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The second Saturday of April is known as “moving day’ to the folks of Augusta Georgia. But at the 2024 Master’s the gusts from the God’s were keeping the leaderboard still. Scottie Scheffler, who has developed into the best player in the world started the day with a one-shot lead that he would have to sleep on going into the final round. Trying to rest with a lead the night before the final round of a four round tourney is a bittersweet experience. You can see yourself donning the green jacket and you can envision your golf ball drowning in Ray’s Creek. The great champions find a way to control their mental state if they are to go on to win multiple major championships, while the rest end up in history’s dustbin of runner-up’s. Tuning in last Saturday I began my annual pilgrimage (via television) to “The Masters” weekend. For one week of the year golf lovers get to watch the premier players in the world go to golf’s heaven to compete for a green jacket. As naturally as the world keeps rotating around the sun, the powers to be at Augusta have remained unusually unchanged since the inaugural event back in 1934. Over the years putting on the green jacket, that recognized the winner, is without debate the most coveted prize in golf. The drive through the magnolias towards the imperial clubhouse is the sweetest ride in golf. Once the player is emerging from the magnolias he is entering a time and space that exists no where else on this earth.

In a world that is currently completely upside-down “The Masters” hangs onto to the strict rules of privatization and capitalism principles of “don’t t tell us how to run our Country Club.”  Amazingly, over the years, advertisers, the players, the networks, and the nation as a whole look the other way at discrimination and elitism that have always ruled this club which is still held in such reverence. There are both magmatic leaders and dangerous leaders in this world, and then there is the “Board of Directors at Augusta”. At Augusta National the Chairman of that Board is Ceasar who is a one-way street for all things Augusta National. The Masters is run with an iron hand, with the goal being “we run the best golf tournament in the universe, and we run it exactly the way we want. Proceed at your own peril.” “The Masters” is determined to leave the world behind and create an environment designed for their fantasies. The enormous elephant in the room at Augusta is its dark history of misogyny and racism. It was not until 1975 that the first black professional golfer (Lee Elder) was allowed to compete for “The Masters” title. The only blacks driving down Magnolia Lane in those days were the help. As recently as 1995 “The Masters” was boycotted due to the club’s practice of “no women” on the golf course. These deep scars from paradise’s past cast ominous shadows over the entire grounds which are 100% ignored by the shills announcing. That year the Travelers and Cadillac pulled their ads, and “The Masters” ran the tournament without a hitch, or a sponsor free. Nobody tells the good “ole boys” of Augusta how to run their club. Yes, they gracefully put away their blatant racism in 1997 and embraced Tiger Woods as “The Masters” second greatest champion.

In the year 2024, the Board of Directors at “The Masters” has woken up to the social issues that they used to turn the other cheek to. But they haven’t given into inflation, or any sub-standard conditions on the golf course. Ice cream sandwiches cost 50 cents for the patrons during the tournament. Hot dogs are one dollar. And how about a cold Heineken for a dollar fifty. Change is not the favorite word for the old white geezers that run the show. The word tradition is the most important from the Augusta’s board point of view. With a few exceptions (WWII) the green jacket (even through Covid) is put on the eventual winner of the grandest tournament of them all. There is not a pro out there on the course who has not dreamed the same dream to someday tee it up at Augusta with a shot to put on the green jacket Sunday evening. “The Masters” have been doing it the same way  since what seems to be the beginning of time. And not a single commentator, member, or patron is going to say one irreverent word about the dark history of America’s favorite Country Club. Surprisingly enough in the year 2024 the winds on Saturday at “The Masters” kept the leader board spookily still.

Despite its jaded track record of white male elitism, the week of “The Masters” remains one of the most watched events on American television. The Tuesday night, prior to the opening shots being fired, the legends of golf gather in the founder’s room of the clubhouse for the past “Champions Dinner”. Each year the prior champ hosts the traditional  “victors only dinner”. This year the host was Jon Rahm, who had caused quite a stir the week before announcing he had accepted 350 million dollars to leave the PGA tour and join LIV. Rahm’s menu selection was a feast with all the goodies made for the heartiness of Spaniard taste buds. On Wednesday, the tournaments families get to participate with the players in the traditional par three tournament this year won by Rickie Fowler. These events build for the Thursday morning when golf’s big three (Jack Nicklaus ,Gary Player, and Tom Watson ) walked through the early morning dew to launch the ceremonial tee shots that begins the gala. At the Masters the storylines are always titillating. This year the between the lines gossip was focused on Rory McIlroy. Would he win his first green jacket to secure the grand slam, (winning the PGA’s four major tournaments), would he take $850,000,000 from Greg Norman and become the final sellout to the PGA tournament. By the time Sunday evening rolled around neither had transpired. But on Thursday morning at “The Masters” the storylines are put on hold, and it feels like opening day of the baseball season (they fall close together on the calendar). “Everybody was even par, and everybody’s dreams were fresh.”

So much has changed in this world over the past fifty years, but the lords of Augusta National continue to spend unlimited dollars to do everything in their power to keep their sacred traditions of “The Masters” preserved. As the tournament began Thursday morning, 89 invitees were ready to fight for a chance to compete at the highest of levels of golf on gods’ acre. Bryson DeChambeau, the independent rich bad boy of LIV fame dominated the leader board for most of the first two days. DeChambeau, who did find a way to win the U’S. Open at Winged Foot back in 2020, has become a symbol of a new breed of golfer who respects “The Masters” traditions but certainly marches to his own drum when attacking “The Masters” set up. As DeChambeau ultimately faltered in his attempt to outdrive Augusta, Scottie Scheffler rose quietly to the top of the leaderboard. Once on top, today’s hottest golfer in the world put on a clinic in remaining a “calm cool customer.” Scheffler used his depth patience and honed talent to show the world that on the golf course “he has all tools to continue to be a great champion for years to come.” On Sunday night when the green jacket was placed on Scheffler’s shoulders, the God’s of Augusta took their annual deep breath. The old blue bloods of Augusta don’t like controversy and Scottie Scheffler is as close to perfect you’re going to get these days. A true blue “good guy” with a beautiful family and great head on his shoulders. The future is his for the taking.

The time of the second Sunday of April had arrived. As Scheffler made his way through the crowd, his caddie walked side by side hoisting the flag from the 18^th green making their way to the Butler Cabin. “The Masters” had what they wanted. Scottie Scheffler hugging his parents marching through the thralls of well wishers like Marc Anthony returning to Rome after the conquering had been done. The victory march ends in the Butler Cabin, and a presentation that is scripted the same way it has been the last 70 years. Augusta’s Chairman Fred Riley congratulated the low amateur (Neal Shipley) before turning to Jon Rahn, signaling the time for the past Masters champion to put the green jacket on the new conquering hero. Scottie Scheffler had won his second green jacket of what is sure to be many more to come. At the age of 28 he had already secured his place amongst the gods of “The Masters”. “Thank you, Mr. Chairman,” Scheffler said politely as tears rolled off his eyes in front of four million viewers. Late into the Georgia night Scheffler came out of the Butler Cabin to greet family and friends patiently awaiting the new king. Among the missing was his wife, home expecting their first child. The night before Scheffler had said that if he got the call, he was leaving the course immediately, even if it were on the seventy second hole with a lead. That sounded good to the crowd, but the god’s at the Augusta would have never stood for it. As the rest of word remains shakingly upside down The Masters got through another year doing things just the way they like.

