I look back what I see is too blurry to make out any details. What is my reality and what is just my imagination running away from me? Chris Casper convinced me…it really doesn’t matter.

 
Lance Hoppen and Orleans

 

It was November the 12^th, and election day 2016 was  four days in the past. By the time the late fall sun was ready to set behind the Catskill Mountains the crowd of protesters outside of Uncle Willy’s Tavern had dissipated to a few  . The gathering had started much earlier in the day . At its’ height there were as many as 50 who took to the pavement to let the drivers and passengers  in the vehicles that passed know how unhappy they were with the results of America’s vote on the new President.  Their demonstration was  sedentary,  filled with signs and chants. “Dump Trump, We’re still here,” and “He’s not our President, ”rang out  across the corner of Wall and North Front Street.” It wasn’t anger I heard in their voices, it was fear I saw in their faces. A woman with a baby strapped to her back was asked what is it about Donald Trump that makes her so afraid. “Everything, from his position on  gay rights, to him believing the problems with our environment are a hoax. “  Another woman, whose hair happened to be bright yellow spoke  even more vigorously in regards to America’s choice . “ How could this country elect a man whose rhetoric has insulted women, blacks, Mexicans, Muslims and gays.”

The fact is that on Friday January 20^th  2017 Donald J. Trump will be inaugurated  the 45^th President of the United States. Like the pundits, prognosticators, and  mainstream media, the protesters in Kingston N.Y. were both shocked and devastated by the results of the election . “I am so disappointed in the American people,” continued the young lady with the yellow hair.  “ I still am in a state of disbelief.” It could be said that since the Civil war our country has never been so divided .  The divisiveness encompasses  numerous issues: race, immigration, health care, taxes, the second amendment, abortion, and gender.  It is puzzling to realize, President Obama’s popularity is at an all -time high, yet the people did not endorse the continuation of his policies and legacy. It is important to keep in mind that no matter how polarizing  Donald Trump might be, he is  not the second coming of Joseph Stalin, nor is the savior for all the ails us. He is simply an agent of change , who is representative of half  of our populations’    frustration and pain in the way our government has been run. To the rest of Americans he is their worst nightmare in regards to racism, sexism, and totalitarianism .

The educator in me  hopes that there  have been lessons learned from the partition created by the last 18 months of this Presidential election cycle. From a logistics standpoint the process is far too long. The electoral college ,for sure, is an antiquated system, and it  remains hard to trust how our votes are counted. Most important is to try and understand what message was being sent from the ballot box.   The Rust Belt and Middle America , clearly screamed that the working class feels disenfranchised. On the other side  minorities,  the economic poorer class, gays , and various religious sects are terrified of our President elect.  Or as a black friend of mine has said to me , “Make America Great Again,” is code for “Make America White Again.”  Trump received less votes than Mitt Romney did in 2012 and is now the leader of the free world. Hopefully we now understand not to trust polls , and that talking heads on T.V. are not the voice of America. We’ve learned  that the transfer of power is still respected no matter how great the gap in ideology.  Though far from flawless (electoral college, party bias to one candidate over the other, lobbyists and special interest groups) our system is still the best in  the world. We can debate certain specifics but still  our process remains a testament to our founding fathers foresight and to how the principles of democracy work.

As we move forward we will see who the “real” Donald Trump is . The people who did not vote for him think they know. The people who did vote for him hope for change, strength, and compromise. There is no doubt much of his pomposity on the campaign trail gave many groups reason to call him a “hate monger”. It is also true that some of his doctrine hit a nerve of many Americans that feel as though they have been left out. His supporters claim there are two Donald trump’s ; the one running for President, and the one who will be president. Giving him the benefit of the doubt he will be a President of all the people, and given this opportunity he will deliver the things we all want. There isn’t an American who doesn’t want to improve our health care or educational systems. We all want our families to be safe on our own streets and throughout the world. We all want a place to earn a living and be able to provide more for our children. The things we all concur on are far more important than certain social issues that we will never be on the same side of.

Donald Trump will be working with a Republican House and Senate.  Will the probable end to stagnation and grid lock be a good thing? What are some of things that will get done in this country in the next four years. At the very least, two new Supreme Court Judges will be appointed. A wall of some sort will go up between Mexico and the U. S. South West borders. Taxes will go down for  both the rich and the middle class. Obamacare will  be repealed or amended colossally. What about the things that really frighten the 55% Americans that despise Trump ? I choose to take the high road in what will not happen in the next four years . He will not lead us into another conventional  war. Roe vs. Wade will not get overturned. There will not be mass deportation and the break- up of any families already living the United States.  Hillary Clinton will not be prosecuted or persecuted by this new administration. Only time will tell for sure but it is time whether you voted for him or not to give our new leader a chance to lead.

Ironically it was Uncle willy himself who emerged from his Saloon to check out the protesters. “This didn’t happen back in 1976 when I lost the election to Jimmy Carter. We accepted the results and moved on.” He turned his shaking head and retreated to his establishment , but not until he had a last word for the people holding the signs. “Please back up so the patrons can get in to have a drink.” Above the shouts of Americans who thought they couldn’t be heard, the ones who wanted everyone to remember they were still here, were the sounds of the honking cars passing by. Some occupants of the vehicles gave the thumps up and blurted out “Yeah let’s dump Trump.”  Others rolled down their windows and chanted, “Build the wall. “ It was getting dark in Kingston as I turned my back to the commotion and headed west down North Front Street. A boy about 15 was suddenly standing right in front of me. With his hands cupped around his mouth he began taunting the protesters. “Make America Great Again! Make America Great Again!” Now it is time to find out if that is possible.

Over the past 16 years I had run this beach over 100 times. For the first time I can remember, while on one of these excursions, I am not battling a hot morning sun. Today, it’s heavily overcast and any hope of the sun breaking through is minimal.  When you’re spending big bucks so you and your family can search for the perfect tan it certainly isn’t the kind of weather you dream of. Usually my jogs begin around 7:00 am and almost always provides me a time for quiet introspection because I mostly run alone. Recently my knees have not cooperated enough to allow me to do much running but today is an exception. With the clouds laying low my daughter Mary Kate suggests these are the ideal conditions to make our journey across the shore a long one. Never one to pass up a challenge, I embrace the opportunity to hear the rhythmic sounds of the waves and the slow ticking of my dreams as Mary Kate sprints out far ahead.

