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It is not news to anyone that the days we used to call normal are far behind us and are unlikely to return anytime soon. It is January 14th 2022, and although there is not a doubt that global warming is no hoax, if this is your first January in New York you are not going to find any evidence of melting ice caps. As my car slowly roles out my garage around 10:00am on this windblown winter Saturday morning  the temperature reading on my dashboard quickly dropped to +0. The radio had been left on blasting so that even with the heater blowing at full strength I could hear ‘The Pet Shop Boys’ doing a remix of the Willie Nelson classic ‘You Were Always On My Mind’. It was the first time I had heard this unlikely cover. In the chilly moment the song symbolized to me the craziness of time we now live in. My car continued it’s normal path on its way to Panera Bread located on the other side of the tracks. At the first stop light a family of four pulled up next to me. There was a mother and father in the front seats and a pair of young children strapped in their car seats behind them. I took a glance out of the corner of my eyes and noticed eight sets of eyes peering at me from just above their surgical masks. These are the times we are living in: Pet Shop Boys crooning Willie Nelson and little children hiding all expression behind our faceless society. 

By the time I got to the next traffic light the craziness of this current world was closing in on me. The car in front of me looked like a billboard for the 1960’s hippy movement: ‘Make love not war’, ‘No fracking’, ‘Dump Trump’, Tyranny is coming’. I was expecting to see Jane Fonda and Tom Hayden get out of the 2007 Subaru and hit a joint with me before the light turned green. Right next to the car “of Woodstock past” was a 2021 Range Rover with a large ‘Let’s Go Brandon’ bumper sticker proudly displayed in red and blue. The craziness is surrounding us all, nothing is normal, and just maybe it is time we stop pretending it ever will be again. The light changes just in time for a middle aged homeless man, pulling all the possessions of his life in a tin cart, to stroll in front of my car. It isn’t unusual to view homeless people out and about in my hometown. This particular gentleman got my attention not just for walking in front of my car as the light turned green, but for wearing merely sandals, short pants, and a tee shirt as windchill outside my car hit -20 degrees Fahrenheit. I couldn’t help but wonder where his mask was, where he was going to sleep tonight, and if he even knew what ‘Let’s go Brandon’ means. I waited till the lonely man was clear of my car before I started feeling empathy for his plight.

There is not much doubt the world we live in has always had its share of crazies, but one thing most of us would agree on is that the days we are living in have discovered a new level of crazy. Before getting to Panera Bread I made my daily stop in Stewarts to get my morning reading materials: NYT, Kingston Daily Freeman (both rags) and the New York Post. A man was at the counter attempting to pay for his coffee and hardroll. “I’ve had enough of this bullshit, I’ve had covid and have received three separate vaccine jabs, I am done with masks,” by now he was shouting. “I only work here, the County Executive has mandated that all people are to be masked inside of retail stores. If you don’t put a mask on I cannot serve you sir.” I stood in the corner, maskless, waiting to pay for my paper. I watched the man storm out with his hands flailing in mid air as I slowly reached in my coat pocket for my face diaper. When I arrived at the checkout the girl behind the counter was in full hysterical mode. Through teary eyes she let out her frustrations. “I can’t take it any more, the rules keep changing and people have stopped listening.” It is unusual for me not to have a comment but it seemed prudent for me to  keep my mouth shut. I stepped out of the ice cream store and into the tundra of a world that has gone completely mad.

I do have empathy for those in the service business. That said, it is obvious to me that in the last couple of years good customer service is becoming a dying art. Overall, the staff in the Panera Bread in the town of Ulster New York is well trained and understands the etiquette of the retail industry. Today, what I once saw as a cutting edge regional company (Panera Bread)  playing the role of victim of supply chain woes, cater primarily to “the food to go crowd”, and not properly stocked almost every time I am in the place, which is four to five time a week. Today, at 10:30 am Panera was out of plain bagels, butter, and bananas for my strawberry/banana smoothie. The day before they were out of iced tea and regular coffee. The management who works there, while very nice people, seem to have accepted for two years that crappy service, and not being able to deliver what you advertise as all part of our life going forward.  It is hard to argue that Covid 19 has not caused Americans to lose the bounce in their step, to become more apathetic, and far less ambitious. It is obvious that the Pandemic, that is now creeping into its third year, has created a certain malaise with the government positioned as some type of security blanket. Yes Covid is here to stay and it appears to me that 50% of our population is just fine with that fact.

As I pull out of my Saturday morning breakfast spot I couldn’t help but think about how crazy of a vibe the rest of the world was giving off. What will history say about this time of turmoil, this period of history where it is difficult to determine who, or what, is up and who, or what is down? Not only has my little world of Kingston New York gone mad, but when I listen to radio news it is apparent the craziness is everywhere. The number one tennis player in the world has been banned from the Australian Open because he is not vaccinated, yet athletes from around the globe will compete in Beijing, China in a couple of weeks supporting one of the most repressive government’s in modern times. Our leaders preach, in the name of global warming, how important it is for all of us to cut down on our carbon emissions as they cruise around the atmosphere in huge private jets. What will history say about a time period where a pandemic was used as a political football that in the long run fostered an even wider gap between the wealthy and the working class? History will be left to explain how this once great country allowed itself to be on the brink of a second civil war.

