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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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Gate F is located all the way at the northern tip of the Fort Lauderdale International Airport. Sandwiched between gates E and F there is a small, circular bar. Even though it seems to be a perfect location it’s rare to see a groggery positioned so close to the passengers’ boarding area. After spending three days in the Miami sun I was not anxious to be one of the first patrons to occupy my awaiting plane. While I make it a habit not to consume any alcohol en route to my destination, I habitually seat myself at an airport tavern before boarding my return flight home. My traveling companion shot me a nervous look as I guzzled down my second Corona and ordered a third. Rows 20-30 were being called for Jet Blue flight 621 back to Newburgh, New York. There was no sense of urgency as I glared at my bottle of suds. I was still searching for something- a mythical place, the metaphorical perfect wave- quite possibly serenity. It has been a pattern in my life that when I’m feeling lost and unsure of where I’m headed I have a propensity to look into the bottom of a glass for answers.

Three days engulfed in the pretension of the South Miami lifestyle had me feeling more jaded than usual. Surprisingly I had never been to South Beach and was unprepared for the extreme pompous cheekiness that I was surrounded by. It was apparent to me quickly that to thrive in South Florida I was lacking in three important areas: money, supermodel good looks (close), and jewelry. A simple dinner for two, which included one glass of wine each, was $400.00. A Ketel One and tonic at the poolside bar went for $21.00. A chicken salad served to me on the beach ran $27.00. It cost $100.00 just to gain entrance into a night club. Despite these inflated prices, young ladies ages 19-23 were a dime a dozen. All of the youthful girls had several things in common: they were beautiful, well endowed (naturally or not), and working or not, they wore scant string bikinis. These females were usually conversing with men much older than themselves. Most of their prey were in their 50’s and 60’s and came in all shapes and sizes. All of the men had diamonds on their fingers, in their ears, their noses, and one can only imagine where else. We all know the answer but in our heads we still pose the question: “Are these men happy even when they find what they’re looking for?”

For one particular elderly gentleman lying on the Florida shore the search appeared to be over and he had found what he needed. An educated guess put him at 70 and his female companion at 25. He positioned himself to receive the full strength of the midday rays. He possessed a thick head of pure white hair and stood about 6’3 on a hairless frame that glistened with a dark brown tan. I didn’t hear him speak but I assumed he wasn’t American. His calmness and perfect posture were far too eloquent for him to be American. Even though the young woman looked as if she could be his granddaughter she never let her attention get distracted from him. She was a tall and slender blond with straight hair cut to her shoulders. She was as sun soaked as he was with a bathing suit on that could not hold in her surgically enhanced breasts. The two of them dismissed any doubt that they weren’t a couple within a few minutes of me getting comfortable in my beach chair. She ran as he ambled into the ocean, hand in hand up to their knees in the deep blue sea. When the two financial partners returned to shore she was quick to was to put a comb through his mane. She made sure his look was just right as she began applying lotion to his back as if she was a mommy protecting her child from the blistering burn. Not sure whether to be envious or sick to my stomach I had seen enough.

Within minutes I was settled in at the poolside bar. It felt great watching the Sunday football games on TV with the December snow falling in the northeast while the sun was burning my back. The Steelers were roaring past the Bengals on the screen as I ordered up another round of Tito and tonics. Of the ten or so men, all of them 45 and over, seated at the bar I was the only one with their eyes on the game. The diversion was a shockingly attractive bar maid from Speedway, Indiana. Certainly the criteria for working at the SLS Hotel, my temporary residence, was overtly obvious but “Speedway” stood out from the crowd. She had what some call the “whole package.” She was wholesome yet sexy, coy yet naïve, outgoing yet reserved. Her glaring beauty was such that if “Speedway” walked into a restaurant in my hometown the music would stop playing and the clients would look up from their meals and freeze. She had the look that changes bank accounts and names on documents. I couldn’t help myself to make an effort to strike up conversation with Miss Indiana. I did find out her given name but kept referring to her as “Speedway” nonetheless. She was appropriately congenial in what turned out to be a mini interview with a 55 year old married man. Her story was probably similar to many of the young girls who had traveled far from home to the shores of South Beach. She was bored in her small hometown and unclear as to what she wanted to do with her life. She easily figured out her strongest assets were her beauty, her body, and her youth. Somewhere during the consumption of a third round of drinks I asked her why had she picked the southern tip of Miami and what was she hoping to find. Speedway didn’t need to verbalize her answer. She smiled, looked out toward the sun drenched pool and then down the elongated bar at a crew of older men trying desperately to suck in their stomachs.