There is no better place than the ocean to get your mind into a reflective state; to give yourself a chance to look back from where you started and where you’re dreaming about going. As my bare feet pounded into the wet sand I tried to clear my head of the life I left behind in New York.  I tend to get very emotional and evaluative of my place in the world in the proximity of the vastness beside me. In the couple weeks prior to arriving in the Caribbean I had conducted pre-“conversations” interviews with two talented artists chasing their dreams. One was a 46 year woman with three children who still sincerely believes she can be a country western singing star. The other was an 18 year old, Buddy Holly lookalike who is convinced that he is on his way to stardom as a singer, song writer. The meetings made me think of the times long ago when I had my own dreams.  It reminded me where my dreams had gone and, more importantly, the conversations had gotten me to focus on my dreams for tomorrow.

As a kid my dreams were centered on being a sports star. I pictured myself striding up to the 18th green at the Masters with a three shot lead. Or I was on the mound pitching game seven of the World Series. Looking out across the endless sea I chuckled to myself about how quickly I had to put the sporting glory days behind me. My Nashville star told me she had put her childhood dreams aside to raise a family. On the other end of the spectrum, “Buddy Holly” spoke of the certainty of him eventually becoming a star. I listened as he played a set with a band led by local legendary musician who was now in his sixties. Jimmy Eppard is as talented as any musical artist I have ever witnessed in person, yet he is still hammering nails for a living.

I was still running and wondering: When is it time to stop chasing? How do we know when it’s time to move on? By now Mary Kate and I were almost to the other end of the island. She had stopped to wait for me.

“Let’s go all the way to the end,” said my athletic daughter.

I was ready to turn around, but there was no way I was passing up the opportunity to keep running with her. She had so much ahead of her, so much time. On this gray morning it seemed she could run forever. It was the first time I can remember not being able to physically keep up with her youth. We had covered a lot of ground but the distance between us was growing wider. Mary Kate had been waiting several minutes when I reached the far tip of the island.

“Dad you used to be able to keep up,” sighed MK, showing no signs of fatigue.

“I know, I know,” I conceded breathlessly.

Without any further conversation she started running the opposite way from which we came. Her old man had no choice but to start moving and try to catch up.

In many ways I had dreamed of this day, this very moment. A day that years ago I would have bet a large sum of money would never happen. I reminded myself that I was in a place that 30 years prior I had visualized-on vacation with my family on a faraway island. My offspring were no longer children and they were formulating their own dreams now. It was time for them to go on with their lives without me beside them. It was time for me to stay close but always behind. The rest of the day was going to be filled with the stuff my dreams were made of:  A guided Jet Ski tour in the ocean with my older daughter, Laura; writing on the beach; a couple of cold libations; and a beautiful family dinner watching the sunset. Motivated by the notion of what was ahead for the day, I started to run harder.

Tolstoy wrote, “The two strongest warriors are time and patience.” I read that when I was 19 taking a required Russian Literature course. At the time the words gave me reason to pause. Only in the present do I think I have come to understand what he meant. There are time constraints that are universal to everyone. It is for certain that time can, and usually does, expire on our dreams. Instead of being crushed we must find the wisdom to know when to stop chasing the unachievable. We need to develop the patience to understand we have not failed but have just simply run out of time. There are always new dreams to dream. About the time I was absorbing Tolstoy I had accepted my childhood dream of putting on the green jacket at Augusta would never be realized. As I pushed myself to keep moving my legs down the shoreline I caught my second wind. The clouds in the sky were lifting and I sprinted with every bit of energy I had left to catch Mary Kate. It was no use; she was already cooling off in the water.

Although what I dream of these days is far different than the dreams of my adolescence, I’m chasing them with more vigor than ever. I see many grandsons in my future, I see more published books,  and maybe a few more rounds in the 70’s. But mostly I see myself finding serenity and feeing full in a faraway place in the sun.

In the northeast, there always comes a day in the middle of April that spring jumps out in front of you. It makes you feel as if you just walked into a surprise birthday party. The spectacular yellows of the forsythias and daffodils; the brilliant white of the blossoming apple trees, along with the blending gimlet greens of the budding leaves makes even a dying soul feel reborn. On the afternoon of April 15^th as I winded my way along Route 17 along the Beaverkill River, all the hope of spring was in front of me.

I was headed to Ithaca, New York, halfway between arriving and leaving behind all the noise back from whence I came. It was already past the time my youngest daughter, Mary Kate, had expected me.

“I will be there in 45 minutes,” I said to MK over my cell phone. “Yeah, yeah that means an hour,” my wise cracking child snapped back.

Since Mary Kate became a teenager we found our way into a relationship where we do not cut each other any slack. She has struggled living in, what she sometimes believes is, the shadow of her older sister. She has also been intuitive enough to understand that her parents are flawed and her family isn’t like the Walton’s.  I am finally coming to figure out that any tension or anxiety I feel towards MK has to with my realization that her entire persona mirrors her dad as a 19 year old. The past few years as I watch MK going through one of the biggest crossroads in her young life, I also see a young man walking beside her with the same hidden confidence.

In 1979, that young man who  I still catch a glimpse of, was a confused and insecure soul walking the campus of Muhlenberg college in  Allentown Pa. His older brother was a Senior at Brown University with a job, a wife, and a life lined up.  I was in the midst of finding a person I used to know, or one I wanted to become. I had been searching for an easy way, yet I quickly realized everything I was ever going to get out of life was going to come the hard way. In the fall of 1978 I was literally starting from scratch. The first day I stepped on campus I did not know a single person nor had I met anyone prior to my arrival. I struggled to make a Division III basketball team. I was going to class and studying more intensely than I ever had just to get “B”s and “C”s. Against every fiber of my independent bones I pledged a fraternity.  A self- created image of myself as somebody special was evaporating. I was experiencing life as a regular everyday freshman in college, where no one gave a damn about New Paltz, Richie Siegel, or a basketball that said I scored 50 points in one game. Through it all, as emotionally painful as it was for me, I was gaining an understanding that there are times in all our lives we must live in an ordinary world.

By the time I arrived in Ithaca it was only a few minutes before MK and myself were walking downtown to her favorite Mexican restaurant. For mid- April it was unseasonably warm in Ithaca which probably helped diffuse any coolness that existed in our father -daughter relationship. I could sense an opening to tell MK all the things that have been on my mind this past year. As we waited for our table and munched on chips and guacamole I got a chance to hang on her every word. My usually brooding, unsettled daughter was opening up to her dad. She talked about her upcoming field hockey scrimmage that I would be watching the next day. I listened to her tell me about the coaches’ new strategy for the upcoming season. She opened up about her classes, her professors, and her study habits. She went on about her friends and the social scene or in her eyes a lack of one. It was the most conversation the two of had since she was six years old. Even displaying so much positive energy she still talked about longing for something else. In the same sentence, she spoke of transferring to California and who her roommate was going to be next year at Ithaca. I looked across the table at Mary Kate at 19. I was focusing hard to put the memory of this night in a place so I could always retrieve it.