I had decided long ago to stop any sort of search for normal. We are two years into a Pandemic that half the universe’s population does not want to leave behind. We live in a time now where crazy is the new normal. The Ulster County Executive decries masks mandates for his region while he is maskless in a crowd of 90,000, at an Army/Navy football game. Inflation is at 7% and there is a supply chain crisis as the President of the United States wants to print five trillion more dollars to build back better. lol. Russia is moving on the Ukraine, and China waits to put on their Olympic propaganda show before they retake Taiwan. Some could argue that crime is the biggest concern to America citizens while the President holds a record breaking two hour press conference and there is not a mention of the record breaking murder and overall crime rates rising rapidly across this country. I am almost home, and like I like to do when I am feeling disoriented and pessimistic about the future I put on some tunes with lyrics that help reflect my current mood. “Still crazy after all these years,” crooned Paul Simon referring to himself and passed relationships. I thought about the troubled times we live in, what the future looks like for the generations behind me. Then the words I was looking for came to me: “I’ll never worry, why should I it’s all going to fade.”

A steady rain was falling outside my Miami hotel room. The craving I was having for South Florida rays was not going to be satisfied on this day. Fortunately myself and Donna had other motivations beyond tanning ourselves in the sunshine state. My daughter, Mary Kate, is currently residing in Miami pursuing her vision of  “The American Dream.” She is in the midst of working two separate paid apprenticeships. One is full time helping to organize the New Year’s Eve semi-final college football playoff game (Orange Bowl). The other is a game day public relations gig with the Miami Dolphins which entails the same duties in regard to her last seasons work with the New York Jets. “I’m never going to settle Dad, life is much too short to be in a job or a career that you don’t have a passion for,” said the 24 year old young lady to her father the Insurance Broker. The night before while dodging the Floridian motorists speeding along route I-95 towards Miami I chuckled to myself at the thought of her bold and ambitious declaration. “What’s so funny?” Donna asked as I veered into a safer lane. ‘Oh nothing, call MK and tell her to make sure the pizza is hot when we get to the hotel.’

Finally, the Miami sun was breaking through through the cloud cover. Being poolside on a November Saturday seemed perfectly appropriate all things considered. I am coming to terms with where I stand regarding my “American Dream”. Lounging in the afternoon sun I closed my eyes and went on an adventure in my mind. For the past two years the transition into the autumn of my life has been filled with confusion and uncertainty. How much more do I want to work in the insurance business? How many more New York winters do I want to tolerate? Can I find peace and contentment as I enter the final act? In my youth, my dream was to be a successful person. I wanted to have the financial independence and the freedom to afford my family every opportunity available. I have always wanted to make a difference in this life and find a voice that garners respect. In my younger years I took very little time contemplating what old age would like for me. As I have begun my journey into senior citizensville I feel I am being slashed by a double edged sword. The one side is smooth, filled with appreciation for all those childhood dreams that have come to fruition. The other side of the sword is sharp and finds a 61 year old man tortured with regrets, doubts, and faded dreams.

Over the past few years Donna and myself have spent ample time down south visiting our two daughters who reside in Atlanta and Miami respectively. I think the “American Dream” is an individual undertaking, but in my later years I am finding pleasure observing our girls starting their climb to the stars. In these divisive times the dream of America being the shining light at the top of the hill are waning. Yet my girls individual dreams inspire me to look back to the dreams I had as I was coming of age. Not once did I think anything would come easy. I had a keen awareness that I would continually have to give maximum effort if I was ever going to get to the top of the mountain. My early dreams were about being a professional athlete. By the age of 17 I had adjusted my life plan to being a journalist and writer. I entered Muhlenberg college in 1978 as a communication major with dreams of anchoring an elite news program. I graduated with a degree in History and Education. After seven years in the halls of academia my dreams were suffocated by ringing bells, announcements, pesky parents, and administrators who may have been well intentioned but lacked competency. At the age of 29 my personal dreams were all in the context of my immediate family. I desired to be in a business that your pay correlated with your merit. I understood I was going to rise or fall based solely on the results I produced.  I strived to gain financial independence, along with having control over my calendar. I became determined to make sure I had the means to give my two daughters every opportunity they wanted to pursue.

In the purest sense my dreams are behind me. What I have done, or haven’t done in my first 60 years will be my primary legacy. The writing, the interviews, and perhaps grandchildren will provide me with motivation as I make the turn for home. I still have room for my own dreams but am more pragmatic about the scope.  As we continue to age it is a reality that our options shrink. I find solace in knowing I was given ample opportunity to live a life that was entirely of my choosing. It is a comforting fact to comprehend that my failures in this life are on me. There were no phantoms, or boogiemen who disrupted my journey. My parents were far from perfect, still they gave me the foundation and support to be an independent thinker who was reminded constantly that I had a chance to become anything I chose. There never has been, or never will there be a day that goes by that I don’t give myself the once over. Everyday I change and evolve in a search for purpose. All of my daily machinations of personal reflection propel me to move forward. My dreams aren’t as personal as they used to be, they are now more about others.

It was 9:15pm at the Diplomat Hotel lounge. The clocks were soon to be turned back. In the north this means long dark nights of another winter were waiting. A young couple quietly made their way to the corner nook of the bar. They had the look of a couple of teenagers who had already discovered a piece of their dreams. It turned out they were school teachers both in their late 20’s. “We went to grade school together, but only started dating last year,” said the young man touting a big smile. “We rented a fishing boat for an excursion this morning,” chirped in his female companion with an enthusiastic cheerleader like pep. I am always curious about couples who were grade school friends only to find romance after they leave the playground. ‘What took you guys so long to figure out you loved each other?’ I couldn’t help my spirit of curiosity. By now the couple seemed excited to tell me their story. “We both conceded later on that we felt our first pangs for each other when we were randomly picked to be square dancing partners in gym class. “Ever since our first dance I dreamed of marrying this girl,” his companion gave a sly smile to his antidote as she swept their “to go” food up and disappeared into the night.