As a teenager, myself, and my brother Gary would watch whatever sporting event was being televised that day. We mostly watched professional athletes, sometimes college, occasionally the Olympics, and in rare instances we could stoop as low as Roller Derby. Over the years, though, it was all the New York teams of the 60’s and 70’s that the two of us followed with religious passion. We could name all the players on the Mets, Yankees, Knicks, Nets, Giants, Jets , Rangers, and Islanders (I did not realize, back then then, that the Buffalo Bills and Buffalo Braves were New York teams). We never had anything against woman’s sports, we simply had very few opportunities to check any out. Every Saturday morning, I would run to the mailbox to get the ‘TV Guide’. It was literally called  “T.V. Guide” and it provided a list of the time and the place of all sporting events that were to be televised during the week. One Saturday way back in the mid-seventies “the guide “said: ‘NCAA Women’s National Championship Game Sunday 12:00’. The next morning, I was up early, ‘Hey Gary, turn on channel two there is a girls basketball game on.’ “What?” he said with surprise. ‘A girls hoop game is on,’ I screamed back. Within minutes we were in front of the boob tube sitting two feet away from our family’s newly purchased 12-inch colored screen. We watched the entirety of the Montclair State Lady Monarchs playing the women Bruins of UCLA in the college national championship semi-finals. What I always remembered from that game was a player nicknamed “Blaze” (Carol Blazejowski). By far she was the most dominant performer on the court that day and made an impression on myself and my brother “She reminds of Pistol Pete Maravich. These girls are much better than I expected,” I said to my brother. The fact turned out to be it would be nearly 50 years before I watched another girl’s game from beginning to end.

Carol Blazejowski went on to be “the Goat” of women’s basketball for a couple of decades. Yet, watching her that day did not catapult myself, or Gary, to becoming much of a rabid fan to the girl’s game. Last spring, by complete accident, somewhere in South Carolina, on a Friday night, the Iowa girls’ basketball team was on ESPN playing LSU for the women’s championship of college basketball. I had heard the typical hype regarding the two stars of the opposing teams as well as being familiar with their superior head coaches (Iowa’s Lisa Bluder and LSU’s Kim Mulkey). I looked up to the screen as the player displaying a large number 22 on her jersey was threading an on the run bounce pass through three defenders. One play is all it took…… ‘maybe this kid is not the usual over bloated talent that sportscasters drum on about at nausea.’ I kept watching, and before halftime I was sure I was witnessing the second coming of Michael Jordan, and her name was Kaitlyn Klark. I watched her that night and many games in the following season. It took me a while to figure out her name was spelled Caitlyn Clark, but only one play to realize it was not a good idea to turn my head when watching her perform.  At first, I watched Clark in awe, taking in her game. She had an attitude to go along with a unsufferable competitive spirit. As a former athletic competitor ‘she is not only a great player but a great teammate’, I was thinking. ‘She unselfishly delivers the ball to the open girl. She shoots the ball from deep as good as anybody who played the game.’ On the court Clark is in perpetual motion running off screens and screaming at the officials all in one. She looks as if she is the energizer bunny on steroids, who also happens to have MENSA like basketball I.Q.

In March of 2023, for the first time in decades I watched a women’s basketball game. Iowa University was playing Louisiana State University in the women’s championship game. LSU had a player (Angel Reese), who presented the perfect foe to Clark captivating the crowd with a show of her own. That day back in 2023 LSU, coached by the dynamic fashion plate Kim Mulkey, sent Iowa home without the trophy they would miss out on again in their future. The way Clark and Reese fought in that game brought my mind back to Russell/Chamberlain, Magic/Bird, Frazier/West. One game watching and I couldn’t get enough of Ms. Clark. Last Friday night (April 5, 2024) I settled in to watch Clark pour 41 in the NCAA Women’s National Semi Final tilt. It turned out to be the first time in my recent memory that I was so emotionally tied to a sporting event. My heart was all in with this kid who looked like a number two pencil with an extra 2, surrounded by a band of street brawlers who you’d take to any barfight. This past Sunday, without one penny wagered, it was time to watch Caitlin Clark play her final game of her collegiate career. Iowa had escaped LSU and perennial power University of Connecticut in the earlier rounds and now it was time to face the South Carolina Gamecocks, led by their venerable head coach Dawn Staley. South Carolina had rolled through the season 38-0 and was installed as a 6.5 favorite to beat the Iowa girls.

The magic of sports lies somewhere between our expectations and our dreams. We get behind our favorite players and teams and we pull for them as if we were going into battle. We have no idea what the fight will bring, or how the ride will end. Every now and then someone, or something, rises above the crowd to make you care , they make you root from this place inside that you’re embarrassed to expose. Caitlin Clark got me to that place, one more time, to a place ‘I could not turn my eyes away.’ Caitlin Clark half court bombs, that in my coaching days would have never been tolerated, was what I loved the most. The fact was when Clark was performing, I wanted to watch. A jaded old men’s hoop junkie had suddenly become infatuated with all things women’s college hoops. The last time I remembered caring this much about any game was back when I was playing or coaching. Clark started the last game of her Iowa career putting on a first quarter display that eclipsed the magnitude of the moment. In front of 24 million television viewers, on arguably the biggest stage ever in women’s sport. Clark put up 18 points, broke several records for numbers in a quarter and had her undersized Hawkeyes up 27-20 heading into the second stanza. ‘This girl passes like Cousy, shoots like Curry and leads like Jordan,’ I said to myself getting up from the recliner to take breath.

In the end South Carolina had too much talent and size for the undermanned Iowa team. Led by Kamilla Cardosa, along with a strong bench performance led by several Gamecock freshman, Iowa’s dreams of sending Clark into the sunset with a National Championship faded into an Indiana’s sunset.. The game ended with South Carolina hoisting their second National Title Trophy in three years. The Iowa girls left the stage after their magic carpet ride was officially ended at the crowning ceremony. During the throning of the champion there were both tears of pain, and tears of joy. Both teams had the look of two battered prize fighters awoken up after a fantastical dream had come to an end. After all the talk, and all the hype, Caitlin Clark tore apart the records books, blazing through almost every standard that ever stood, but short one National Championship. Clark and Reese are on their way to the WNBA now. A woman’s league that’s has struggled to find a style, or a fan base to support its growth. The hope is that Clark’s performance during her college career will carry over into the same excitement at the professional level. The day after this year’s women’s final the men’s played their championship game in front of 14,000,000 viewers; 10 million less the girl’s afternoon game the day before. It was clear evidence that suddenly the women were more marketable than the men. This may a temporary phenomenon, but right now American basketball fans have gone wild for the girls.