As MK talked into the night I listened harder than I ever had. I was thinking of all the things I wanted to say to her, things I would have loved to hear from my dad in my freshman year at college. At the time I struggled to find who I was and who I wanted to become. Mostly, I want to tell her how proud I am of her. I wanted to say to her that she had proved to herself, her biggest critic, that she had the fortitude and the independence to survive and thrive without her parents. I wanted to tell her how much better she had adjusted to college life than her father did all those years ago. I wanted to tell her how all the trials and tribulations she was having now were all valuable investments to her future. I turned my head away from my daughter’s eyes for a moment to clearly see that angry and scared boy who was many painful years away from becoming a man.

May 1st is always one of my favorite days of the year. It is a day that resonates with hope and possibilities of all that lies ahead. Truly, all things seem possible and all our dreams experience a rebirth. Two weeks past my solo trip to Ithaca I am in my car alone again, only this time headed home. Laura and Donna are in a car tailing me closely while returning MK’s car to Kingston. We had driven up together to have an opportunity for the four of  us to be together for a few days. By the time I reached Roscoe the rain had gotten heavy; still, it did not disturb the bevy of fly fishermen casting their lines in the Beaverkill. I began to think of all the salmon swimming upstream trying to make it home to their birth place.  For the first time I thought about the cycle of life they endured. They started in a stream and found their way to the ocean only go to against the tide back to their home stream to lay their eggs.  I was picturing MK and myself as rebellious salmon swimming hard against the current. We were determined to not let of any of the lines cast get in the way of our journey. It didn’t make sense that we were traveling side by side. I had already been to the ocean and back. I had gotten tangled in so many lines but somehow had found my way home and laid my eggs. MK and myself were rushing through the cold water navigating the fishermen’s traps. I had been through the maze before. I knew the way back, I knew the route of least resistance. I wanted to tell her how to avoid the bait that was in front of her. I had made so many mistakes on my own voyage. If she would just let me help her, if only there was a way to tell her how the hooks floating on the surface had scarred me. My day dream ended as Laura and Donna went zooming by approaching the exit to Liberty. I had to remind myself I was alone and MK was left behind in Ithaca to complete her finals. I couldn’t help but smile knowing she was never going to listen to my tales of trying to head up the river. She was far too busy creating her own path. She is going to all the places I have been. Watching her growth during this year I am confident she will find her way back up stream in much shorter time than her old man. And she will arrive far less damaged.

The radio in the background is always on the Oldies station. I could make out the songs I used to hear when I was a boy being driven around in my father’s car. The exact chair I was sitting in I had occupied at least 100 times over a 33 year span. Every time I slither down into the chair I have flashbacks of my youth, my career in teaching, and my family.  My mom and dad started going to Dr. Peter Chidyllo’s dental office when I was still in college. It made sense to me that when I returned to the Hudson Valley in 1982, he would be the one to take care of my pearly whites.

Right from the start me and Doc, as I affectionately refer to him, hit it off. I didn’t like going to see him, but I did like him. Like myself, he was an upstart making his way in the world with a blossoming business and family. I was an insecure 22 year old kid who had just started a career as a school teacher but was clueless to lessons of life. All of these years later it was still the two of us exchanging small talk on a warm March day as I nestled into my seat for another drilling.

Over the years my appointments with Dr. Chidyllo have been bittersweet. They represented a microcosm of my life.  Doc and I have only seen each other during my visits, never in the outside world, but we interact in the way old friends do. When I first met Doc my teeth seemed to be symbolic of the life I had led to that point. In 1982 my mouth was in disrepair from my early years of living hard and giving no mind to the discipline of dental hygiene. Since that time, I’ve gone through reconstructive surgery, had total replacements on five different teeth, and a major root canal. Through it all, whether it be a cleaning or major surgery, I am always under the influence of Nitrous Acid (laughing gas). The drug takes me to a place that is both peaceful and dreamingly tranquil (most of the time). It certainly eases my pain and takes me on short trips back in time similar to a potent hallucinogenic. Doc usually jokes that I must have smoked a lot of dope in college.  He will often remind me that the gas machine is turned up to full throttle. The laughing gas is so intoxicating for me that on one occasion I came in carrying several balloons and asked for an order to go.

My early experiences in Dr. Chidyllo’s office were mostly unpleasant. In my mid 20’s I had each of my wisdom teeth extracted. This amounted to four painful, separate surgeries, each one more excruciating than the next. Both the patient and doctor appeared equally nervous during these procedures. Doc was probably 31 when he removed the last of my wisdom teeth. I mention this because after that day I truly believed he would be looking for a new career. I was heavily medicated and the long, intimidating Novocain needles had already been inserted into my gums when the operation went awry.  While the tears poured from my eyes, Doc was wrestling with the big bad tooth that had been broken in half by his pliers. It was the only moment in all my visits in which I saw the look of panic on Doc’s face. I was drenched in sweat as Doc went back to the drawing board and left the room to get some more numbing needles. He then made another incision and finally dug out the infectious tooth. That visit ended with me on the floor. I had a small hammer and was smashing the cracked tooth into oblivion screaming, “Take that!!!!! You will never hurt anyone again!”

As the years passed on I would see Doc every six months for routine x-rays and cleanings. It reached the point where I looked forward to my rides down to Wallkill. Doc and I would engage in meaningful conversation. Sometimes he would have a gift for me other than a toothbrush like bottles of expensive vodka and a book about blackjack. Mostly, I enjoyed inhaling some funny gas and going into dream land. In later years, by happenstance, my visits began to coincide with emotional events in my life. It was in the mid – nineties when I was aware my parents were in the midst of some marital issues that I let the laughing gas get the best of me. As I entered the waiting room I noticed the woman I knew was having an affair with my father, waiting for her turn in the chair. I was mad at my father because I had been aware of the relationship for close to 15 years.  When Doc asked me, like he regularly did, how my dad was doing I told him, “Not bad for a guy who is married and has a girlfriend too.” Doc looked at me with both astonishment and fright as I removed my mask and proceeded to lead him into the waiting room. In a loud voice in front of about eight people, I pointed and loudly declared, “That’s her. That is my father’s girlfriend for the past 15 years.”