Sunday morning I sat at the Fort Lauderdale airport bar jotting down some ideas for a story I planned on writing once I got up into the air. It is only recently that I have become much more focused on my daughters pursuit of their dreams than my own. The “American Dream” hasn’t changed, it only seems more elusive these days. Our dreams of what we want to be, where we want to live, and who we want to spend our lives with, hit us fast in this short life we live. The formula that includes hard work, perseverance and education is still the same. When I was a child my dreams were large, mostly unrealistic. Of course life is not fair to everyone, dreams do not come true by simply wishing on the stars. We all start with a vision of what we want to become and who we want to be in this life. From the vision we develop a plan to attempt to make our dreams a reality. If we live long enough we grow to understand the final and most challenging step to achieving our dreams is execution. I give my two daughters very little advice, because I hypothesize they will heed none of it. Looking out of the airplane window I am confident my girls are living their dream. They have amazing vision and work ethic. My dreams now have much to do with watching them chase the stars. Although they can’t hear me I whisper to them both what I have told myself everyday for the last 45 years: “Be prepared and execute the moment.”  

The annual Muhlenberg Athletic Alumni Golf tournament was over. The graduates were strolling off the course heading for the veranda of Brookside Country Club located on the outskirts of Allentown Pennsylvania. The beer, the old stories of days gone by, and the camaraderie were being poured with the passion of old friends who had traveled the same long road. The relationships that you make in college don’t leave you no matter how hard, at times, we try to let go. When you are an immature 18 year old kid attempting to discover who you are while a group of strangers look on. During those fragile years you don’t stop to think what will become of these people when you all reach your 60’s. I walked up the stone stairway to find a Corona and the buffet line. There were so many familiar faces that I remembered through the 40 years of wear and tear. I sat at a table with my fraternity brothers from Tau Kappa Epsilon. At the table adjacent to us were about ten members of a long ago rival fraternity, Phi Kappa Tau. Of course all college shenanigans are past history and time heals all wounds, especially sophomoric ones.  As the drinks poured and the voices got a little louder a couple of the Phi Tau brothers came over to talk to me with serious looks on their face. “Our buddy has taken a bad turn,” said Mark Bisbing, one of Emmaus Pennsylvania’s best. “He went home yesterday to hospice,” added Dan Caputo.

For the last three years Steve DiGregorio, my college suitemate, turned lifetime confidant, has battled valiantly against pancreatic cancer. He was diagnosed three years ago and has been in stage four the last couple of years. When our backs our against the wall in this society are the times we discover who we are. Some say “why me”, becoming bitter and head into a secluded shell. Others, like Steve, get over the initial shock and decide “lets do what we have to do to beat this beast.”  Cancer hadn’t met a more positive and determined fighter than Steve DiGregorio. While going through several rounds of chemotherapy he continued to teach and coach the Maroon Raiders of the Nutley High. Until this summer he still maintained a vigorous workout schedule keeping himself as strong mentally and physically as possible. In his last year as the head football coach at Nutley, the Raiders went undefeated and Steve was named New Jersey High School’s Coach of the Year. At the age of 60 Steve announced he was retiring from education to spend more time with his family.  It was about a month ago that Steve started to lose the valiant fight. He was hospitalized and finally last week sent home to hospice to spend the time he has left at home with his family at his side.

When I met Steve he was sprawled out in a lounge chair on a late August afternoon. He had just returned from the second half of two a day football practices at Muhlenberg college. I was returning to my new digs getting ready to start my sophomore year. My new home was a five man suite that would turn out to be the spot the young man from North Jersey, and the kid from New Paltz New York would begin to develop a lifetime bond of love and respect. During our initial meeting there was a sense of school boy tension. Steve had been placed in our suite by an accident that only me, Steve, and his friend Art Scavone (Steve’s mentor from Nutley and the Captain of the Mules football team) know the cause. Inwardly, my initial reaction was ‘he isn’t suppose to be here’. Unfortunately, over the years, I never asked Steve what he was thinking that day of our first encounter. In that first year together both of us moved around each other gingerly. He was quickly making his mark as a defense end on the football team and made it clear he wanted to be a football coach. I was still in the midst of trying to find playing time on the varsity basketball team. At the same I was wrestling with the idea if I wanted, or was capable of, making it through a strict liberal arts curriculum. Steve was a deliberate, quiet, strong leader. I was a flamboyant actor still in the early stages of finding character.

By the second year of living together in Benfer Suite 102 Steve DiGregorio and I had become reluctant friends. Steve joined Phi Kappa Tau Fraternity and I was a TKE brother. In those days at Muhlenberg it was highly unusual for brothers of different fraternities to be good friends let alone choose to live with each other. We had so much in common, yet agreed on almost nothing. For the most part I was a judgmental critic and Steve was a thoughtful caring person always willing to give others the benefit of the doubt. We both loved athletics, politics, and saw ourselves as budding philosophers. I remember a December night the two of us were watching a Monday night football game (if a game was on we were watching). It was typical in our suite that you couldn’t see the carpeting through the pizza boxes, and I recall this night things were particularly messy. Late in the game Howard Cosell, who was doing the commentary of the Patriots/Dolphins game, announced just past 11:00pm John Lennon had been killed in front of New York’s Dakota Hotel. To that point in our relationship I did not think of Steve as an emotional guy. After Cosell made the announcement Steve and I didn’t speak about it again. I went to bed after John Smith kicked the winning field goal. Steve remained on the couch, silent, tears pouring down his face.