As Clark’s career ended, I thought back to the young lady whose records she had just shattered, Carol ‘Blaze’ Blazejowski. After “Blaze” finished college in 1978, she ended up playing two years of women’s semi-pro (there was not a professional woman’s league until the WNBA inception in 1996 ) basketball in Allentown Pennsylvania for the Allentown Cressettes. By happenstance, Muhlenberg College in Allentown was where I ended up playing college basketball. In those days, the local college players prepared in the offseason by balling together in the local public courts. One day, some running mates and I got on a Saturday morning roll at Allen Park Center Court. In the fourth game of the day, our opponents were playing with four guys form Moravian College, and one woman. We all knew who she was, and how good she was for a girl. “I got her,” I piped up to my teammates. I remember thinking to myself, ‘I realize I am an average division three basketball player, but there is not a girl on this planet going to have her way with me on a basketball court.’ During the regular season we had the Mo Mo’s number, but in that Saturday Championship game in Allen Park, with a woman as their fifth starter, they beat us 11-9. As I summoned all my powers, to stop her, she dropped five of their 11 points on my red ass. At the time I took a lot of good-natured ragging from my teammates. But, for me it was not a laughing matter. I have never spoke of that day, until now. I was a trash talker win or lose. If only I had known what the future had in store for us.

The “King”, Elvis Aaron Presley, was coming through Matt’s radio singing his cover of the touching Irish lyric “Danny Boy”.  America’s endless holiday known as Saint Patrick’s Day was currently in the middle of its two-week annual spring tour. The year’s most tedious holiday had arrived in the state of New York’s capital city of the past. Bartertown’s uptown business district was in full swing, celebrating all things green Irish, and otherwise.  The leprechauns originated a day to honor the passing of the Patron Saint Patrick on the day of his death 461 years after the crucifixion of Jesus Christ. Bartertown traditionally had its St. Paddy’s parade the week prior to the official holiday, which allows the local sandwich spots to serve up corn beef and cabbage to their customers at nausea. Matt parked his car in the vicinity of the Old Dutch Church where he caught a glimpse of small children dressed up in cute pixy outfits. The March O’ Faeries were gracefully fluttering about the church’s 18^th century graveyard. The Saturday before Blarney Day Matt was watching the rhythms of new beginnings dancing into spring. The parade may have been the week prior, but today all the magic that goes along with the wearing of the green was on full display.

The faeries, with lighted wings, fluttered about completely unvexed from their peripheral surroundings. In a few days winter would be formally over, and the spring of 2024 would begin. On the surface, with indelible faeries, lucky charms, and regular Irishmen floating together in the simmering light, the world appeared to be in perfect harmony. The month of March is known in the Northeast pasts as a transitional month. Our bodies start to send signals to our brain to wear less clothes and think of all things summer. Our mind’s get a step quicker. Already, the goals of the new year are shaping up, or dying on the vine. The newest year, 2024, is setting up to be the most dramatic year in the history of America’s civilization. Beyond the normal scheduled distractions of holidays and parades lies the truth of what has happened to Bartertown and hundreds of other cities like it throughout this country. “When the medicine becomes worse than the disease society declines,” said the famous philosopher Marcus Aurelius’ a century before the fall of the Roman empire. Matt looked down the long row of sprawling streets in front of the houses of worship. The once quaint little city of his youth had completely morphed before his eyes.

“Elves of hill, brooks, standing lakes, and groves,” wrote William Shakespeare in his romantic comedy  ‘A Mid Summer’s Night Dream. The Bard would have had plenty to muse upon walking the streets of Bartertown in 2024. The streets were displaying the results of years of self-serving local government. Over the decade the greedy pols were greased in backroom deals that dumped thousands of disenfranchised people into the local communities. Thousands who live here completely dependent on the state for their survival. There simply wasn’t enough to go around, so the forgotten, the poor, and the disabled were sent to small cities across America. The corrupted leaders of Bartertown couldn’t check them in fast enough, or cash their own checks they received for finding the places to put them up. This has been Bartertown’s business model since a major manufacturing plant picked up its ball and went home back in 1995. A depressed economic area already overpopulated with wards of the state was not ready to meet the strains of 10,000,000 (Probably 800 in Bartertown) undocumented who roam the streets with no plan and no citizenship. Ten million “newcomers” trying to assimilate and live an American Dream that is covered in rust. After the liberal left drove the corrupt republicans out Bartertown, they quickly embraced the identity that goes along with the new progressive world that has tried to run us over. Bartertown is a sanctuary city. The no bail laws are afforded all accused. The District Attorney is a puppet of the far-left socialist agenda. Bartertown is the shining example of the results of building back better. Matt recognized the regulars going about their business. But it was the undocumented, the homeless that got Matt’s attention as winter was becoming spring.

Bartertown is just a microcosm of what the rest of America has deteriorated into. The fools have been fascinated and the intelligent have been muzzled. Trains go off the tracks in East Palestine Ohio, doors fly off commercial airliners built by our best Boeing engineers (Lol), a country without borders, cities where criminals roam free, and decade long tax paying citizens are labeled as bad. Every day, another breakdown happens in the country’s infrastructure causing irrepressible damage moving forward.  A couple of days ago one of the countries busiest arterials which leads into one of our countries most active ports collapsed into Baltimore’s Chesapeake Bay. The bridge was the main route into the city (interstate 695). It was struck by a cargo ship at 3:30 am last Wednesday morning. The Francis Scott Key bridge crumbled into the dark waters killing a yet to be determined number of people and causing a nationwide financial crisis regarding the transportation of goods for the next several years. The conspirator theorists were loaded with more ammunition regarding a country that is literally falling apart before our eyes. Now the authorities of this broken country must spend weeks trying to recover the bodies, the cars, and the waste. The cargo liner was carrying 70 tons of hazardous materials that now lay on the surface of the Chesapeake’s waters. While the incident appears to be an accident, the time for excepting truthful explanations from our news media is over. Whether or not the collapse of a major arterial in a major port was pure accident of not , we are all at the point of understanding we need to repair our entire situation assuming it is not too late.  All Matt had to do was look into people’s eyes now to see the despair. As the faieries, leprechauns, the undocumented , the homeless dance in the streets, Matt asked himself the curious question ‘ if there is a god where is he sleeping?’