During February of 2013, I was in the middle of intense negotiations with my employer Ulster Savings Bank. In the midst of my career turmoil I chipped a tooth munching on a bagel.  I had an appointment scheduled with the dentist at 11:00am on Wednesday, Feb 13^th. As I rode down to Wallkill for my appointment my phone was lighting up like a pinball machine. It was the President of Ulster Savings Bank. “If you fail to report to the bank today by 11:00am to sign your producer agreement, and its’  Non Compete Clause, you shall be officially terminated from employment.” The way things stood in regards to my work environment, this was not shocking news.  I was now forced into a final decision before I had anticipated. My answer came from my foot as I pressed harder on the gas pedal continuing on to see Doctor Chidyllo. I took my seat in the old familiar chair and knew it would not take much gas or Novocain to numb me today. “Ready to take care of that hole, Rich?” Doc politely asked me. As he sharpened up the tools of his trade the clock was striking 11. I had the firm look on my face of a man prepared for war. “Let’s get this party started, Doc. I’m being fired from my job and getting drilled in the dentist chair at the same exact moment.” I closed my eyes and breathed in the gas.

To loosen me up for my most recent drilling, Doc had some pictures and stories to share with me. He had just spent the week in Louisiana with his son, Donald Trump Jr. and a collection of their friends. Doc had gone down to The Bayous for a fishing expedition with his son and his friends.  As part of the weekend he also attended a reception hosted by a current presidential candidate, Donald Trump. Doc had an opportunity to chat with my old high school chum Keith Schiller, who is the head of security for the Trump Organization. Doc’s dental hygienist, Hilda Freer, happens to also be a classmate of mine. While absorbing my medications Doc continued to converse on the smallness of the world, on being the parents of grown children, and on how far the two of us had come since the days we first met. “Isn’t it ironic” I thought to myself. We had both been through so much in this life. In our own right we had achieved modest success. Our paths never crossed in the world outside his dental practice, but that chair, surrounded by those four walls, held all our secrets. Thanks to Doc my days of pain in the dentist’s chair seem to be behind me.  Doc has made sure my teeth will hold up well into the future. If only I could be as confident that the machinations of life will be as kind.

Video Reference:

Approaching the open door way to the gymnasium the sounds from inside painted the picture. Sneakers screeching, a ball pounding into the hardwood floor, the clanging of the rim from an errant shot, and a primal grunt from the rebounder of the misfire. The noise was born from a competitive sense of purpose and resolve. Collectively the sounds had a serious, there’s work to be done, rhythm to them. The clangor represented individual athletes attempting to demonstrate that they had the tenacity and talents that would somehow fit into the cohesiveness of a team.

There was not any roars from the crowd, nor chanting of young girls in mini- skirts. Ten young men ran up and down the court as fast and hard as they could. The scoreboard was not lit and without referees it was up to the participants to call their own fouls. I was walking into pre season pick-up basketball practice. These sessions always had an extreme intensity attached to them, and this year it appeared the players had raised their focus to an even higher level. The reason had everything to do with the young man who sat alone, five rows deep, in the otherwise vacant bleachers.

His name was Steve Moore, and he was a long way from his childhood home of Monroeville Ohio. I would have thought he was just a student checking out the action. Having seen an article, containing a photograph, pertaining to his hiring I knew it was him. Now seeing him for the first time in person I wondered how a young man of 28 , with such a boyish face, could look so weighty. It was 24 hours after Labor Day 1981, many of the 10 guys on the court and the eight others sitting against the wall I had not seen since May. As I entered Memorial Hall I felt an immediate instinctual need to show ,that on this turf ,I knew my way around.

After a bunch of handshaking and half hugs I was anxious to get myself in a game, ” who’s got winners?” Dirk Oceanik made a circling motion with his fingers, “us five,” The” us five” was made up of a majority the starting 5 of last years’ team. I looked impatiently at the remaining three, “I’m with you next.” Knowing it would be at least a half hour before my team would be ready to take the floor I headed to an open spot across the gym to loosen up. Whether they were or not, I felt the peer of that solitary spectator in the stands watching my every move.

Coach Moore apparently had seen enough basketball for the day and had vanished before I got my turn on the floor. It would be a week before I saw him again at the first pre season meeting of the men’s basketball team. The room above the gym was already filled by the time I made my entrance. I arrived precisely at the scheduled meeting time and the new head coach of the Muhlenberg Mules had already started talking:” If a meeting is at 7 that means the latest you should arrive is 6:55, anything after that and you willed be considered late,” was his opening. ” My only responsibility at Muhlenberg is to coach the Men’s Varsity basketball team. I will guarantee three things that will be true about our team as long as I am the coach: 1. We will be in better condition than our opponent. 2. We will play intense man-to-man on every possession. 3. We will be more efficient on the offensive end than any team we play against. How many wins that will translate into is an unknown, but the before mentioned will be facts about this team. Practice begins October 15th, between then and now I will be meeting with each one of you formally. ” Meeting adjourned.

As the 30 or so basketball candidates passed I remained in the doorway until they had all gone by. Entering my senior year and fourth on the team I did feel a sense of entitlement that went along with being an immature 22 year old who had an overblown perspective of his relevance. I wanted to be the last person left in the room and leave coach Moore with a chance to introduce himself to me in a personal way. Realizing the quiet young man was not going to make the first move, I approached him directly with an outstretched hand ” welcome to Allentown, how do you like it so far?” No response just a nod of the head. “I’m Rich Siegel, I will probably be the only Senior on the team this year.” Still nothing. I made one more try. “Have you found a place to live?” I sheepishly asked. Finally he spoke his first words to me directly,” I am staying in Prosser Dorm until I close on my house.” All these years later I still wish I could take back the following two sentences . “Oh Prosser, I know most of the smooth girls over there. Any time you want me to help you hook up let me know.” Now Coach Moore made eye contact. As I peck on the computer today the look on his face continues to be not erasable for me. It was a posture of disdain, pity, and disgust all rolled up into one scowl. ” I am married with two baby girls,” were his last words to me that night.

The message board on the door outside my dorm room had large black letters scrolled on it:’ Meeting with Coach Moore, his office, Friday 4:40′.” That was it. Nothing about RSVP, please confirm, or hopes that I be available. Just a pure and simple command. A mid September Friday afternoon on a college campus is easy to take. The music blared from the Frat houses, pledges pumped the beer kegs, and the new crop of co-eds were already trying to make an impression on the Greek gods . The walk from my on campus apartment was about a half mile to Memorial Hall and the athletic offices . Despite the temptations and distractions along the way I found myself securely in a chair outside Coach Moore’s office by 4:35. During the week I had decided to give up on the small talk and sophomoric jokes. This was going to strictly a business relationship between player and coach.