By the time Monday evening rolled around it was time to find a way to the Dolphins/Giants game. The man who escorted me on this trip decided to call Uber, the latest in private service transportation. This adventure landed me in the back seat of a Ford Escort with a sweet young couple from South Dakota. Right away I saw a great reality show in the making: New York Assholes meet authentic South Dakotans. Austin and Page were both 25 years old and their trip to the game in Miami was the first time they had ventured from their birth state. They struck quite a contrast to the cartoon type characters I had witnessed in this land of plastic. Austin is a big Dolphin’s fan and Page had surprised him with the trip for his 25th birthday. Although I couldn’t help but poke good natured fun at these two young lovers, they were by far as real and genuine as anybody I had made the acquaintance of in a very long time. Austin is a farmer and Page wants to be a housewife with four kids. They are high school sweethearts who have no plans to live anywhere but South Dakota. They both handled my jabbing and prodding along with my New York wise-guy comments with dignity and class. My friend in the front seat would never admit it but the Midwesterners and I were enjoying a bonding experience. Finally, I had to ask them why they had not married and what they were looking for. Page didn’t hesitate to answer:

“I brought him on this trip hoping he would come here and finally put a ring on my finger.” Poor Austin didn’t have a ring to pull out of his overalls. The wholesome couple from South Dakota and I walked together to the turnstiles at Sun Life Stadium. I floundered to find my entrance gate as we said our goodbyes. Austin and Page walked towards the stadium with confidence. They knew exactly where they were going. Or so they thought.

The next day after the game I had to make an unscheduled stop before my journey back to New York. At the last minute I planned to meet up with a long time friend of mine who now lives in West Palm Beach and is going through some of life’s common personal struggles. He had always been a talented artist, writer, and photographer. His life had started with a bang and such high hopes for the future. With an Undergraduate degree from Stanford on his resume, he married the first person he had fallen in love with- his high school sweetheart. His first love was a talented vocalist and at 14 was the front person for a well-known local band. It turned out she has made a living as a musician but never made it to the big time. My friend decided to live his life supporting her career so he became the band manager and a stay at home dad who was in charge of caring for the children, which sadly turned out to include his wife. Today in his 40’s the proverbial chickens have come home to roost in regards to his relationship. My friend had chosen to abandon his own dreams and potential for a woman whose best days were now far behind her. He is reluctant to give up on the image he created for the two of them. He realizes his partner is resistant to growth, change, or being anything more than a one hit wonder. He confessed to being upset at himself for not taking care of his independence over the years. We chatted for about an hour before my ride was there to get me to the airport. I heard my old friend’s cry for help. I didn’t have specific answers but I left him confident that he was at least ready to start searching for some.

The attendant was announcing last call for boarding as I chugged down my beer. I felt the sting of a bad sunburn as I threw my bag over my shoulder and headed down the ramp to the aircraft. My head was spinning and my mind was still dazed as I settled into seat 4A and shut my eyes. I saw the old man and his trophy girl awkwardly walking in the sand. I saw Speedway smiling at me with her innocent and alluring eyes. I saw Page and Austin holding hands in the back seat on the way to the rest of their lives. I saw my former student at his car door, trying desperately to hold on and let go at the same time. As the plane lifted into the air with my eye lids still shut, I let out a sigh. I knew I still had so much more to figure out about what I was searching for. I knew the answers that I might have been subconsciously looking for were not to be found in Florida. I had to keep moving forward; it was time to leave Miami behind.

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The vehicle operators in the two cars in front of me were driving the way people drive when they have no place to go. I’m not sure if “road rage” was a much used term in 1988 but on this day I had all the symptoms. It was around 10:30am on the 2^nd of January; the New Year was already a day old.  At the time I was teaching high school social studies in Wallkill, NY and had only my free period of 40 minutes to complete a very painful task. My father was the principal of an elementary school in the Wallkill district and I was on my way to see him—uninvited and unexpected. The ten minute journey was being slowed by the two elderly people in front of me who obviously hadn’t a single ounce of urgency in their bones. At 28, I was making the kind of mistakes that made me wonder if my life would ever amount to much. It was surely an “I don’t give a fuck anymore,” moment that prompted me to pull out across the double yellow line and into the blind spot of oncoming traffic. The second I committed my red 300 ZX to the opposite lane, a tractor trailer came directly into my vision. I don’t know how, but for a few moments in time my car shared not only the same piece of highway as the truck but was even sandwiched between the cars of the two senior citizens. Luck, fate, or destiny were on my side that day because at 70 miles per hour I drove between them and returned to my lane unscathed.