In the traditional religion of Christianity, Good Friday is a day of penance for the Christians to recognize that Jesus Christ was executed on the cross at Calvary. The Christians believe that Christ, on the direction from his father, sacrificed himself in the name of human sin. When God’s son was delivered into the heavens it represented a universal symbol of God forgiving man for original sin. The holiday, the day of Jesus’ death, being named “Good Friday” did not get lost on Matt in translation. Bartertown on “Good Friday 2024” was bustling with the colors, sounds, and machinations of the traditional Easter weekend celebration. The Easter Bunny was handing out colored eggs to the children whose parents had gathered for a “Free Palestine Now” peace demonstration. In the land of Christ’s birth (the Middle East), where God’s holy wars have raged for two thousand years. All these centuries later the fact is that genocide is hovering over the planet. The tensions and the death toll on the Gaza strip heighten every day on a tiny piece of land that is the home of both the Israelis and the Palestinians. America’s role in this conflict has become the number one battlefield of American politics. Bartertown on the surface had the look of what all the streets, in the all the cities across the United States had morphed into. Across the street, from the old Dutch church, at the Roman Catholic Cathedral the parishioners were somberly carrying their makeshift crosses into the services. In front of the worshippers, strangers equipped with knapsacks and government issued bicycles searched for a place to fit. As the Free Palestine Protesters screamed into the night “Cease Fire Now”, the Catholics quietly went inside to beg Jesus to come back and save us one more time.

If you believe the words written in the old and the new testaments God’s son walked this the earth, somewhere in the territory we now call the Middle East. The bible says Jesus was a carpenter, a teacher, and a prophet. For the real believers Jesus Christ was more than a man who was crucified because of his threat to the local politicians of the time. Christians believe God sent his son to earth two thousand and twenty-four years ago to deliver God’s message to humankind. We don’t all agree that Jesus was the son of God , but history does maintain Jesus lived in the middle East for 30 years and was put to death because he was believed to be a traitor to the state. Two days after his gruesome execution Christians believe God’s son rose from the grave presenting proof to his followers that he was a “Messiah.” Today in Bartertown, and cities across this great country, an invasion of America has already taken place. And while this country wages its wars within, the rest of the world watches annihilation in Europe and more genocide in the land of God. Who’s right? And who is wrong? False prophets fill the airways and social media outlets filled with the propaganda of a tyrannical government. The unelected deities blare their false narratives to mindless fools who head to the streets to repeat. The American public is left to figure out the lies and deception for themselves. Matt doubted if God really existed. “If he does he isn’t taking my calls.”

In the year 7510

If God’s a coming, He oughta make it by then…

“When you look through the years and think what you might have been Oh,  what you could have been if you had had more time……” Supertramp

At its’ highest elevation New York’s State Route 52 hovers 2,389 feet above the hamlet of Ellenville. If you possess a fear of heights the view at the peak point of Crags Mor perch will literally take your breath away. It was a long-ago December night, in the year 1982, he was sitting in the front seat of a big yellow school bus. He was as focused as he had ever been heading over the hill to the battle awaiting at the bottom of his descent. There was just enough daylight in the afternoon sky to make out the framings of a golf course and a ten-story hotel that in its day was one of the jewels of the Catskills (The Nevele Hotel and Resort). “You see down there,” the young man, in his khakis and silk tie turned to the two varsity basketball players hiding under their seats adjacent to their coach. “There’s a great golf course down there”, the coach said to his two players whose eyes were shut tighter than the basketball trunks they would put on shortly.  A social studies teacher by day, the coach could not help but to offer up a little history lesson. “It was only 16 years ago (1966), President Lyndon Johnson came to Ellenville to christen the village’s new state of the art hospital.  Johnson came to Ellenville with New York Senator Robert F. Kennedy, who both stayed overnight in the top floor suites of the Nevele.” The two players, still on the bus floor hiding from the frightening view, Anthony Sergeant and Keith Farrow opened their eyes and simultaneously squinted, “Who?” They were all on their way to the first game of their senior season. They were “Bushmen” of Pine Bush climbing the Shawangunk mountains on their way to take on the Ellenville Blue Devils in a local hoop shoot out. The coach was a 22-year untested neophyte on his way to what he thought was going to be a long and glorious career on the hard wood. There was nothing but air between his windowpane and the golf course. His adrenaline was off the charts, and all his fear of high places and big arenas was ready to be met.

That December night back in 1982 was the beginning of the long road to reach his final destiny. He was on his first bus ride as a high school history teacher and basketball coach. It would be difficult as the years went flying by to find a moment in time where he was more excited about the direction he was headed. It was an hour before the headliner game kicked off and already there was not an empty seat in the Ellenville high school gymnasium. The Junior Varsity always played the preliminary game before the Senior Varsity played headliner at the old Safari Lounge.. From his perspective, tonight’s J.V. basketball game between Pine Bush and Ellenville was the only thing going on in the entire world that mattered. The ball was in the referee’s’ hands as the cheerleaders skirted off the court with pom poms flying. Taking his spot on the bench he could see his father, and his former high school basketball mentor squeezing into the compact spaces between the tweens. If you believed in destiny, you could see the seeds of a future Bob Knight. Tonight, it was his stage, his team, his soul and in his mind the opening act of to a career, and a life, filled with success. There is no place like a victorious locker room when your team is away from home “We came into this little town on the other side of the mountain and took what is theirs. Now let’s get on the bus and return to the bush with the spoils.” It is probably not the verbatim script, but it sure sounds good now.  There isn’t a better feeling than being young and having poisoned yourself to have endless opportunities in front of you. 

The Pine Bush Junior Varsity Basketball team were conquering heroes that night as they headed back to Orange County over the Crags Mor ridge. The scrappy 5’4” point guard, who played a game that his coach could not see coming based on practice sessions in the preseason was beckoned to the front of the bus. The small quiet kid with an oversized gut pulled into the seat next to his coach. His young mentor, only a few years separating them, looked at his floor general knowing how important it was that his words were measured. “You showed me a lot tonight that I missed when I was running you into the ground in practice. Your turnover assist ratio was outstanding. You established yourself as a leader tonight. Great job. Now, you have got to learn to play defense.” Those were the words that came out of the coach’s mouth. As a player he was thinking this kid has a rare gift, “the brighter the lights, the more he shines.” He had not experienced the same as a player, but he loved seeing it in one of his charges. Pete Tomasulo left his coach to head back to the celebration in the back of the bus. The coach looked down at lights of the little village below.  He thought about this amazing ride he was on at such an early age when the ominous feeling of getting too giddy too quickly was silenced. As a leader and a competitive coach, it is extremely important to not get too high, or too low. The lesson that is universal in the coaching industry is simple: If you are passionate about the product you put on the floor, the joy of victory does not even come close to the stomach-turning emptiness of defeat. The euphoria of the night before fades immediately when the 5:30am alarm is blaring. There is not much time to catch up on your rest when you’re due back in Pine Bush for a day filled with educating the youth of America.