About one tick after 4:40 pm the door swung open and my new boss invited me in. Judging by appearance he could not be any older than my fraternity brothers. He was athletic looking with a full head of dark hair cropped much lower than the norm of the day. Even without smiling it was obvious his teeth were well taken care of . Add the dimple to his chiseled chin and coach Moore looked more like a handsome Phi Beta Kappa scholar than a basketball coach.

Already I knew this was not a man concerned with appearance or perceptions, but one focused on pure results. I didn’t know it then but this was what intimidated me the most. Our first meeting was brief, I listened to my new coach’s measured words: “Efficiency, (limited turnovers) ball distributors, and tenacious defenders is what I am looking for in my guards. I have looked at some past seasons tapes, and to me it is apparent you are not strong in any of these three areas. Unfortunately you are a Senior, which does not give you much time to develop your weaknesses. If you come out for the team and want to see playing time you will need to improve rapidly and dramatically in those areas.” I said nothing back. I could not hide the lump in my throat nor the mist in my eyes. His plans were laid out and I was not a part of them. I got up to leave and was heading for the door, but Coach Moore wasn’t done undressing me, “If you plan on trying out you must remove that earring and shorten you hair substantially.”

I felt like a punch drunk fighter as I wobbled back to my room. I was beyond wounded, I was in critical condition. This was not how my Senior year in College was suppose to begin. Grant it, I wasn’t going to the NBA, but I was good enough to have been a starter the last two years. This was my year to be a leader and shine. I had played substantial minutes over the last few seasons and considered myself a key player. The reality was that those past teams did a lot of losing and had caused the dismissal of the prior coach . The brash college boy could not register what makes perfect sense in the present. Coach Moore had a vision that I was not a part of. Very simply it was out with the old and in with the new. There I stood as the most visible representation of the old. There was a new young sheriff in town and you could feel the malaise that was the past lifting.

October 15th 1981 was a very typical fall day on campus at Muhlenberg college. It was easy to recognize the young ladies were displaying minimal exposed skin, colored leafs had started to dot the ground, and what breeze prevailed was making its first bite of the season. The winds of change were all around me and still I had made my decision to enter the eye of the storm. For the first time since kindergarten I sported a G.I. Joe haircut as I entered the equipment room in Memorial Hall to pick up my practice gear. In my entire athletic career I had never been the first person to arrive at a practice, but today was a day for firsts. I sat in front of my locker and removed whatever adornments remained on my being. I laced my high tops with unusual patience and tightened the shoe strings with an impervious edge.

There are remarkable happenings in this life that an exaggerated number of people claim they were present at. A few were actually present, while many others convince themselves it to be true. A majority of those who say “I was there”, are full of their own excreta. Every move Steve Moore made in his first season as a Division III Head Basketball coach I was a direct witness to, no bull. That October day back in 1981 at a few minutes before five pm Coach Moore walked through the doors that led to his new classroom. As much I hated to admit it at the time, what I saw I had never seen before or would never again. A determined , single minded, young man striding toward his first flock of hoop candidates with a sense of purpose and focus that could have moved the Pocono mountains. This was a person on a mission, an unstoppable missile with a direct path to its target. I have never been around anyone who’s mere presence brought the world to a halt. Although I already knew I wasn’t welcomed, I wanted to hang on to this missile for as long as I could.c

My friends questioned my motivation for trying to play a hand with the deck stacked against me. Before practice had begun it was apparent Coach Moore had been grooming the individuals he saw as playing key roles on his maiden team. It was more obvious I hadn’t been called in for any pedicures. To myself, I had answered the question as to why I found my way to practice that day. First, I had played competitive basketball for 10 straight years. I knew this was my last chance and quitting really was not an option. Second, I was considering a career in teaching and coaching and no matter what I could learn just by being on the team. Third, I didn’t like this new guy. He was spoiling the party that was to be my Senior year. In whatever battle I alone was waging, I had to find a way to get the better of this upstart.

The first three days of practice that year I felt like I had signed on to be in the army. I had never imagined you could conduct basketball try-outs without basketballs. Every second of every session under this new coach was meticulously planned and on the clock. Five minutes of stairs, six minutes jumping rope, eight minutes teaching defensive stance, 3 minutes of defensive slides, 10 minutes of screening. Directing, teaching, encouraging through it all was Steve Moore. He never raised his voice, as a matter of fact his cadence was more of a whisper than a shout . Amazingly, when he spoke you could hear the silence around him and his words resonated. A total of 34 candidates had shown up to battle for 12 spots on the Varsity squad. On the fourth day, the first one that we touched an actual basketball, 15 remained.

As November moved into December our season opening game was upon us. Mostly through voluntary attrition, I was still standing to make the final 12 man roster. Although officially not declared it was evident to me I was the last man on the team. During team scrimmages sides were divided into red and white. The players who wore red were the starters and the ones who wore white were the second team. The two remaining were just scrubs without regard to jersey color. Despite by selfish disdain for the man, in the six weeks leading up to our first game I knew I was watching a master teacher and coach on the first step of what was sure to be 1,000 mile road to triumph. In the initial weeks of our player coach relationship I cannot recall any direct verbal communication between the two of us. All messages that coach Moore sent to me were through his eyes. After I botched an assignment there was the “what is guy still doing here?”( look) After the occasional productive play I would execute there was the “son of gun, this guy won’t go down easy.”( look) My motivation every day in practice was to see the latter in my coach’s eyes.

Coach Moore’s attention was on much more than any personal battle with the 12th man on his team. He was developing his blue print for the way his team was going to play and conduct themselves. He was forging out a plan, with his personal stamp on it. Like was true with the words he chose, to Coach, less was more. The offensive and defensive schemes were not complex, but were to be executed with precision . He had a few key words and phrases he emphasized with an undeniable passion. Efficiency, desire, team, purpose, were ones he repeated over and over. Easily understood, yet rarely instituted phrases such as: we must protect every possession , the best teams have players who know, accept, and execute their roles, we will play to our strengths and exploit the oppositions weaknesses. I had heard a lot of it before, but never than ,or after, had I observed any person live those passages they preach with an uncompromising passion. How could I question a man who was so committed, so sure of himself, a man who’s presence was so much bigger than any of my selfish gripes.