At his place of work my father was always an easy man to find. He was six foot three, 230 pounds, and usually sporting a suit and tie. His presence was known to be quite imposing throughout his 35 years as a middle school and elementary school principal. His reputation amongst the middle school kids was that of a no-nonsense, strict tyrant whom you never wanted to meet with one-on-one. Rumor had it he used the paddle or poked his long, thick fingers into your chest if he had gotten bad reports in regard to your school behavior. I have always loved the man and even back then he was just my Dad, but in my younger years I would be dishonest to say I didn’t live in the fear of his wrath. I liked to think that my father never spared the rod on me or my brother. Maybe I have repressed the memories of any belt whippings but I distinctly recall him reaching for it and me running for dear life.  One thing I am quite sure of is that in all of my living days, I didn’t want to disappoint the man I looked up to both figuratively and literally. I made my way into the main office of the Plattekill Elementary School to the greetings of a celebrity.

“Richie, what a pleasant surprise. Do you want to see your Dad?” asked Sherry Palen my Dad’s loyal secretary.

“Actually I do, but he isn’t expecting me,” I said tentatively.

Mrs. Palen jumped from her seat, “He’s in with somebody, I’m sure he will be glad to finish up.” I got up and prepared myself to enter the lion’s den.

 “Go right in Richie,” Mrs. Palen politely offered. As I was entering my Dad’s office I was passed by a nine year old boy with snot running from his nose and tears flowing from his eyes and felt as though I was looking in the mirror.

For a former gang member jock, fresh out of the Depression Era streets of Flatbush, my Dad had done alright for himself. He was a wayward trouble maker of a kid who found his way to New Paltz, a teaching degree, and a career in education. Now, near the end of a solid engagement as an administrator, he sat behind a desk with nothing on it with the exception of pictures of his family. I thought about how far he had come from the ghettos of New York City to his little fiefdom in upstate New York . I had always been proud of how he had gotten so much out of life even though starting with so little. It didn’t go unnoticed to me that his family was his number one priority and he had made sure that my brother, Gary, and I were provided so much more opportunity than was afforded him. Growing up, my Dad had been there for me through everything that was thrown my way. By the time I had reached my 20’s we were fortunate enough to become friends, and with the exception of one or two issues, I’d even go as far to say we were confidantes. Now, with looming thoughts of my day of reckoning, driving recklessly with my life spinning out of control, I sat in the small confines of an elementary school principal’s office, ready to plead my case. I was turning to my father to get me out of my metaphorical speeding ticket.

My Dad didn’t rise from behind his solid oak desktop.  He leaned back in his swivel chair and shot me a concerned look. “Hey Rich, what brings you to Plattekill in the middle of a school day?” He barely finished his sentence as I began spewing out the words I had rehearsed to myself the night before and all morning.

“I know I owe you $10,000. I promise I’m not ignoring that fact. The details don’t matter but I had a terrible weekend betting football. Since I’ve graduated college, I’ve only asked you for money once. I swear this will be the last time and you can set up a contract for how I’ll pay you back,” I shot in rapid fire. Then I took a breath. Before he spoke, I saw my father make a very small and subtle shake of his head.

“How much do you need?”  Great question, I enthusiastically thought. The meeting was going better than expected.

Without hesitation I responded, “Just another $10,000.” I had yet to start my career in sales but I knew that after you made your pitch and asked for the order it was best to shut up and wait for the client to say “OK.”

As I sat in the principal’s office, squirming like a school boy, I felt disdain from my father for the first time in my life. It was on par, if not more, with the disdain that I felt for myself and my query. I was a professional school teacher and a grown man yet here I was ready to receive a lecture from an elementary school administrator who also happened to be my Dad. The big guy pushed back from his reclining position and now was sitting upright against his desk and leaning forward. I could anticipate my tears before he even opened his mouth.

 “No, I am not going to give you any more money. You’re almost 30, you have a good job and no family, but you’re broke?”  Shamelessly he pushed forward a tissue box and continued with the most painful words I’ve ever heard spoken directly to me.

