The End of the Innocence

It was a year ago Saturday. The incredibly long, hot, rainless summer was reaching its peak.

It was a moment that changed my life.

My dad, Leonard, died.

Dad was a wealth of knowledge to everyone who met him. He was an osteopathic physician who took pride in what he was doing, the consummate professional both in and out of the office.

He was a worldly man, one who knew a lot about situations in far-away political hotbeds like El Salvador, Nicaragua, the Philippines and the Middle East. Much of my political upbringing and information came from him, but he would always make me go and dig up the complete story.

Dad wanted me to learn as much as possible. But he wanted me to do the research. If I was truly interested in the topic, he reasoned, I would want to find it on my own. Of course, he was right.

The mourning is over now. Life, so they say, goes on. And I no longer try to rationalize a situation which cannot be rationalized. But his life - and, ultimately, death - made a major impact on me, one which I cannot celebrate completely because he is not here to see my achievements.

One of the things that differed between me and my dad was sports. I was a sports junkie, waking up early to find the morning newspaper, eagerly digging through the sports section for stories, statistics, box scores, features and whatever else I could get my hands on. I lived, breathed and ate a continual sports diet.

I would take the stats for the Tigers, dissect them into a million different modes and try to figure out meaningless items, like why Ron LeFlore was hitting .316 with runners in scoring position and one out.

Dad, on the other hand, was much less sports-minded. Unlike the stereotype which followed his profession, he did not play golf. He enjoyed watching sporting events, usually live, but never really got all bent out of shape if a player had an off-day. Among other things, he couldn't understand why professional athletes got paid the way they did.

While I have no answer to his question, I can appreciate his thoughts. It comes down to priorities.

As I have grown older, I have learned not to take sports as seriously as I used to. Sports, as entertainment, are not a live-and-die nature. Let's face it: If it comes down to Alan Trammell blasting a 1-2 pitch to Neptune to defeat the Red Sox, or the threat of a nuclear warhead being dropped on my house within the next 10 minutes, which is more important?

But Dad liked watching sports on occasion, especially when one of his kids was on the field. My brother, Charles, was involved in a youth soccer program for several years, and my sister, Miriam, took up gymnastics for a while.

For six years, I played Little League baseball, and - despite his hectic schedule - Dad would come to almost every game to watch me play.

I'm the first to admit I wasn't the next Ted Williams when it came to swinging a bat - I think I had around 15 career hits in those six seasons - but there he was, on the foul line, home or away, sitting in his lounge chair next to my mom, Adele, and talking with the other parents.

Dad never forced me to become a .400 hitter. He didn't stay up until all hours of the morning, trying to improve my swing. He never imposed that I play baseball. He knew it was something I liked to do, regardless of how I did, and stood by me all the time - no matter how I played.

And I appreciate that, probably more now than I did then.

When I was growing up, our family would head down to Tiger Stadium once or twice a year to catch a game. Dad would pack us up in the station wagon and we'd head south on I-75 to the corner of Michigan and Trumbull to catch some summertime action.

These were the days the Tigers couldn't buy a win, when the lineup included names like Duke Sims, Tom Veryzer, Ben Oglivie and Joe Coleman. Steve Kemp was still in the minors, and Ralph Houk was the manager.

We'd usually catch a Saturday afternoon game. For some reason, it always seemed like it was against Milwaukee or California. I'd always ask Dad to buy me a program when we entered the stadium, so I could keep track of the scoring line. He would, and I was happy.

It was a time of innocence, I suppose.

But times change, perceptions are altered, as we grow older. I'm still happy when I'm at the ballpark, and I still can't hit worth a lick. So I write instead, with every word, every thought, every paraphrase and quote reminding me just a little more of Dad.

When writing, I live by the motto, "I want to be perfect and get better every day." It's one my dad lived by, and one I want to achieve.

Thanks for the memories, Dad. I'll always love you.

This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.

Be The Ball, Danny

August has never been one of my favorite months of the year. It's hot. It's long. It's boring. B-O-R-I-N-G. boring.

There are no holidays in August, except, perhaps, National Organic Beansprout Week or something. And a week does not constitute a valid holiday.

Baseball races heat up, but no one - not the '84 Tigers, not the '27 Yanks and most certainly not the '69 Cubs - ever clinched a title in August. Septembers to remember, that's what it's all about.

Pro football has practices and workouts. There are some exhibition games, but I've never been into exhibitionists, Especially male exhibitionists.

Basketball and hockey are on the horizon. But in August, there are often mirages on that same horizon. Kind of hazy. These sports are not factors right now.

Racing - cars or horses - also brings out the yawn in me this time of year. About all that's left is tennis, and who wants to be running around on hot clay in the middle of the summer? Unless you're getting paid a lot, that is.