On paper coach Moore’s coaching career did not get off to an illustrious start. As the Christmas break approached we were a 1-5 basketball team. Steve Moore’s first career win came on a mid-December Tuesday night, 1981, when we visited Albright College. It was third game he coached. The victory was accomplished with three freshman on the floor and two returning letterman. For the first time I did observe a smile on coach’s face in the bowels of the visitors’ locker room. But whatever celebrating he did after his first career victory was reserved. As the competition of games began there was two things I observed from this neophyte mentor. One, was that his demeanor was calculatingly measured. The low of losses came with more teaching, encouragement, and reemphasis in a belief of his system. The high of that first victory came with a” this is what is suppose to happen” and” it is just the tip of ice berg.” I remember his words that night in Reading Pennsylvania on the campus of Albright College “get use to this feeling men, winners know what it takes and expect to win every night. Keep doing what you are doing, keep listening, keeping believing, and I promise there will be many more wins like tonight in our future.

The consensus on campus, and in the local papers was that the new General at Muhlenberg had the makings of a great tactician. Despite the 1-5 record, the way the team was performing, and the competiveness of those early games seemed to be a precursor that something special was on the horizon. In the meantime the battle between the 12th man senior and the new messiah waged on through the holidays. The fight was a silent struggle of wills that only one of the combatants seemed to be focusing on. As I continued to be the obedient grunt, my commander paid me little mind. In those first six games before Christmas my warm-up jacket never came off. After each game Coach Moore made a point of shaking each of his players hands and usually offered some congratulatory words of wisdom or constructive critiques. This ritual included even myself despite not having logged a single minute of playing time. He took my hand, shook it firmly, stared at me with his deep blue eyes and without expression gave a slight nod of the head till he moved onto his next pupil.

It was January 6th 1982 and the greyhound chartered bus was about halfway to Western Maryland. I sat alone, staring out into the already faded twilight. I was a pretty out going Senior in College, but around the team I had taken on the persona of the coach. Instead of being crushed over not playing, I had found a calmness, an inner peace that made me feel everything was going to turn out for the best. I was anything but insightful back then but my sub-conscious must have been telling me I was part of something bigger than myself. In the seat in front of me sat Gary Eisenbud, a freshman who was our teams starting point guard. He initiated some small in a way that demonstrated he respected the non-basketball pecking order of seniority. He picked my brain about life in general and it wasn’t too long before he popped the question,” Rich, why are you sticking this out? All the practice, all the demands, giving up Christmas break, just to ride the bench?” The question was logical enough, and asked with a significant amount of sincerity for me not to be offended. Of course at the time there was no way I was going to reveal my true motivation to this flash in the pan, but I did give him an answer.” I am thinking of being a basketball coach and want to learn as much as I can,” was all I said and went back to peering out the window into the dark.

The game vs. Western Maryland was not going well. At halftime in our locker room was the first time I saw coach’s loud and frustrated side. “17 turnovers in one half, when are we going to learn to protect our possessions?” he shouted as he headed for the door before stopping abruptly, ” I have to go and throw up, Coach Agler (Brian Agler who is currently the head coach and general manager of the Seattle Storm ) try to talk some sense into these guys.” Coach Moore rarely sat, but as we headed to the floor to start the second half there he was alone seated on our bench. His eyes were fixated to the ground in front of him. It was the only time I witnessed Steve Moore show an expression of self doubt. His pout didn’t last more than a few moments. Before the ball was thrown up to begin the second half he was back stalking the sideline. It was not unusual for Coach to walk up and down in front of our bench during games. Once in a while during those strolls he and I made eye contact. The connection never lasted more than a fleeting second, until that night in Western Maryland. With approximately 18 minutes left in the game he stopped directly in front of me and for at least three seconds looked me up and down. It was the, ” son of a gun, he’s still here” look. “Are you ready?” I was frozen and gave no response. “Go in for Gary.”

My snap off sweats hit the floor as I knelt at the scorers’ table waiting to be buzzed into action. It was only a minute before the ball found its way out of bounds and the horn sounded for me to enter the game. I pointed at the freshman point guard who already was headed to the seat I had been warming. I remember the referee handing me the rock to inbound. Instead of any uneasiness from stage fright I was relaxed and quite possibly comfortably numb. While I certainly saw my entrance into the game as opportunity ,it was more about a hard fought, bitterly earned victory. Coach Moore had at last recognized that I was part of his team. In return I was prepared to help him move mountains. Although I had one of my personal best halves of basketball it was more about the way I played then points or assists. I had reluctantly been the loyal soldier who now had a chance to report for official duty. Managing to stay under control I flew around the court with a sense of purpose and focus that I wasn’t sure I was capable of. I sporadically checked in with my leader as he implored us on to a second half comeback. Muhlenberg outscored Western Maryland by 15 points in the second half falling just short of triumph 73-71. For the first time in my basketball career I had no idea what my line score looked like. (points, assists, etc…) I sat at my locker afterward with a towel stuck in my face to hide the flood of tears. Coach Moore did not shake my hand that night after the game like he had all those other nights . Instead, he sat on the bench next to me and put his arm around me. He said nothing . He arose from the wood bench and put his hand on top of my head. He rubbed my tightly trimmed hair for a couple of seconds and then walked away to perform his normal ritual with my teammates. I had won a battle and was prepared to go to War with a man who was on his way to becoming one of the greatest Generals of our time.

There was never an armistice signed between the two us, not even a conference. The next day in practice I couldn’t help but see the chalk board while entering the dressing room. Your shirt color for that day in practice was always posted. Under the line of red, the fifth name down, was Siegel. The Muhlenberg Men’s Basketball Team of 1981-82 would win 7 more games that season to finish 8-15. Steve Moore would never be close to having a losing season record again. After that game in Western Maryland I held on to my starting position for the remainder of our schedule. There were vivid memories, both in victory and defeat, forged in those last 16 games of my playing career. Two of those memories fortified in my mind the greatness that laid ahead for my Coach. One was in Lancaster Pa. where we played the Franklin and Marshall Diplomats in late January of 1982. F and M was a perennial power in our conference, and the Mules had not beaten them since 1972. The game was back and forth the whole way. I played the entire 40 minutes that night and in my heart never really believed we were going to win. With eight seconds remaining in the game we trailed 62-61 with Franklin and Marshall’s Donnie Marsh at the foul line. He missed the front end of a one and one, as my teammate Ken Chiawtek grabbed the rebound. Kenny outlet the ball to me near half court and I immediately headed up the floor. Rich Siegel of the past would have pounded the ball into the floor and headed for the rim. Not on this night. I couldn’t literally hear him over the crowd noise, but I could hear his voice in my head coming all the way from practices in Memorial Hall,” Ahead Rich, look ahead. ” I spotted our best player Dirk Oceanik in front of me and passed the ball to him. Dirk drove into the lane and threw up a floater that tingled the chords at the buzzer. Muhlenberg 63 Franklin and Marshall 62.