The 7:30 am Global History class could have cared less about their teacher’s triumph only hours ago. They were happy to hear their teacher say: “Get out your textbook, read Chapter 8 and give me a full summary of the chapter in writing for discussion in tomorrow’s class.” He had learned most of the “tricks of trade” from his dad, a long-time school administrator. This was the perfect time to apply “how to show up but take the day off lesson”. The coach sat behind his desk going over last night’s stat sheet and dreaming of the next show. He leaned back in a chair he rarely sat in while he taught. As his charges were silent in the early morning haze their teacher was basking in a feeling, of being where he was supposed to be. In the scent of the morning after it appeared this young phenom may have figured out the whole puzzle out at a very early age. At the bottom of last night stat sheet, he wrote a note to his team. “Great effort last night. Our defensive efficiency was below one, and we held them to under ten good looks. Winning is fun!!” As the 28 ninth grade students quietly read about the “Middle East” their teacher had drifted off to breathe in the sweet smell of victory from the night prior. To a place where he was comfortably inside the winner’s circle. The night before had been a confirmation of what his mission in life was. He had found his calling. He was a teacher. He was a coach. As the bell rang for second period he was convinced he was heading into a long career being the pied piper.

Over 42 years have passed since that special night in Ellenville. His career in teaching and coaching lasted seven years (all as a history teacher, 3 years J.V., and four-year varsity coach). Today in March of 2024 he found himself in the same spot he was on that December night of his youth. He was on his way to see an old friend. The route he had to take entailed traveling Route 52 over the Shawangunk Mountain Range. He was on his way to the Ellenville Rehabilitation Center (Ellenville Hospital). His visit coincided with the same day as his hometown’s state tournament basketball game later that afternoon. The view from the zenith of the Shawangunk’s hadn’t changed much over all the decades. You could still see the “Nevele Tower” which had gone out business back in 2009. There was no more definition to the once beautiful golf course, only fields of weeds remained. That night in Ellenville over 40 years ago did not send that young man into a juggernaut of a coaching legacy that seemed so definite. He left teaching and coaching in 1989 and never looked back. In the forty years of life from 20-60 you “either make it or break it”. That is the real truth we all discover if we make it that long. We are all left with no choice but to look back and evaluate how we did. How did our dreams turn out? As Sergeant Ryan did at the end of the movie (Saving Private Ryan) when he returned to Normandy beach with his wife and extended family, he looked to his wife for confirmation. “Tell me, did I live a good life? Was I a good man?” If you live this life hard there will come a time, you’ll find yourself looking back. How did I do? Today on top of the perch, 40 years separated from his childhood dreams, he could see all the in-betweens.

His stop at the Ellenville hospital was quick. His old friend had been in a coma for two months and now it appeared she was coming out of it. It had been 42 years since that magical night back in 1982. He had been a 22-year-old kid who had found his way to the top of mountain and early glory. There will be times on our journey that we will have to adapt our vision and adjust from the obstacles that come flying at you in many directions. Today, by coincidence, he was leaving Ellenville and heading home to watch a basketball game. It was exactly tip-off time when he pulled into the fire lane adjacent to the basketball arena. The stragglers without tickets were being sent home in tears. He got to the ticket window and pulled out his” golden ticket.” The security guard at the door to the gym studied the pass (Section Nine Gold Pass), along with the old teacher’s eyes before nodding indicating he could enter the gym. He was the last person allowed to enter the gym.

The sounds, the electricity, and the energy of hometown fans passionately rooting on their team produced an immediate Adam’s apple in his throat. This is what he had dreamed of all those years ago. This is what he wanted to do with his life. He stood on side of the bleachers and watched the first half of a high school game that pitted two of the best teams in the state. He found a place where he could see the action and have a conversation with the 22-year-old kid who was on that bus heading towards a game. He tried to make sense of the past. He was looking at his future in real time. By halftime, with the home team dominating, he decided to make an early exit. He stepped out into the fading light…… He thought about Pete Tomasulo and all the students that come and go through the years while the teacher’s stand still. He thought about the “seasons” that have come and gone. All that was going to be did not happen and he was alright.

So much for destiny?

“February made me shiver with every paper I deliver, bad news on the doorstep…..”

Don McLean’s lyrics, part of one of the greatest pop songs in American history was stuck in Matt’s head as he opened the door and stepped out into the night. McLean was specifically referring to a plane crash that occurred on the early Iowa morning of February 3, 1959, taking the lives of Buddy Holly, Ritchie Valens,  and “The Big Bopper” (J.P. Richardson Jr). Three young up and coming rock stars dreams went up in flames. McLean’s haunting words “the day the music died” rocketed the song ‘American Pie’ to the top of the music charts for 16 weeks between the years 1971 and 1972 (number one song on billboard’s top 100). The lyrics tell the story of America’s political and social history ranging from World War II (1941-45), through the decade of the seventies. As Matt hummed the song in his head, he walked the streets of Bartertown the Friday night before America’s biggest game. The temperature, even for the era of climate change, was comforting. It was far too beautiful of a day to be anything but optimistic. Matt was standing facing a sign “The Four Corners.” The intersection of four stone houses built adjacent to each other pre-Revolutionary War. The sign at these crossroads was making claim to be the longest standing four corners in America. It was the same spot Matt had visited the Friday before, listening to Mary strum her tunes on the front porch of what once was the State of New York’s Senate House. The seat that she had occupied the week before was now filled by a middle-aged man blowing into a saxophone with all his heart. In the light amidst the darkness Mary waited her turn. It felt like the calm before the storm.

Two days later was Super Bowl Sunday. For the 58^th time the best team in the American Football Conference would square off with the best team in the National Football Conference to determine the champion. The largest television audience, 123,000,000 people, tuned in to watch the Kansas City Chiefs play the San Francisco 49ers. A day like this one was all about America celebrating its love for football, music, and doting on their favorite celebrities. The great American tradition of American football and the Super Bowl should not be underscored. It is a day for all of us to put animosities aside and take a moment to root on our team, or at the very least our betting interests. The average cost for a ticket to watch the game live was $8,000. If you wanted to watch it in style, luxury suites were a bargain at an average of $2,000,000 per box. Overshadowing the players on the field was the arrival of the largest star of them all. Taylor Swift performed in Tokyo the day before. She was scene on the “big screen” arriving at Allegiant Stadium in Las Vegas just in time for kickoff. Swift is romantically linked to the Chief future hall of fame tight end Travis Kelce. The couple are both, America’s cutest mascots, as well as their favorite voodoo doll.

“The halftime air was sweet perfume as “Usher” played a marching tune,” Matt watched the first half in a local waterhole missing the “two” national anthem performances prior to the game. (two National Anthems?). The game itself provided the kind of adrenaline rush Matt felt back when he was heavily invested. The Chiefs 25-22 overtime victory provided all the excitement to live up to the plethora of manic hype that goes along with the event.