 “Rich, I see a guy sitting across from me who is wasting his life away. I know I’ve done things to disappoint you. But I never thought I would be disappointed in you. You have a problem and me giving you more money is not going to fix it. Only you are going to be able to cure yourself.” My wet eyes had stopped making contact with his halfway through my dress down. I had no verbal retort for the scathing but truthful words of my father. I exited the office in the same manner as the visitor before.

The winter air didn’t have anything to do with the numbness that came over my being. Certainly I had met defeat before in my life and made the adjustments to get back in the winner’s circle. This was entirely different. By the time my tears were drying I was feeling abandoned, the road back to redemption seemed so long, and I knew I had to go it alone. There would be no more excuses, no more get out of jail free cards or bailouts. The road rage I had experienced on the ride to see my Dad had completely disappeared on the ride back to my teaching assignment. Instead of my mind committing any anger towards my father, I began to take a personal inventory. For only a split second I had felt rejected and humiliated and in that little sports car I had an epiphany of sorts. No one had embarrassed me, my Dad hadn’t turned his back on me nor was I unlucky. I had to take sole responsibility for letting my life go off the tracks. My disappointments in finance, relationships, and career were self- inflicted. I had been looking for the easy way out and the short-cuts and as a result, had become polluted with a sense of false entitlement. For too many years I had been displaying a lack of passion for hard work and demonstrating an inability to grow as a person. Without realizing it, my father’s words and actions toward me had made a light bulb go off in my scattered mind. When the man who meant more to me than anyone else in the world had lost all confidence, I knew it was time for a change.

On the same stretch of highway where I should have taken my last breath a short time earlier, I was once again behind the little old church lady. It was late and I knew a bunch of 17 year olds were already in their seats waiting for their teacher’s arrival. It was going to be close, but I had an opening if I gunned my engine. Out of habit, I leaned my car toward the left lane preparing for another game of chicken. Then, in the same action, I gently let up on the gas pedal and tucked quietly back into my original position behind a woman who could barely see over her steering wheel. I can’t say from that day forward I never took another risk but I can say that I was ready to slow down the wreck that had become my life. I felt like I had been granted a second chance and I wasn’t going to cross any double yellow lines for a long time.

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“Richie, it’s time.”

Opening the door to my bedroom, my mom’s way of rousing me to start my day was far more effective than any standard alarm clock. When my mom woke me for school, she was usually interrupting eight to nine hours of pure beauty sleep. This particular morning was the first time I experienced not wanting to wake from the comfort of my slumber. I would have welcomed the end of days. Thankfully I can count on two hands how many times I’ve felt that way since.  I regularly allotted myself about 15 minutes of prep time to catch the school bus so there was never much time for contemplation. This day, I wanted to figure a way to push off my awaited fate another day. Looking back I’m surprised that in seventh grade I realized that no matter how bad you screw up it’s always less painful to face the music as quickly as possible. With that thought in mind I pounced out of my warm bed and into the stark coldness of the dark January morning. With gritted teeth I boarded my ride ready to run straight into whatever consequences lay ahead for my having been caught red-handed the day before.

The hallways were filled with the usual congestion as third period was turning into fourth.

Like most students I would make a stop at my locker to exchange books I no longer needed to ones needed for the next class. The hour glass of time remaining for me to meet my “Waterloo” was only three minutes away. Up until yesterday my 12 years on earth had gone on without so much as a hiccup. One mistake, and suddenly a confident well- adjusted kid felt exposed and disgraced. An incident borne out of laziness could quite possibly disrupt my academic standing and reputation. I slowly made my way up the stairs to the top floor of the New Paltz Middle School. I could feel the weight of all evils in the universe on my shoulders as I sheepishly dragged my way through the door of Miss Heude’s Honors French Class.

What a difference a day makes. I had definitely been riding high in my confined corner of the world. I was enjoying a small moment in time, when my physical late-blooming had yet to be noticed, because my classmates hadn’t started their own growth spurts of maturity just yet.  I was a relatively popular kid, who also happened to perform pretty well in the halls of academia. While I confess there were many times in my life I opted for the easy way out, in most cases I was prepared and on top of my school work. Being in all the honors classes and trying to keep up with all that went along with it was very challenging for me. Dana Lyons, Jane McKenna, Peter Morrison, Cherie Kidd, Peter Mancuso, Morris Bassik, and Lynn Nyquist were all smart kids and excellent students. I wanted to gain acceptance from that crowd as a diligent and serious scholar. Even in my pre-teen years I wanted to be so much more than “Richie Siegel-dumb jock” .