The night of Lennon’s death I witnessed the essence my roommate.  We had many strong leader personalities go through our suite in those years. At various times we had the captain of the football team, the captain of the basketball team, people who would go on to be be doctors, teachers, Ministers, a lieutenant colonel , a car salesman, and through it all there was never a doubt Steve was the head coach of the suite. He took on the responsibility of playing psychiatrist in the midst of the cuckoo’s nest. His most frustrating task was babysitting a precocious, moody, maverick, who was in desperate need of a moral compass. So many nights the coach emerged from his room with that sly smile, shaking his head, waiting to see the current tomfoolery and excesses his most troubled player was up to. There was an early morning me and Tom Wagner arrived back from Atlantic City after experiencing a rare winning night. That year Steve’s roommate in the Suite was a hardworking wantabe lawyer from Exton Pennsylvania Mark Pintavale who was paying his way through college with intense focus and an old fashion work ethic. It was 6:30 am with two crazies running around the living room throwing 100 dollar bills in the air screaming “wake up Marcus, it’s time to get up and wash the dishes at the student union.” Mark emerged first from his room, as Steve wandered out a few moments later. “How many pots do you have to scrub to get one of these,” I taunted throwing crumpled C-notes at Mark’s feet. “Here’s some more hundreds to wipe your butt with because we’re out of toilet paper.” Steve looked on silently that morning, but the look of disdain in his eyes gave me the message it was time for me to be a better person.

I would never admit it but my buddy was always a few steps ahead of me when it came to being a good human being. In my youth I had developed a sense of entitlement believing everything would fall into place for me “just because.” In the 40 years since my school days I learned the hard lessons my college suitemate had already mastered. Steve had a unique way of consistently doing the right thing in all situations. He believed if you took care of “your own business” you had the best chance of getting to the goal. He was born to teach, to influence youthful generations with pure intentions. He was a natural coach, leading young men into battle seeking victory, while at the same time maintaining humility and grace. He started his career coaching at the college level and finished it as the as the first undefeated coach in the history of Nutley High. Despite all his success in the classroom and the gridiron Steve’s first priority was his family. He and Nadia raised three boys Aaron, Zack and Derek. It was abundantly evident that his family was his pride and joy, clearly his greatest legacy. When the youngest of his three sons, Derek, was diagnosed with a rare disease (Ataxia Telangiectasia) which has him confined to a wheel chair we all got to witness what Steve DiGregorio was made of. He spent everyday, every waking hour to help make Derek’s life of normal as possible. Steve loved quoting the great coaches, especially Vince Lombardi, one of his favorites: “The measure of a person is not about how many times they are knocked down in this life, the measure is in their response.” 

The news came to me this morning. Steve DiGregorio was gone. In the next moment my mind was racing back to that day I arrived back at Muhlenberg College for my sophomore year. The hand of destiny had brought myself and Steve DiGregorio together. We both would agree it wasn’t love at first sight, but it quickly became apparent to me early on that we had found in each other a sounding board. We were confidants and foes at the same time. We weren’t best friends, we didn’t hang together at parties, it was unspoken that when we needed advice, or another opinion, we found our way to the other. I had many good friends, teammates, and frat pals at Muhlenberg but Steve was my brother. God does work in mysterious ways, some argue God has a purpose for everything that happens in our lives. My observations along this journey is that God selects a few who he chooses to help the rest of us stay on track. Steve DiGregorio was chosen by God to be the Chairman of the Board. From what I witnessed Steve understood the weight his presence represented and accepted the role he was destined to play. He was an assertive voice who recognized the personal sacrifices that go along with leading by example. He was not the life of the party, he was the chaperone of our lives. Through the tears I see all the way back to the fall of 1979. A big blond kid from Nutley New Jersey was standing on my turf. We were two strangers thrown together by fate. An arrogant selfish bloke from New Paltz, New York who turned out to get three years of schooling which I carry with me everyday. Steve spent his life giving without taking. I will forever be grateful to a series of happenstances that brought us together. Goodbye my friend.

When were you in the prime of your life? If you are able to process this question you are likely in your 50’s or 60’s and should consider yourself a fortunate person. My guess is most people think about younger days when they attempt to contemplate their best moments. In their prime people don’t wait for the snooze button, they bounce out of bed in the morning with a hunger only ambition comprehends.  I had just turned 41, in the guts of the game of life. Only on the look back do I consider it my prime, but I certainly wasn’t giving the idea any recognition at the time. Whatever “universe” I had created in my mind I was the master of. It was September 11, 2001 at 8:47am, I was already settled into my office on the phone with a client. “Holy shit, are you near a T.V., he asked me. ‘Yeah, I am watching the ‘Price is Right.’ “Well then turn to the news, a low flying plane just collided with the World Trade Center. I was cavalier that day, not aware the entire planet had experienced an eruption whose vibrations would be heard for centuries. At the same time I was on the phone with Les Concors discussing insurance premiums and our golfing plans for later that afternoon I am sure Michael J. Finnegan was fielding phone calls of his own high atop the north tower in downtown Manhattan. Myself and Mike in separate locations,  both climbing the the “proverbial latter” to fortune and fame.  On that gorgeous September morning, twenty years ago, I would bet both our us thoughts were more focused on our afternoon golf game. I shot a 79 that day. Michael Finnegan didn’t make it to the first tee.

What is there to say when a 38 year old shooting star evaporates from the sky in the prime of his flight. Mike Finnegan was blessed with many gifts. He was tall and handsome with an All-American smile.

The girls coveted him and the boys wanted to be him. There was no pretense to Mike, it was apparent he understood his endowment. He lived life with a generosity that gave cause to follow. With his easy going affable style he drew people inside his world leaving no one wanting a refund. Mike Finnegan was in Tower One (North Tower) of the World Trade Center wheeling and dealing for Cantor Fitzgerald on the 104th floor that fateful morning. At home, in Englewood, New Jersey was his wife Erin and their three children; Bridget five, Bradley three, and Jack only born two weeks prior to September 11th. The 38 year old golfing champion, husband, father of three, brother to Katherine, and only son to Frank and Beverly was gone in the fourth chapter of a ten chapter fairy tale.