For one Super Sunday, with the world watching, America’s biggest game was played on the” Viva Las Vegas stage.” The true believers swear they saw the ghost of Elvis in the building. All the current world’s social and political grievance warriors took a five-hour hiatus from insulting each other to unite behind the team of their choice. The traditions of Super Bowl Sunday have morphed into a day of partying, escaping the reality of our lives, and gambling to excess. This year’s match-up was especially titillating. A pass at unity started the show with two National Anthems: The Star-Spangled banner, America’s National Anthem since 1931 (according to google, which should be stated every time you make “them” a reference as your source) was sung by country western star Reba McEntire, followed by a second national anthem (Lift every voice).

This attempt at unity felt as if it created more division. Next, the television cameras panned to show Miss Swift securely seated as the brown pigskin soared above the Vegas dome. For 55 years, in prior super bowls, the announcers kept silent and steered clear in discussing all the evils and destruction that would be caused if gambling were permitted to find its way into the purity of the NFL. Roughly 23.1 billion dollars were bet on the single game. With states in America now allowing gambling on the game, made this year’s game the most bet on sporting event ever. Yes, hypocrisy was the word of the day for the shills who market the game. Although this was Matt’s 58^th viewing of the big game it was the first time he was in his house settled in for the halftime show. Matt leaned way back in his recliner and was calm and settled. For the first time he could remember, he was simply going to take the show in.

The Monday after the Super Bowl has long been a day for nursing “hangovers”. No matter how divided the country seems to be the Super Bowl brings Americans together more than any religious holiday. But the day after we return to our sobering reality that yesterday is over and the world goes right back to its current malaise. In Bartertown the day after was business as usual In the second month of the year 2024. Public radio, along with the state media, were ranting their weekly weather storm tracking about the huge snowstorm that was on its way. “We’ll be getting 12-24 inches here in the Hudson Valley and more in the upper elevations,” said the man behind the checkout of a local grocery joint, “Yup, they already closed the schools and Bartertown is in a state of emergency started at 4:00 am Tuesday morning.” It was mid-afternoon Monday and the local shopping centers were packed preparing for being snowed in for several days. You would have thought they had enough goodies left over from the party not to go into full panic mode for imaginary blizzards. Matt awoke on Tuesday morning expecting to be greeted with a winter wonderland. He looked out the window to his driveway, nothing but macadam. ‘Ok, maybe it did not stick, check the lawn.’ The ground was bare. Matt laughed to himself and crawled back into the warmth and comfort of his own lair. Eventually he made his way to the shower, continuing with his engraved smirk when it dawned on him that this week his old friend cupid was going to pay his annual visit.

“Did you write the book of love, and do you have faith in God above.” There comes a time in all our lives when we want to square the slate, pay all debts, and collect all that is owed. Matt had made decisions in recent years all with the end game of leaving him options.  Matt could not help but think Ceasar’s “beware the Ides of March” had arrived early in 2024. The 14^th day of February 2024 fell on Ash Wednesday, also by coincidence the day of the Super Bowl victory parade. The day that started with desks lined with flowers,  chocolate covered strawberries, and kids running to the parade quickly turn into a day of tragedy. A shooting had broken out at the Kansas Chiefs Super Bowl victory dance. Matt exited the flower shop noticing all the X like ashes on the heads of other customers. ‘The double whammy of romance in religion on the same day,’ Matt thought as he headed to make a delivery. “There has been active shooters in Union Square Station Missouri, the sight of the 58^th Super Bowl Parade. So far two are confirmed dead. The shooter or shooters have yet to be identified.” Matt turned the car radio off and sat for several minutes without making a move. The spectacular game and festivities ended once again with blood on the streets. That razor sharp Bill of Rights (specifically the 2^nd amendment, had cut our throats). The case continues to be made for stricter gun laws, with a crowd left of center wanting to permanently ban guns from America’s citizenry. Matt had never touched a gun in his life, and like lots of proclamations he had barked, that later did not hold up, he swore he never would. Matt had no use for guns, but he also had not imagined America getting to be as dangerous as reality tells us it has. Matt’s next stop was the local county building to start the process of getting a gun permit.

“So, bye-bye, Miss American Pie, drove my chevy to the levee but the levee was dry, them good ole boys were drinking’ whiskey and rye singing’ this will be the day that I die.” Don McLean wrote his opus in 1971 at the age of 24. To this day he has held back on the word for word meaning of the song. At the same time he has never sold out to a music industry that always is “pushing an agenda” in their lyrics. McClean has explained that he was 15 years old when the big three fell from the sky. The event formulated his ideas for the song American Pie as well as the direction of his life. For Matt, the song was like his first love. He was 11 years old and could only listen to albums bought by his big brother, or what came through am radio. In Matt’s formulative years he had no idea what the song’s message was, but he knew it came on the radio every hour for what seemed like years. Over 50 years later this song is as relevant today as it was in 1971. The circumstances in the United States were very similar to what they are today. The war was raging in Southeast Asia and people at home in the streets were unhappy with American politics and the Vietnam War. There is a feeling across the United States these days that “American Dream” has been lost. “And as the flames flew high into the night, I saw Satan laughing with delight the day the music died.” It was 53 years ago that Don McLean sang the words to his prophetic anthem “in a voice that came from you and me.”

“Every time they thought you’d call you just turn your back and walk…..”  ‘You’re Still the Same’    Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band

The words were amongst the many quotes from musical legends that I could read as I made my way through the long tunnel that separated my hotel room from the fueling station (pool complex). A sparkling waterfall, to my left, bathed in the reflections of the giant glass guitar. The sound coming from the speakers was the soundtrack of my life. The tunnel was the gateway to the energy source. After a long exhale, I took a bold step into the bright light. Today I was beginning my 65^th journey circling the sun. I was back to the place I’d been before.  I have arrived at the point in life where the grades are being handed out by the teacher, and the teacher is myself. I had returned to the place where all those evil demons had brought me to my knees. The same evil spirits that smacked me, threw me off course, putting me on the verge of Hari Kari. Striding through the dark tunnel I could feel the anticipation of a heavyweight prize fight. I was very confident the demons that resided here were not going to lay a glove on me. I grabbed a couple of towels to guard against the early morning south Florida wind. The pool boys and girls were dressed like they were getting ready for a day in Bismark, North Dakota. They still did their best to sell product. “It’s 55 right now, but it will be up to 65 by noon, with a sun index all the way up to 6.0.” I plopped down in a lounge chair, snuggled with a book (‘First Lie Wins’)and made sure I was directly in line with the source. Within 30 seconds my eyes were closed.