But hold on a minute. For one of the worst months of the year, August is opening up with a lot of action in Marshall. And you won't find me complaining about that one bit.

There's the Connie Mack baseball regionals going on at the Marshall High School diamond through Sunday.

There's also football conditioning going on at the Redskin football field.

Girls basketball is due to begin tryouts in the next two weeks.

Don't forget about softball. Right now is when the City Recreation leagues are kicking into high gear for that stretch run to fame, fortune and first place.

Local softball is not the only softball going on, though. Saturday is the East-West Class B Senior All-Star softball game, which has Marshall's very own Min Johnston in the lineup.

And there are plenty of golf tournaments, too.

Golf is big in Marshall right now. Every day this month, it seems, there's a tournament going on.

Saturday is the "Dube and Katie Open" at the Alwyn Downs Golf Course. The charity event donates monies to a trust fund for the children of the late Bruce Dubendorf and the family of the late Katie Line.

On the 19th is the annual RedskinOpen, which helps out the Redskin Booster Club and Marshall High School sports.

And Tuesday was, of course, the Marshall Chamber of Commerce golf tournament. I, along with my camera, was on hand for the second leg of the event.

Let me make one thing perfectly clear before telling you my experiences on the greens. Before Tuesday, I had never set foot on a golf course. Oh, I'd done putt-putt a couple hundred times (Gabaverage: 103), but never had I played a hole on real grass. Managers of Detroit-area golf courses and country clubs were much too smart for my own good, constantly pulling out cattle prods and other instruments of deflection to keep me off their property.

But the Marshall Country Club was a different experience altogether. Obviously, i haven't been in town long enough to cause the directors of the MCC worry.

Tournament co-chair Bob Hutchings was the first person I met upon my invasion. He greeted me with a big, cheery smile and suggested I go to the holes at the end of the course, as far away from the clubhouse as possible, to take my pictures.

Maybe he knows too much about my golf style, or lack thereof, I thought. After all, his wife Sue works at the Chronicle.

Nothing like having reliable inside information, I suppose.

He then gave me a key to one of the gas-powered golf carts. I figure he gave me a gas-guzzler instead of an electric one because there were no Ford Pintos on the course for me to rear-end.

I thanked him and headed off to the carts, choosing one with air bags and a sturdy wraparound safety belt. After all, there are some crazy people on the roads, and you have to be careful.

There I ran into a major discovery, which was that a golf cart is not exactly like a car. I looked all over for the ignition. I looked on the dashboard, where two drink holders were. No such luck.

I searched the steering column. Nope.

I got out of the card and looked behind me, where the golf clubs are usually stored. I figured this might be one of those Japanese-built vehicles, where they put the keyhole in some obscure place. Once again, I was wrong.

It was then a passerby noticed my dilemma and suggested the correct answer. The ignition was under the seat. Obviously, this guy was a pro.

So, I ignited the cart, and suddenly I was HELL ON WHEELS.

There I was, cruising along the paths. Hutchings had also mentioned to me to stay off the greens. He said, "Paul, stay off the greens!"

I took the paths which looked used to scurry around to the end of the front nine - as far away (so i was told) from the country club offices as possible. During my travels, I found out a few things about golfing:

Golfers are not too receptive of novices who drive the wrong way on golf courses;

They also frown on people who boogie up to the edge of the green with their cart while in the process of attempting a crucial putt. It's worse if the offending carter (not Jimmie, Nell or Joe) is screaming, "Miss it! Miss it! Psyche!" at the top of his lungs;

An iron is different than a wood. Irons are used to press clothes; woods are for hitting baseballs. Or for hitting golf balls into, which can cause golfers to use language which is not appropriate for newspaper reporting;

Several people yelled "fore" when I was in their vicinity. Those people are the ones with lousy aim; they're supposed to hit the hole, not the guy from the newspaper. Sure glad I had my Nuprin with me;

Don't sing Kenny Loggins' Caddyshack theme, "I'm Alright," when a golfer is trying to make par. Especially within earshot. Especially if you've been blessed with the singing voice I haven't got;

Quoting Caddyshack, however, is a required part of the game. But it has to be the original, not the god-awful sequel;

Golf carts are a lot like go-carts. They sound powerful, move swiftly and can bounce off trees and other moving carts without causing a dent. Or whiplash;

Don't wear plaid slacks with an olive-green shirt. It messes up the scenic view; and

Golfers don't approve of media photographers urging them to "hit one in the bunker, so I can get a good picture."

In any case, when I was finished with the round - much to the relief of the other golfers - Hutchings was waiting for me with open arms. And an insurance policy to fill out.

This guy catches on fast.

This article originally appeared in The Marshall Chronicle.