When I was a young adult there were very few people I admired from afar. Even though I was a New Paltz boy and Mike Finnegan was a son of Kingston our paths crossed by way of competitive golf. Despite local fiefdom rivalries and a three year age difference (me being his elder) I was attracted to Mike’s energy. He was cocky, but not arrogant. He had a disposition that was a gravitational force. Mike made others in his presence feel like they were with the Pied Piper. If you hung with Mike the ride was filled with fun and plenty of testing your skin thickness ribbing. I knew Mike from the New Paltz bar circuit when he became of age. I recall the time at Twaalfskill Country Club after he had won the Ulster County Men’s Golf Championship at the age of 18. “Congratulations kid,” I said before quickly asking him “was that your sister out there?” He gave me that big winning smile, ” Good luck Rich, but you got no shot.” It was 16 years later that we played together in a golf tournament that in the passing years would be named and dedicated to him. We were two hard charging young men, married, each with two young children on the elevator going up. “Who would have thought you and me would have been the settling down type?” I heard him say as we shook hands heading for the first tee. We both had on the grin of two cheshire cats who had somehow survived, even thrived following our youthful days as pesty cads.

On the 20th anniversary of the day Mike Finnegan was taken out of the hazardous game of life I was poolside at the St.Regis Hotel in Atlanta. I was visiting my daughter who had just signed a lease in the apartment adjacent to the hotel. Aesthetically, the weather was a spitting image of the day all our lives changed. As I lay in the sun drenched serenity of the Georgian sky I was feeling a peaceful tender energy that was new for me. A voice, from a place I hadn’t heard from before, was speaking to me. “It’s ok now”, it’s ok”. The voice was my own. My eyes were closed trying to get a grip on the purpose and meaning of this life. ‘I am stuck between the appreciation of a dream like existence and the regret of not having climbed the ladder much higher.’  The sun was my fuel, it was colliding with the fire that still burns within me. It felt as if I was at the gas pump filling myself up to the brim with Vitamin D preparing for the journey ahead. I was far more content than sad. My mind was totally on myself until a couple of of low flying military planes rocketed by. That’s all it took for my mind to head back to 9/11 and the hard truth that Mike Finnegan had been gone for 20 years.

My eyes remained closed, the warmth of the early September rays was bringing both sweat and tears to my face. Not unlike a dream I could hear another voice, this time it was not mine. “Rich you’re sitting exactly where I thought you would be. It’s been 20 years, can you tell me what I missed?” How can you possibly answer that question from a beautiful bright light, who in the prime of his glow left of all so unexpectedly. The holidays, graduations, birthdays, and life celebrations he had been cheated out of. The void that was left for his loving parents and sister that can not be filled. His life partner, Erin, his three children who lost their soulmate and mentor. He missed his children turning into adults, he had missed the pain and glory that comes with growing old with the love of your life. He had missed the satisfaction that he surely would have felt for a life well lived. He had missed days like this when the sun rays reminded us of all that living is sacred opportunity. I let the sun continue to hit my face, soaking it up like it was my last day on this earth. I could not retrieve the courage, nor keep myself together long enough to explain to Mike the details as to what he had missed. I assume that he already knew the answer to his question.

As we grow older we become more conscious in regard to the frailty of this life. We chase, we drive, we climb, and all the time not sure of our purpose. The goal is to try your best everyday even though there is no guarantee for tomorrow. Death is the part of living that we can’t control. For Mike Finnegan the end came in the prime of his life. It is said often that “God has a plan,” or “everything happens for a reason.” Those words do not ease the deep pain that Mike’s parents, wife or children have experienced the last 20 years. Their loss cannot be regained. “Though nothing can bring back the hour of splendor in the grass, glory in the flower, we will grieve not, rather find strength in what remains behind,”  the poet William Wordworth said so elegantly.

Mike Finnegan left each person who was lucky enough to touch him a piece of his strength. For me it was his zest for life that left its mark. For his children; it is in the pictures, the stories, and the tributes that show a man, a son, a brother, a father, a friend, and a husband who lived his life with an unwavering and uncompromising  zeal. Right behind his family golf was his biggest passion. Today there are several golf tournaments that celebrate his life. With the help of his family “The Michael B. Finnegan Learning Center in Palm Beach Florida” was created. A nine hole golf course that includes affordable play and free golf instruction for junior golfers. Mike Finnegan continues to remain with us in all the wonderful parts of him left behind. His legacy has only begun to find its stride.

“Heading out to San Francisco for the Labor Day Weekend Show, I got my hush puppies on, I guess I never was meant for glitter rock n roll,”  Jimmy Buffet explains what he was thinking as the summer of 73  was soon to be in his rear view mirror. With autumn closing in all he had was a song and a girl. For me, this song represented the not accredited end of summer that gave me cause to annually whistle it every year on the Friday of Labor Day weekend. Until recently those days were spent on the golf course anticipating what Tuesday would bring. While I am having trouble identifying myself in the present, the past runs vast with vivid memories of long ago Labor Day Weekends. There was “the summer can’t go by that fast?” thought when I was a lad. There was “No.!!! What the f…..”, shock of the inevitability of  what was ahead in my public school teaching days. Then came the “Oh man, the end of the year is coming fast, I better hurry up,” forever worrying about year end numbers in the business grind. In recent years its’ been more like “damn this has a been a good year,” appreciation layered with trepidation looking into the future. In the moment “I am confused but more peaceful, I am full, yet lack the hunger to maintain my contentment.  I am thankful enough for all  I have, while at the same time making terms with the idea that to stop wanting more is to stop living.