The past four years I was enrolled in a four-year self-help class. I signed up under my own recognizance. I am the instructor, the administrator, and the writer of curriculum. Life is series of journeys and tribulations. The only possible way to keep yourself traveling safely is to consistently hold yourself accountable for your actions and mind-set. I was in Southern Florida to celebrate the end of long and successful four-year project, while at the same time calculating plans for the next part of the long-term plan. The destination I chose to exorcise my demons had all the temptations that had haunted me since I started hustling ping pong at the age of seven. It was no accident that I flew right into a place that had defeated me too many times. I was there to test myself. I needed to go face to face with my old friends . I needed to show them all I had recaptured my soul. The only way to destroy your demons is to stare them down, and then enter. For me it has always been about options and I wanted to prove to myself that mine were still wide open. We all have our demons, recognizing them is one thing, but trying to defeat them is a much taller order. It is a natural human trait to avoid all reality that gets in the way of what you believe “You love to do.” In rooms across the world, people, places, and things” are what is correctly preached to be avoided if you are committed to change yourself. In other words, avoid situations where your demons will be put you in a situation that you may not be ready to handle. For four days I was in the middle of enemy lines. I walked the Casino floor with a power and sense of humility I never dreamed possible.

I had arrived the day before, which happened to be the day of the NFL Conference Championship games. A huge “Sports Book” was a new addition since my last trip, and it was clearly the center to all the action. To get to the steakhouse bar I had to walk through the stream betters getting in their halftime fix. The restaurant was a sea of purple jerseys quietly waited for Lamar to make something happen. Between games a band of some old school crooners took to the stage. The lead singer looked like an older version of Jerry Lee Lewis, and had the movements of a younger Elvis Presley. He had extremely long fingers, a fancy suit and captured the room as if his band was making its last stand. I sang along to his cover of Chris Isaak’s ‘Wicked Game’ when the guy with the Michigan hat, whom I had previously encountered at the pool, jumps right in my grill. “What the f…..,  bad enough about the Ravens, I had Kentucky laying four, and then some little shit from Florida hit a three at the buzzer to make it 79-76.” I am forced to lean back in my chair from the smell of his breath, ‘shit happens,’ I say in as disinterested of a tone as I can muster. He obviously could not read my body language. He proceeded, uninvited to spew all the language and personality traits of a compulsive personality. Within minutes he pulled up a betting application. Pointed to the amount of money he had paid in fees to this gambling vehicle: $188,742.18 in the calendar year of 2023. He then moved on to tell me all about his sexual conquests, going as far as to show me pictures. I was trapped but was not going to allow this unfortunate man to ruin my party. I had decided to settle in and enjoy a set of some good tunes.  ‘I got markers waiting for me at the blackjack table,’ I said to him as I rose from my stool. “Oh cool, are you at the high roller tables,” as I nod, he continues, “Great I’ll see you there.” I have not completely quit lying.

My adjustment landed me at a blackjack table, one with the kind of level suited for someone who was anything but a high roller. Since the age of 18, I have spent at least a full year of cumulative time seated at a blackjack table. Anyone who has indulged at this magnitude likely understands the game of “21” has all the elements of an emotional torture chamber. The feelings range from ecstasy to depression. Hope to doubt. Stimulation to impotence. I had always been the kid who loved the roller coaster but vomited every time. Participating at the blackjack table was not in the original plan. Four days of sun, good food, lots of rest, and absolutely no gambling or alcohol was the assignment. In the center of hell, it can be difficult not to end up putting your feet into the fire. ‘One thousand please.’ My stay at the gaming tables, my lone venture indulging the beast lasted three shoes, about 20 minutes. It took my first blackjack “21” hand to find the trigger for my motivation to walk away. The rules have changed yet again. In all my years in the game a “blackjack” for the player paid two to one. I glanced down to my ace of clubs and one-eyed jack only to realize the return was 130 dollars instead of 150 dollars. I said nothing, but my decision was made. I pushed my stacks forward and took my 940 dollars’ worth of chips to the cashier’s window. That would be the end of my gambling for the entire trip. The rush of power I was feeling was palpable. The same young man who would get orgasmic at the sight of green felt could have never seen himself as the old man walking away from it all just because he could.

The up-front motivation for my mid-winter trip was all about rest and vitamin D. It was about closing an old chapter, going back over all the past chapters, and determining where we were going next. One more time I wanted to go right to the edge and wave goodbye. I was where I was to reinforce the power I have in recent years obtained over my demons. I was in South Florida, alone, for the fist time in almost two years. I could go anywhere in this great big world but I purposely chose to dive into the belly of the attractions that had at one time swallowed me. The sounds, the lights, and the electricity merge into a dangerous cocktail filled with dopamine. The action can knock you over if you’re not careful. Inside the casino for a compulsive gambler is the same as the inside of hell. The casino contains all the trappings designed specially for the customer to lose all sense of time as well as any perspective of money (reality). There are ten cocktail lounges, 200 gaming tables, a recently added sports book, and over 140,000 feet of casino floor carpet, of which I probably treaded across ten times a day. In each pass through I could not sense any weakness, only strength. Every step I took felt like I was on a victory march through the land of the defeated. I was face to face with my demons. I was not afraid. I had rendered them powerless. There was no doubt about who was now in control. I could see the gargoyles walking behind me shaking their heads.

I was exiting the long tunnel for the final time of the trip. I passed a middle-aged man leaning on his cane taking a photograph of the pool scene through the waterfalls.  Inside the hotel I pressed the up button and waited for my ride. Stepping out of the cable shuttle I was about to enter was my old, or should I say new, buddy, the man in the Michigan hat. If not for the big gold M on his hat I could not recognize this man, I had been forced to get to know only a few days ago. He looked like he had just gone through a 15 round prize fight. I quickly put away my smug grin and greeted this lost soul like a childhood friend. Mr. Michigan appeared to have aged ten years since I last saw him on Monday. The tea bags under his eyes sagged to his upper lip. “Hey man, I hope you made out better than I did the last couple of days.” It was a bit past nine am. Most of the people of the world had already eaten their breakfast and had started their busy days. The carry bag was strapped over his broad shoulders. “I dropped about 50 grand, didn’t get any sleep, but man did I have a great time.” There was zero concern shown by my new friend for how I had made out on my stay, but that’s way it is when you’re moving that fast. I stepped into my lift and pressed 23. I took a deep breath and knew it was time to grab my things and find my way home. I had come to say goodbye to all of my old beginnings and hello to new endings. On the ride home I thought about Mr. Michigan and the opposite directions we were headed.