I made my way to the back of the room and took my seat next to Eileen Gagnon. The students in this French class had just taken two major tests in English and Social Studies the periods prior, so this little French vocabulary quiz should not have been that big of a deal. I had studied hard for the two exams in my two favorite disciplines. To save myself the rigors that went along with memorizing a bunch of foreign words, I constructed a “cheat sheet” with the words spelled out clearly. Our desks had openings to place extraneous items inside them. After a quick glance around the room, I stuck my prepared answers inside my table top into perfect position for my thieving eyes. Miss Heude, stood just about five feet tall in high heels. For a tiny woman I remember Denise Heude as a formidable teacher with a large voice. Regardless of how low learning the French language was on my priority list, Miss Heude had convinced us all that for the time we were in her classroom French was the premier subject at hand.

“Clear your desks and take out a sheet of paper,” she directed, “First word- Laissez-moi, laissez-moi.”

There was going to be a total of 20 words on this vocabulary exercise. Miss Heude was halfway through the list of terms and I was executing my indiscretion with ease. I rationalized to myself that this was not cheating, it was just a way of skirting around a trivial task for which I had no time.  By word number 18, “maintenant”, Miss Heude headed for a direction of the room where she never ventured- the back end. Now with the teacher standing behind me I could feel my knees begin to knock into each other. “Maintenant,” Miss Heude repeated. Then, as fast as a magician pulling a rabbit from a hat, a small hand reached around me and snatched the evidence of my cheating. In the immediate moment, I felt like I had been kicked in the stomach, even harder than when I had discovered Kristen Grant liked Danny Moss more than me. I was caught, plain and simple. A scoundrel, soon to be exposed to my peers as a fraud.

When the bell rang the next day, the 24 hour period of awaiting my public humiliation was over. Miss Heude had yesterday’s quiz results in her hand ready to distribute. Although I could never repeat the words verbatim her pre-class announcement was powerful enough to impact at least one student’s life. The rest of the class probably didn’t have a clue as to the motivation of the speech, let alone any memory of it.

“Integrity is by far more important than results. Short cuts and deception will lead to long term pain. Reputation is who others think you are, character is who you know you are.”

I got my paper back with a huge F covering the page. I received my lone C in my middle school career in French that marking period. Miss Heude never mentioned the incident and to this day I believe she and I were the only ones who were aware of the embarrassment I had caused myself. I wish I could say I never cheated again after the that incident. I wish I could say I would never be dishonest again.  Miss Heude’s words were undeniably meaningful to me but the truth is, they didn’t turn me immediately into “The Messiah” . I took from the experience a very clear lesson in winning and losing. A lesson of reputation and character. It’s a subject in which I am in the middle of the learning process. I have always been a very slow learner, but a learner nonetheless. Thank You Miss Heude and Repose en Paix.

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The big yellow school bus was pulling out of the New Paltz Middle School making its way through the early December gray. The kind of day Don Henley so aptly described with the lyrics, “The sky won’t snow and the sun won’t shine. It’s hard to tell the night time from the day.” It was just short of 1973 and I was a seventh grader on my way to my first school athletic event. I remember the large bus not being crowded and feeling a loud quiet surround me. I was heading into uncharted territory – the arena of competition. That adrenaline rush realm of keeping track of winning and losing was foreign to me. My good friend and teammate, Randy Freer, turned around from the seat in front of me, “How are you feeling Rich?”

“I’m good,” I responded somewhat confused.

Then Randy said something that has stuck with me for 40 years, “If we are going to win today it will mostly likely be up to you.”  It was the first time in my young life that I could feel the pressure that went along with the uncertainty of attempting to win.  There were plenty of other people who cared about the game that day besides myself.    I also realized that there would be times that others would be counting on me to get them into the winner’s circle.

From that moment, I understood that life on all levels was about winning and losing. That game of basketball amongst a bunch of 12 year olds  played on a cafeteria floor in Marlboro, “NY” was some sort of microcosm to all of the games in life that were to follow. In a cosmic way, I was aware that today they were going to keep score and begin a sorting-out process of successful and unsuccessful middle school basketball players. Tomorrow on the loud speaker in homeroom, the results would be announced. Everyone in my tiny box of a world would know how much I played, how many points I had, and how I measured up against the players from another town. I did not, however, realize that this was just a precursor to keeping records of all things humans correlate with winning and losing. I was still innocent enough to not decipher that life was nothing more than a huge game. I couldn’t yet imagine that most people kept tallies in their heads. In many ways the wins and losses would be evaluated and judged by numbers:  how many cavities did you have, class rank, SAT scores, girls or boys you kissed, letters after your name, credit score, dollars in the bank, salary, friends, trophies, square footage of your house, etc.   The contest I was traveling to was the precipice of literally keeping track of victories and defeats and all the highs and lows that go along with those two outcomes.