In the stairwell leading to the visitor locker room was a frenzied jumping lunatic that resembled Steve Moore. Tandem, hopping bear hugs went around with players and coach for at least 5 minutes. I am confident this was most dramatic display of celebration Steve Moore had ever put on, or would ever again. I am fully aware all these years later that before that game started their was not a sane person in that gym who thought we had a chance to win. It was a 28 year old lunatic who willed us to victory that January night. I can still see him jumping up and down.

Approximately one week after the stunning upset of Franklin and Marshall we traveled to conference leading and undefeated Dickinson. The Red Devils were known for their suffocating zone defense. They had smothered us on their visit to Allentown back in December 78-54. Coach’s plan was for us to hold the ball and force them to come out of their zone and play man to man. In a remarkable battle of wills between Muhlenberg’ Steve Moore and Dickinson’s coach Gene Evans the lowest scoring basketball game in NCAA history broke out. In a era before the shot clock, Dickinson stubbornly stayed in the their zone, and we stubbornly did not attack the basket. Dave Saylor hit a long jumper from the corner seconds before the half ended to give us a 2-0 lead at the break. Two thousand fans in Carlise Pennsylvania booed us off the floor as we headed to the locker room with a two point advantage. “We have them right where we want them,” Coach implored us at halftime. “The game is ours to win.” Dickinson scored off the first possession of the second half to knot the game at 2-2. The opposition went back into their zone, and we continued to stall. Twice, the game was stopped after I was hit by coins thrown from the crowd. With five minutes remaining the score was stuck at 2-2. “O.K., let’s beat them in a five minute game,” Moore said calmly during a time-out. The Red Devils outscored us 13-4 in that shortened contest. The fact was Steve Moore had given us a chance to win a game that appeared unwinnable. Several NCAA records were established that night that still stand. In 1987, on the fifteen anniversary of that game a coworker brought an article (Allentown Morning Call) into work about that night 15 years prior. The coworker had no idea I was a participant in the game. His connection to the game was that his daughter was married to Coach Evans’ (Dickinson) son. The article quoted coach Moore who at the time had won 360 games.” It is the most memorable game I have coached in. I will never forget that night.” My coworker who knew I was a former player asked me what I thought of the game and the strategy.” I think it was great. I was there. I played 40 minutes in that game.” “Yeah, yeah, and I was on the beaches of Normandy in 1944.”

In terms of wins and losses Steve Moore’s first season as a head coach was unimpressive. Despite the record he made a huge impact on all those who made contact with him. To opposing coaches, the Muhlenberg administration, and the Allentown community it was obvious they were observing a young man on the first leg of a long and special journey. What wasn’t as clear to everyone was the effect he imposed on a cocky, immature, mediocre at best guard , who fought against him and with him during that initial campaign. In early March of 1982 Muhlenberg Mules Men’s Basketball Team gathered for the team picture. Only 11 people occupied an otherwise empty Memorial Hall, in addition to the photographer. Coaches Steve Moore, and Brian Agler, our team manager, and eight players in uniform. After the photos were snapped seven of eight remained for a meeting regarding preparation for the next season, while the other headed out into the cold March air with a melancholy, bittersweet feeling of both deep loss and dramatic victory.

 

I cannot recall many direct conversations I had with Steve Moore all those years ago. The lessons I took from him came through observation. All the things that make Coach Moore a master teacher somehow were more evident to me thanmmaybe they were even to himself. His passion for his craft was uncompromising. He was more prepared than an eagle scout. He conducted his business and personal life with a sense of purpose and focus so intense it left his followers no room for doubt. The work ethic, integrity, and discipline that he wore on his sleeve surely made him a tremendous salesman to every player he recruited through the years.

By the time I graduated from Muhlenberg I was convinced I wanted to teach history and coach basketball. Although our time together was brief I knew a lot of the principles I built my program on would be modeled after my most recent mentor. I spent seven years in the classroom and on the sidelines. To be fair to myself, I was good at my trade, but even then I knew I was no Steve Moore. I couldn’t live my teachings the way my old coach did. I could not drive myself 365 days a year to put a product out on a basketball court 25 times a year for which the performances would be a reflection of my success or lack of. In 1989 I left education and coaching to pursue a career in business, family, and pleasure. The last time I had any type of communication with Coach Moore was the fall of 1987.

Thirty 32 basketball seasons have passed since that March day I departed Memorial Hall. Today I own my own Insurance Agency, and dabble at golf and writing. I have been married for 25 years and have two daughters ready to enter college. Occasionally in a spare moment I Google my old Coach to see how far his shooting rocket has traveled. After doing so I wonder if my real calling was that of a prognosticator. Coach Moore spent five more seasons at Muhlenberg, compiling an 80-47 record while capturing successive Middle Atlantic Conference Titles. He then moved back to his home State of Ohio to coach the Fighting Scots of Wooster College where he turned what was the beginning of a legend into the lore of an immortal . In this his 27th season with Wooster he has a record of 640-143 for a winning percentage of .817 giving him the best record of any coach in any division over that time. His total of 726 wins makes him 3rd all-time among division III coaches and 33rd of all colleagues who ever coached college basketball. Not one person in front of him on the ladder is younger. Steve Moore has led the Fighting Scots to three final four appearances as well as 17 NCAC championships. When the time comes for him to walk away it is quite possible he will own the best winning percentage and most wins of anybody who ever coached college basketball.

In the perspective of a lifetime the duration I was around coach Moore was the blink of an eye. Yet as the years go by it becomes more evident to me that he is the person who has most influenced who I am today. I got a firsthand look as a rocket headed for stardom was launched. I saw the direction at takeoff. It was so perfect, so pure, that hitting the target wasn’t in question. We are only waiting to see how big the impact will be. In the present there are still days I hear the screeching of sneakers in an otherwise quiet gym. My mind always connects the sound to a picture of that early September day in 1981 and the first time I got a glimpse of Steve Moore in the flesh. On occasion I can feel his eyes looking at me. Could he have ever imagined that day in Memorial Hall all the success that was in his future.? Could he have imagined the effect he would have on so many boys as they attempted to grow into men. Over the span of the last 33 years, there were multiple times I have been knocked down in life and business. I have been given up on, and on really bad days contemplated giving up on myself. In those stressful periods of self doubt and rejection I find my mind drifting back to my Senior year at Muhlenberg. I see coach Moore’s blue eyes make contact with mine. He never speaks but I always can hear his message: “Son of a gun, this guy just won’t quit.”
I witnessed Steve Moore take that first step on his journey of 1,000 miles. As his amazing career continues, the wins, and the stories about him will keep piling up. Approximately 10 years in the future someone will ask me if I read about the most triumphant college basketball coach ever and the details of his first season 45 years in the past. I can’t wait to give my reply. ” I don’t need to read it, I was there.”