Two young children were in the adjacent yard chasing after the early leaves. Their mother was close by running through her preseason raking drills, while dad chilled on the front porch sipping on something wet. Norman Rockwell painted the pictures of fairytales from a time gone by. Looking across the street I believed it was possible that today’s technology is able to bring his art to life. By nightfall a favorite local band was drawing an overflow crowd on the waters edge. The vocals were a solid mix of Mellisa Ethridge and Jon Bon Jovi. The scent was festive, with cause for celebration. The late afternoon sun was the tell of the date on the seasonal calendar. A city was kicking off the beginning of our nation’s working forces biggest holiday. Labor day is one tradition that hasn’t lost much of its flavor since its’ inception in 1894. What else could early September mean besides a long weekend that says goodbye to summer frolics and hello to the new season. Possibly more than the New Year, Labor day is the two headed monster of the hope that we can start over, and the doom of what we anticipate is ahead.

Inside the house where Catholics go to seek salvation the tales are filled with fable, myth, and virtuous preachings, lightly sprinkled with facts. Aside from of all of the commands to sit or rise, a trip to God’s house can remind us of valuable lessons woven into well crafted stories. When visiting the devout papistry you will find ample time to reflect on right and wrong ,along with the always lurking pair of good and evil. On this fantasy scripted Saturday today’s teachings inside Saint Joseph’s were focused on the good. A twenty something man and woman were exchanging the vows of a lifetime. This particular couple found their life’s partner in the the 7th grade. On the 4th day of September 2021 Carly and Dominick said the “I do’s” through thick and thin, sickness and health, till death do us part. Outside the Church of Rome they blew the bubbles of good luck over the newly crowned Mr. and Mrs. Marino.

The reception was a mesh of two grand American families, being led in celebration by an aroused wedding party facilitator. The Bride’s side was represented by her parents, six sisters, one brother, and  one non barking dog. The Groom’s side consisted of his parents, his sister, several cousins, aunts, uncles and one live barking dog. The Bridesmaid and Bestman let everyone know that the two people who were joining in holy matrimony have always had a thought out plan for bringing a fight to this life. Their speeches reminded us the dreams of children are mystical longings that on special instances meet up for the conception of love. It is possible to sustain an eternity of bliss and friendship with those we meet on the playground at recess. This Saturday night of Labor Day Weekend was both an end and a beginning for Dominick and Carly. They were waving goodbye to the last grasp of childhood when their plans were merely dreams. In the prime of early summer the high school sweethearts were stepping into the leaves of fall.

No matter how practical we are there is a deep seeded yearning in all of us searching for the endless summer. Labor Day weekend is that rub with reality. The summer is gone but the wonder of it all remains somewhere deep inside of us. There is a sadness waving good-bye to the long nights, a woefulness in hearing the last sounds of splashes in the afternoon sun. We reflect mostly on the happy times of long beach vacations in the sand and cocktails on the beach. Next summer is not far away but in the meantime there is much work to be done before Memorial day. Labor Day Weekend is the long embrace you give to a beloved friend you are not going to see till next year as you dress for fall. 

The Sunday night before Labor Day has it’s own bittersweet feeling that you get when your favorite band finishes their encore. I was by myself in a crowded bar looking up to the screen in front of me. Yes, it was September and Mets were still in the pennant race, Pat Cantley had just earned 15,000,000 as the golfing world’s Fed EX champ, and the Yankees were losing a tough one to the lowly Orioles. Another summer was in the books and it was time to find my way home. I turned on the boobtube and was treated to an end to an exciting college football game between Florida State and Notre Dame. I was reminded why I still keep an eye on sports happenings. Florida State was making a comeback with a kid at quarterback who had found this way through the thicket to get to this night. Sports endings can’t be scripted, the ending unfolds before your eyes in real time. McKenzie Milton and his teammates penned an inspiring story about the road back, to what must have seemed the top of the world, only to fall short of planting their flag at the summit. Before my own climb upstairs, where the summer peepers were preparing to serenade me to sleep, I got in some old fashioned belly laughs watching the Dick Van Dyke Show and an episode of The Honeymooners. I flashed back to all the Sunday night Labor Day Jerry Lewis telethons myself and my brother would stay up all night watching. It was our scared ritual to put all our seasons in the sun to bed. “Yes it has been quite a summer,” harping back to the words of Jimmy Buffet. My thoughts on this Labor day are not that much different than they were on the ones that came before. “Come Tuesday, It’ll be alright.”

It was an “old school” August night in Dyersville Iowa. For the first time in many moons it felt like Americans were ready to meet in the middle to share in the glory of this country’s most formidable pastime. Major League Baseball was looking for a way to ignite a spark into a game that has passed many of us by. It was around 7:20 pm est. that members of the present day Chicago White Sox and New York Yankees came walking out of an Iowian cornfield stepping into America’s field of dreams. In the season of reality T.V., which is nothing more than staged drama, baseball was finding a way to bring us all together for a magical night of nostalgia. I was on the edge of my seat thinking about the times I had catches with my father in the backyard. I thought about those twilight summer nights when my little league team fought in life and death battles with our arch rivals, the Red Sox, only to end up sharing an ice cream at J.D.’s after the game. When Kevin Costner (he played the role of Ray Kinsella in the 1989 Movie Field Of Dreams) emerged from the cornstalk I got chills running up my back on a night the temperature was in the 90’s. All eyes were on the perimeter of the cornfield that led to baseball’s warning track believing that maybe “Shoeless” Joe Jackson or John Kinsella  would come strolling out for one more game of catch and throw.