The January sun had yet to set. The street poets’ tourists, and locals were outside in the raw elements braving single digit temperatures. A middle-aged woman, Mary, a regular serenader, sang out her version of the well-known biblical passage John: 3:16. Having an opportunity to improve on the lives your ancestors built was Matt’s definition of the American Dream . The idea of America is to have that chance. An opportunity that no matter the circumstances you are born into you have more of a chance in America than any other place in the world. In the weeks that followed those new years’ protests Matt’s little town regained the look it had settled into post Covid. The regulars moved about as if  the world was ticking at its normal beat. A funeral procession of two teenagers, whose dreams died in car crash earlier in the week, passed by. The “new regulars” were pushing shopping carts with their life possesions making their way back to their homeless encampment on the edge of town. Matt easily recognized many new faces wandering the streets. Of the 10,000,000 lost in America, completely undocumented, Matt had noticed 10 to 20 new people hanging in the streets. People who have been looking for a place to call home, anywhere they can and so far, this was their spot. This is America now. In the small towns and the big cities, the new world order has arrived uninvited and untethered. The pieces, of what the ruling class describes as a reset have been shoved down the proletariat’s throats and we are all going to see what gives. There certainly is feeling that 2024 is our last legitimate hope of healing and becoming one again. The narcissist in him said “pay no attention to the man behind the curtain,” but the little boy who dreamed big dreams realized he is living in most titillating times ever and planned on being right in the middle of the fight.

A crowd had gathered to listen to Mary strumming her prophecies. It was a Friday night in a small city located on the perimeter of the biggest city of them all. The sights and sounds were a blend of baited anticipation and an unsettling malaise.  There was an aura of being on the edge of history. There wasn’t a film crew in sight on this day, yet the setting was like a panoramic scene to the opening of the movie “2024”. Matt loved movies. He viewed life as a big picture show that each one of us gets to develop the part of their choosing. There are some assignments (race, gender, and ancestry) that you cannot control. Everything put together is called “the hand of cards that you are dealt.” ‘Other than that , you get to pick your character,’ Matt mused as he left the coffee shop and stepped out into the twilight. ‘If you can survive the battles of life long enough you get an opportunity to evolve into the role that leads to purpose and meaning.’ Further down the street Mary’s voice gave way to a tiny woman in her seventies reciting ‘Homer’ through a bull horn. In the 2024^th year since the birth of Christ, on the streets of an upstate New York town, Homer’s words read like it was the ^eighth century B.C.,  “No one alive can escape it, neither brave man nor coward. I tell you- its with us the days we are born.” Matt stopped in his tracks. ‘When we are born it is simply the first step toward death. Since the creation of Adam and Eve every human life that enters this world is on a rocket ship to the end of their days.’

Matt walked along the main thoroughfare with a focused gaze. It was on Fair street that a group of approximately 50 protesters had formed a processional causing a stoppage of traffic. The red, green, white, and black flags decorated the night. Down the street things were getting out of hand. “Freedom for Gaza’” was the chant of a group of five protesters who attempted to break down the door of the local congressman. As wars rage across the world, the inevitability of this kind of event increases in all hamlets across the country. Matt was standing still, taking in the madness that had found his way to his doorstep, when a stranger approached him. “Hey man can I ask you a question? “ Matt prepared for a tale of woe as stared into the man’s brown eyes. “My aunt passed away yesterday; can you spare me a bus ticket to Connecticut to get to the funeral?” Matt reached into his pocket and handed the man a bill with Andrew Jackson’s picture on it. Matt was a sucker for a good story, especially a short and clear one, even when he knew it was a lie. Yes, the bible says: “It is more blessed to give than receive.” A repeated biblical refrain that is often preached and rarely executed. Sure, the world and its people are in constant need of assistance since the beginning of man’s time on earth. Turning back to the street Matt could not help but think of the millions of misplaced persons in all the cities across America. They were here now; in all the nooks and crannies of America coming to get their piece of the American dream.

The top and the streets have been taken. The fight will be in the middle. He had heard the modern-day populists screaming  “the end of times” and the day in front of him was painting a similar picture. There is no one questioning the fact that we are living in extraordinary times. To Matt It was getting more and more obvious that in the coming year Americans will find a sliver of common ground or perish.  The signs and warnings have been everywhere all you have to do is look up. The enemy is upon us, and we are waking up to the realization that the enemy is ourselves.  Since 2020, 10,000,000 refugees now roam the American landscape without jobs, homes, or the skills to make a living wage. Matt’s grandparents were immigrants via Ellis Island in the 1920’s. His grandmother worked in the subways of New York. She never smoked a cigarette in her life and died of Emphysema in her early 60’s. Matt’s grandfather had been a bank teller before retiring to the country and went to an early grave. Matt said a ‘thank you,” to two people who had blessed him with his father as he headed back to his car. “The American Dream that Matt was living had been gifted to him as “an opportunity” all those years ago by Wilhem Siegel and Margaret Shumacher.

Matt abandoned the cry of his politically correct friends’ pleas “to go along to get along” prior to unelected officials signing us all up for the implementation of the new world order under the guise of the ‘Green New Deal.’  The people of America have been bamboozled, lied to, and pushed around like the sheep our government believes they are. History hasn’t written the ending. History tells us all civilizations meet their demise but Matt could not but help lament , ‘What now?’ Has the moment that we all seem to be anticipating already passed us by? The story is being written before our eyes. It is a story of division in a country that’s name alone is United. The Union has a wide gap that has been hemorrhaging at a rate of no return for several years now.  We have been dangerously hovering over the line of ever returning to simply a moderately divided country. The issues causing the divide have outgrown political parties and have roots in a far too cooperative government and media. The conventional ways of getting our ship rowing together seem to have failed. The issues such as Immigration, Education, and equity, which have been long held standards of why the United States has positioned itself as the standard. We have come together after Civil War, after World Wars, and after Cold Wars in the name of United States. In today’s moment we can’t even come together on the definition of male or female.

The police cars surrounded the parking lot of Barter town’s Holiday Day Inn. The area’s assemblyman, a bought and paid for Green Machine product of the United States Military Academy at West Point, was railing to local businessmen about how lucky they were to have big brother protecting their interests. The best irony should be greeted with silence, but the fact is this congressman would have been happy to take a legitimate meeting with the protesters. It was during the pol’s blathering socialist ramblings that a pro Hamas group of protestors stormed the gathering with anti-Israel signs shouting’s,” Free Hamas now”. The event was described in the local news as peaceful, but the sounds that have been ignored for so long had arrived in the middle of a business class private ritual. Matt was driving past the melee (the same day that New Hampshire was holding their 2024 presidential primary) that had traffic stalled for 30 minutes. The granite state and the other 49 territories the ‘American Dream” is on the ballot. To a large percentage of the American public, who never felt included in the dream, there is a sense of relief of absolving personal accountability. It appears too many citizens have allowed the crutches of government to be their only means of personal evolvement . For those among us who have only marched to the beat we create there will be no more placating the weak who “go along to get along.” It is time to officially take a stand. “There is only one good, knowledge, and one evil, ignorance.”…….Socrates.