My lips were now pressing against the cold bus window. I wiped my hand into the glass to move away the condensation. My eyes fixated on the cars going the other way. The passengers in those vehicles had no idea, nor cared, that one boy’s overly-reflective mind had just begun spinning into a whirlwind of anxiety. A tornado, that for all practical purposes, still has not settled. The people in my universe were going to take an interest in the results of today’s event. On some level, my team, my coach, and I would be held accountable today. Were we good enough? Had we prepared hard enough? Would we be able to execute what we had practiced?  It wasn’t beyond me to comprehend that both sides would do everything they could to come out on top.  At the time, it was the most important thing in our lives.  The start of a lifetime learning process was going to take place inside the lines of that makeshift basketball court.

Coach Karsten waved me off the warm-up line to have a private pre-game chat. I glided over across the shiny floor in my sleek blue suede Puma “Clydes” to get some last minute instructions from my mentor. “Rich, play like you have been in practice. Remember to relax and have fun.” Truth was, I didn’t feel nervous and was wondering why I was getting this kind of individual attention. I glanced around the exterior of the court and saw that parents from both sides were in attendance. My little league coach, Tom Roach, whose son Brian was on the team, was there. I saw Mrs. Freer (Randy’s mom) and I spotted Mr. Taylor, my backcourt mate’s father. What would turn out to be an aberration to the support I had always gotten, and would continue to get, I distinctly remember neither one of my parents being present.  A boy younger than I sat at the scorers’ table ready to count the number of baskets and how many fouls each player committed. It was obvious that this competition meant much more than just having some fun. Once the game was underway, I was totally engulfed in the energy and electricity in the gymnasium. I could have been Walt Frazier running up and down the court at Madison Square Garden. It was a very tight game and as it approached the end, I felt as if the Marlboro Middle School was the only place on the planet.

The boys’ bathroom, posing as a locker room, had emptied out with the exception of one lone figure. The game had ended about a half hour ago and the bus was warmed and revving its’  engine in the parking lot. “Son that was some game you played today. I never saw anybody so small score all those points, 37, I think.  Was this your first game of the season?” the stranger carrying a dust mop asked. The boy only nodded affirmatively, picked up his gym bag and moved past the man in uniform. “Hold up,” the man said firmly. “One more thing, I’m sure you’ll never forget this day. You found out how sweet it feels to win, to be the hero. Enjoy it, treasure it, but keep in mind you don’t really learn anything until you’ve lost. You can never fully appreciate conquest until you get knocked down.” By now I was standing still as a school janitor imparted his unsolicited words of wisdom.

From the other end of the corridor I recall hearing another voice shouting for me, “Siegel, let’s go everyone’s waiting!”  Without ever uttering a word, I turned and headed through the exit into the cold December night air.

The oddly placed soliloquy was still ringing in my ear as I made my way up the steps toward my ride home. In unison, my teammates, scorekeepers, and Coach Karsten stood up and gave me a big round of applause. For an immature 12 year old, the adulation and acceptance felt misplaced and embarrassing. It was the first official game I had ever participated in and basketball was, after all, the ultimate team game. I was conscious that no one player should be singled out so profusely in a game built around teamwork. I sheepishly made my way through slaps on the back and high fives all the way to the back seat of the bus. Basking briefly in admiration and stardom, I tried to find some sense in the words of the mystical custodian. In all the time between that day and now, it turned out I’ve had many occasion to stomach the lessons of losing. In love, business, and on the athletic fields, I have felt more than my share of the inadequacy that goes along with not achieving a desired outcome.  That may be why I repressed many of my early accomplishments and triumphant moments until all these years later. Looking back, I don’t think I deserved, or was ready to fully appreciate, the kind of glory I encountered that day in Marlboro.  It’s only after all the decades of being knocked around and struggling to find my way back up that  I can finally embrace the applause.

How far away from home some of us go. Kristen Shaughnessy went to the top of the broadcasting world. After my conversation with her it was clear she never really left Pine Bush.