Baseball remains America’s great pastime. The green glittering diamond of a baseball field on a muggy August night in the middle of this broad country, stood as a symbol of unity. For one summer evening in the year of 2021 baseball would be beating the combined ratings of FOX News and CNN. There was a choice between watching updates of government scandals or the White Sox/Yankees, the first ever Major League Baseball Game played in the state of Iowa. It was an easy decision to make. The movie Field of Dreams, the best film and most universal ever made about baseball, was able to capture the hearts of all people despite political affiliation. The film centered around a hawkeye farmer (Kevin Costner) who was struggling to keep his farm afloat. Costner’s character Ray Kansilla kept hear voices “Build it, and they will come.”  The “it” the voices were talking about was a baseball field. Ray constructed a baseball field on prime agricultural land without really understanding why he was doing it. After a long search as to the motive of the whisperings in his ears Ray finally had his answer when former White Sox outfielder Joe Jackson walks out of the cornfield and into centerfield right before Ray’s stunned eyes. In angelic fashion Jackson asks Ray, “Is this heaven?” Ray smiles, “No, it’s Iowa.” Then “Shoeless Joe” seeks permission for a bunch of his buddies  ( former players from the White Sox of team of 1919) to use the field.

In the movie it turns out Ray’s father (John Kansilla) had dreamed of being a professional baseball player. The fact was that Ray’s fathers dream never came to fruition. Flash forward to today and the Chicago White Sox were battling the New York Yankees on the field Ray had built. For one night we got to go back in time to a ballfield that wasn’t decorated with sponsors slogans. There weren’t any flashing lights on the make shift score board that was hand operated located in the middle of the stalks. There wasn’t out of town scores, or players batting statistics, or the pitcher’s velocity. The annoying clutter that that is plastered across the modern day huge computer boards  was completely absent. The game wasn’t being played in Coors Field, Chase Field, Tropicana Field, or Target Field. This game was unfolding on a field of dreams in front of 8,000 fans sitting in a grandstand from a time before anyone of us had been born. The dreaded replay was absent form this game. It was a pleasure to see the game wasn’t delayed to check a video that gets it wrong more the humans. The box that judges the umpires ability to call balls and strikes correctly was also gone. It sent a message to me loud and clear that the beauty of baseball is the human element. Our national pastime is a real metaphor for life, not an algorithm.

I hadn’t watched a baseball game in its’ entirety for years, tonight my eyes were locked on every pitch. Through decades of labor strikes, player hold-outs, franchises abandoning their cities, arbitration and steroids, we all finally focused on the purity of the game. And what a game we were treated to. There were five lead changes and eight home runs that disappeared into the endless acres of gold and green. One blast sailed in the Mid-American colored sky landing at least 20 rows deep. A walk off homer sailed directly into the lore of baseball immortality, giving the White Sox a 9-8 victory in the most watched regular season game in the last 16 years. I was watching the game with my 25 year old friend, who was a pretty good ballplayer in both high school and college. It surprised me how impressed he seem to be in the presentation of the  spectical. He’s a hardcore Yankee fan who after suffering a tough defeat said, “That was the one of the best games I ever saw.” I told him ‘the same for me’, especially since the Yanks loss. We both thought baseball had gotten it right in the way they presented this unprecedented night. Of course, I had a few impractical suggestions about how to make this one special game even more interesting. Try to picture the field without an outfield fence. The ground rule is that all fair balls are in play everywhere. I wanted to see Rob Gardner desperately chasing after a baseball into an Iowa cornfield.

In the end I tip my cap to Major League Baseball a night bringing us back to our childhood days for a night , when our summer evenings were full of the sounds and smells of baseball. I imagined myself sprinting our backyard baseball field. A, mystical place where the dads gathered with their sons and their daughters for the a neighborhood game before our moms would call us in for dinner. All the way back when I was seven years old playing with my dad, my brother, and all the big kids who lived on my block. There was Chuckie Bouton and Glenn Littlefield, both of whom went on tho have great high school and college careers in baseball. There was Rowena Burgess, my first grade crush cheering on my team. I was by far the smallest player on the field, yet I was convinced I was dreaming the biggest dreams. Today, I don’t live far from that old lot behind my early childhood home. The field is gone now, instead, charming houses with kids playing in their contained areas. Sometimes when I drive by the old neighborhood  I recall the feeling of fearlessly jumping high and catching a line drive in the webbing of my dads old glove. I hear my mom calling us in for dinner. I never wanted those nights to end. Thank you Major League Baseball and Dyersville Iowa for driving us back to summertime and the field of our dreams.

Her name was Margaret Shumacher Siegel. She migrated from Germany between World Wars, arriving at Ellis Island in the fall of 1925, she was 20 years old. She traveled to America with a man named William, who later would become her husband and my grandfather. The two of them met on my grandmother’s family’s small farm in the tiny German village just east of Bremen called Ottersberg. In a short time the young newlyweds managed to rent a flat in the German ghetto section of Brooklyn. Sometime in the early 1930,’s  they opened a corner grocery store on Halsey Street. It was sometime during the second World War that their store was violently destroyed by American supremists who hated all things Germans. The xenophobic vandals gave no thought to the idea that my grandparents had earned their American citizenship. My grandparents did not have enough insurance, or the money that it would take to bring their business back to life. My grandmother took a job collecting tolls in the subway and my grandfather became a teller in the local bank. My grandmother died in 1974, five years after moving to her retirement home in New Paltz. Margaret Siegel, who never puffed on a cigarette, or any form of tobacco for that matter, passed at the age of 68 due to acute emphysema. She had survived two World Wars, a cramped boat ride across the pond, discrimination and violence because of her heritage, two muggings, but she couldn’t beat the fumes put out in the cold dampened New York City train station. By the time she made her way out of the city and up to New Paltz she had difficultly catching her breath while battling a hacking cough that caused her much discomfort in the last few years of her life.