It was just about an hour after the setting of the sweet summer sun. Autumn was teasing with the days already getting shorter. At 45, I was feeling something close to peaceful for the first time in my life. Instead of sadness in regard to another end to my favorite season, I was feeling reflective of just how wondrous a summer it had been.  For the moment, I was standing still, holding on to first base during the final inning of another one of the summer’s daily kickball games.

My daughters Laura and Mary Kate were eight and nine respectively, and I knew that in the three months of summer we had been creating meaningful moments – images that would be ingrained in their fabric for a lifetime. It became an anticipated neighborhood ritual to meet up at designated makeshift fields and dive right into some competitive kickball.  On a habitual basis the Siegel girls, along with a couple of neighborhood kids, would take on our neighbors, the Kleeschulte family. These games were played with the kind of intensity rarely seen with such neighborly games. The battles mostly took place at the country club tennis courts, just a short walk from all of our houses.

As six year old Scotty Kleeschulte was preparing to roll the ball down and pitch to Laura, I stared into the fading light and took a snapshot of the moment.  I had come so far and had so much more ahead. All the doubts that had plagued me for a lifetime in regard to my own self- worth were finally dissipating. I had never been able to convince myself that a conventional life was in the cards for me. A life made up of a wife and children, a thriving career, and a house on the golf course.  Yet, here I was standing tall on first base with a very good start to living a dream that I thought would never be within my reach.  I couldn’t help but breathe in the day and the entire summer that had preceded this night. I couldn’t help but forecast all the potential that lay ahead for me and my family. But first there was a kickball game to be won.

The Kleeschultes had a one run lead. It was the bottom of the ninth with two outs. Laura took Scotty’s roll and kicked it far into right field. I abandoned both first base and my daydream simultaneously and started my sprint toward second. My thoughts were suddenly single minded—I was going to try to make it all the way home and make this a tie ballgame.

In that summer of ’05 we must’ve played 40 games of kickball. Every night the phone would ring around 7 pm. Usually it was Scotty on the line.

“You guys ready to lose tonight?” would be the banter out of the lips of the six year old. With older brothers Drew, Doug, and his dad, Doug Sr., Scotty had the team behind him to back up his bravado.

“They’re ready, they’ll be up in five minutes,” was the typical response of my wife Donna, as she had already prepared the girls and her husband for battle. First, we would check with the other neighborhood teenage girls, Kate and Kelsey, to see if they wanted to play. Next I would check with my girls on which kickball they wanted to use for the night’s contest. Finally, we would head up the road as a unit to our make-shift stadium. The tennis courts were perfect for our kickball games. One baseline was home, one pole that held up the net was first base, the other baseline second, and the other pole was third base. Over the fence was a home run. Doug Jr. had 37 homers that magical season in the sun. His dinger barrage got so monotonous that I got the cart boys to stay after work to stand outside the fence and try to catch all the balls that flew over. I made the rule that if they caught the ball over the fence it was an out, not a homerun.

All summer we waged life or death competitive games of kickball.  Scotty and I argued on many occasions about out and safe calls, as well as who was a bigger baby. Drew and Laura batted eyes at each other in the most subtle gestures of young flirtations. Mary Kate got a chance to show her athleticism and observe what her “win at all costs” dad looked like in action. Doug Jr., and Doug Sr., were happy to take a break from the grind of honing their golf talents during the day. The few nights we skipped kickball, we would all fish in the golf course ponds. Seven of us casting lines, catching the same bass, and throwing them back in to be caught again. Through that enchanted summer of bonding and coming of age, I was affected like I had never been before. I was at a point in my life and had gathered enough wisdom to understand the type of memories we were creating. I felt this powerful sense of family, of sharing, and the foundations of a life well lived. As I sprinted around those bases that night in mid – August I knew it was the most content I had ever been .

My arms were spread like a jet plane as I turned up my engines. Drew did his normal trick of attempting to trip me up as I rounded second base. There I was, headed for third with a full head of steam and taking a glance back to evaluate my chances of making it home unscathed. Doug Jr. was closing in fast with his arm cocked ready to peg me for the final out. We were both displaying huge grins as I reached out to touch third base.  One second later, I was halted in my tracks as my body flew forward but my ring finger stayed behind. Thinking I had just stumbled, Doug nailed me in the back of the head with the kickball to ensure victory with the final out. Laying on the surface of the tennis court I looked back toward the third base net pole to see my finger completely separated from my hand. My first instinct was to scramble along the ground to retrieve my appendage before anyone could take notice. Before long Doug Sr. was standing over me with an outstretched hand to help me to my feet. “

“You alright?” Doug Sr. asked without a glance. “Good game Richie. Tough loss.”

For what would be the first and last time, I would sneak a peek.  I opened my clenched fist and my eyes to show Doug my severed finger. I can’t recall if any more words were exchanged between Doug and I as the two of us kickball warriors, one sporting a serious battle wound, headed through the twilight for his car and the hospital.

To sum it up, my wedding ring got caught on a hook attached to the tennis net pole. The adornment of matrimony acted as a sharp blade and sliced off my finger. The rest of my evening was filled with hospital visits, helicopter rides, endless hours of surgery, and plenty of pain. I pleaded, groveled, and outright begged the doctors to summon all their powers to make me whole again. It was nine the next morning when I came back to consciousness. Now it was just Donna and my parents standing over me. They didn’t have to speak for me to know that I was permanently without a wedding ring and a finger.  Before I even glanced down to survey my damaged hand, I started to cry. It would be the only time, during or after the incident that I would shed a tear over this misfortune.

It has been nearly ten years since that night on the tennis courts. With the exception of Scotty, all the participants in those games are either attending or have graduated, from college. Just recently I was telling myself that this was the time to write about that special summer. Before I pecked out a word, I picked up the phone to call Ann Kleeschulte.  I had not spoken to Ann in a long time and was hoping she had some photographs from those summers. She told me she thought she might and that she would check and send me anything she had. It was the first time we had reminisced about that summer. Ann did most of the talking.

“Richie, there was something different about you that summer” she offered. “There was something different about all of us. It was so perfect. It’s such a shame that the last memory we all have of that time is of you losing your finger.”

She didn’t know it, but I was crying again. But this time they were happy tears. As I was saying goodbye I looked at my hand and it occurred to me that my loss actually represented my sweetest victory. A constant reminder of the best summer ever.

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