The stories about her history were so much more exciting than reading a book or listening to a history professor drone on. My father’s mother, my grandmother was sharing with me the history that she had lived. There were moments I hung on her every word, because even as a young boy I understood her history was connected to who I was and who I would become in the future. After me and my brother got a snowmobile for the Christmas of 1973, I asked my grandmother what she got for Christmas back in Germany when she was my age. “I had seven brothers and sisters, we all received the biggest most delicious oranges you ever saw.” ‘That’s all?’ I said incredulously.

My grandmother smiled. “We were all very happy, with war raging around us, and soldiers starving to death in battle, some of which were your relatives Richard, an orange was a special treat.” It would be very different if I could talk to her one more time, but as a teenager I wasn’t that interested in the olden days back in Germany, I focused more on stories about what it was like for my dad growing up in Brooklyn. “I never worried about your dad, he was always playing sports. I don’t know where he learned because myself and your grandfather were not into athletics. He was either on some school team or playing stick ball in the streets in front of where we lived.”

I knew exactly the street she was talking about because I have many fond childhood memories of Halsey Street located in the Bushwick section of Brooklyn. My brother Gary and I spent many nights sleeping on makeshift beds in the tiny living room area of my grandparent’s brownstone first floor apartment. To this day I see the landscape and smell the scents of that Brooklyn flat.

I can hear the ice cream truck coming down the street, bells ringing, being chased by the neighborhood kids. I breath in the dusty smell of the hot city pavement after a rain shower on a scorching July afternoon. I recall walking down to the end of the street and heading underground to the subway with my grandfather. We usually rode the subway, (Grandma controlled the tokens) out to Queens to see a Mets game or the World’s Fair in 1964. In that little apartment on Halsey Street me and my brother listened to stories about what life was like for the Siegels in the 1930’s and 1940’s.

There was a lot of hate for Germans, though most of them had been born in New York, my grandmother told us matter of factly. “Living conditions were poor, we didn’t have heat in the apartment. I put bricks in the oven, wrapped a blanket around them and put the bricks at the foot of your father’s bed every night in the winter.” Whether it was Brooklyn or when she moved to New Paltz there were two things that come to the forefront of my mind when I think of my grandmother. My father worshipped her, even called her a saint, he was her guardian angel. It was a mutual admiration society between mother and son. The other thing was that my grandmother and myself shared an immense passion for board games.

Starting about the time I was seven till my Grandmother passed we spent countless hours playing board games. Some of our favorites were Battleship, Candyland, Monopoly, and Scrabble. By far and away my personal favorite was Stratego, a game of strategy and survival. In simple terms the board was a simulated 1800 Napoleonic Era battlefield, containing 80 pieces (40 for each contestant). One of the pieces was a flag, the object of the game was to capture the other person’s (the enemy) flag. At one point in my youth I had a notion of attending West Point but for the most part I wanted nothing to do with the military. Despite my misgivings about military life I remember the adrenaline rush I would have setting up the board trying to protect my flag while plotting a strategy to capture my grandmother’s. There were Generals, Marshalls, Colonels, all with the appropriate importance in the game. There were bombs, and scouts, and miners who could take out enemy bombs. I assume the fact that I don’t recall ever losing to my grandmother or brother at Stratego made me so attracted to the game. I wasn’t dreaming of being Patton, or Montgomery, or Rommel, but I did understand that the Stratego was not only a game about war strategy but a metaphor for the game of life. Unlike real life, each player was dealt the same hand in the game Stratego. Equivalent to the way life’s supposed to be Stratego was played on a level playing field with the competitors each having the goal of capturing the opponents flag to gain victory. One winner, who lives to fight tomorrow. One loser, who must take inventory and rebuild.

I have not played a game of Stratego in 50 years yet I know that through my life I have applied a lot of the same techniques that I implemented as a ten year old boy to win the war over my grandmother and brother. The flag represented myself and my family. The bombs protected us from all invaders making their locations critical. Each side had one general, it was important to  protect him early in the game so he could be utilized once it was time to go into attack mode. The General and The Marshall represented the leaders for each side, who needed to survive the war in order to fight another battle. There was only one piece that could take out the Marshall and that was the spy. I learned it is important to be aware should an enemy infiltrate your ranks. The scouts, the miners, the lieutenants, and the sergeants stormed the beaches and had a very low survival rate. I became so absorbed with the game of Stratego that it got to a point that my only two opponents refused to play with me anymore. Even my Grandmother,  who adored me more than anything in the world, had had enough of my obnoxious zeal to take down her flag. Near the end of her life my grandmother agreed to play any game with me, except Stratego. I can recall my grandmother saying to me well after we had put Stratego back in the closet, “Richard, someday you are going to be an excellent lawyer or politician.”  She was wrong on both counts.

The big question becomes very early in life “how do I play the game?” We quickly learn there is no script to follow, or specific guide to lead the way. There are clues all around us in the form of your parents, guardians, peer groups, books, movies, teachers, preachers, flimflam artists, politicians, criminals, and institutions. The information is there to be found and it is the job of the individual to put the pieces together of the metaphoric puzzle of life. It takes years to accept there are not any specific right or wrong answers, but merely questions to unsolvable problems. The irony to the game is that many along the way will attempt to tell you the right way to play the game. They will even tell you they know the rules. Their advice will be mostly filled with good intention. Ultimately you are the one who will be in charge of yourself and will have to make your decisions based on your own understanding of yourself. It is extremely important that you have help on your journey, in my opinion it is a must. While receiving assistance it helps to keep repeating a mantra to yourself:  ‘in the end it comes down to myself, blaming others is a waste of time, I alone must take responsibility for the consequences of my decision.’ As you say those words over and over to yourself it is still going to be hard to accept anything is your fault. There is a chance that if you play the game with honor and integrity, work hard enough to produce some favorable results, and don’t allow any of the thousands of obstacles that life will throw at you to stop you in your tracks, you will have a chance to create and fulfill your destiny.