The Meek prevails

There is a movie coming out about Chilean poet Pablo Neruda, which reminded me of two humiliations I suffered at the hands of a guy named "Meek." I promise this will make sense in a few paragraphs. 

My hometown, Hudson, NY, celebrated its bicentennial in 1986. There were parades, special issues of the local paper, The Register-Star, and a five-mile run to celebrate the city's birthday. I worked at the newspaper and my terrific editor, Jim Calvin, proposed that I challenge one of our colleagues, Mike Meek, to run in the race. "C'mon, help promote the race," he said, knowing full well that I was as physically fit as a corpse. When Jim was not encouraging you to spell words correctly by throwing a dictionary at you, he was very charming and persuasive. I said, "I'm in."

Mike was the paper's city of Hudson and politics reporter and a good one. He became like a brother to me and often I would find him at my parents' house helping himself to a serving of my mother's spaghetti and meatballs. Or he'd be in the family room having a beer and watching the New York Giants with my father. My parents' couch cushions had a Meek-shaped imprint.

I lost the race but, man, look at my hair. 

Mike accepted my race challenge, which we made public by writing about it in the Register-Star. It was billed as the hometown boy -- me -- versus the carpetbagger from downstate -- Mike. We traded taunts and promises of victory -- sort of like a written version of a boxing weigh-in. Mine were better -- I accused Mike of being the only man I knew who had cellulite. 

I may have won the verbal battle, but Mike won the war. To put it mildly, I undertrained and underestimated Mike. He whipped me -- I never saw him after the first mile. As part of our agreement, I wrote an apology in the newspaper for letting down my hometown. It began:

"Sorry Hudson High, my regrets Coach Leamy, I apologize Charter City.

"It was a semi-glorious weekend for Hudson. On Saturday the winds whipped away the clouds for the Bicentennial parade, on Saturday night fireworks blasted across the city's skies, and on Sunday Mike Meek blew me away in the Bicentennial Run."

But I didn't hold it against Mike. He was in my wedding and I was his best man. He married a beautiful professional dancer from Argentina, Valeria Solomonoff. I did my best man's toast in Spanish quoting Neruda's poetry. Here's what I chose from Neruda's 100 Love Sonnets:

"I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close

You need a tissue, right? I thought this would bring down the house with "awwwws." Unfortunately, my delivery was in mumbling, halting Spanish and the whole thing, to me, was more awful than awwww. 

That's my future wife, Barbara, and I misconnecting at a water stop. 

Next up was a bridesmaid, Mariucchi, a professional singer. As I sat down, the room went dark and then a single spotlight dramatically illuminated her, microphone in hand. She performed a beautiful ballad for the wedding couple. It brought down the house. I was so glad I went before her.

Valeria and Mike then read a Neruda poem to one another (thankfully not the one I had read!), and did a traditional tango, which Mike pulled off magnificently after weeks of practice. Then Mike and Valeria's friends, many of whom were professional dancers, joined them on the dance floor. The room was filled with stylish, talented young people who obviously loved Valeria and Mike.   

This was totally selfish on my part but, at the time, I felt like I -- meaning my toast -- had finished second again. I was grateful that Mike didn't warn me about the "floor show" that followed my toast because I would have sweated through my tuxedo. Nonetheless, the wedding was a blast and one of the most joyous I can remember attending.

Today, Mike and Valeria have two beautiful children and live in Manhattan. Mike wisely moved from journalism to finance after earning his MBA from New York University. He informs me he retired from competitive road racing after beating me, figuring he had reached the peak of his potential. I have run dozens of races since then, perhaps trying to erase the memory of my loss to Mike. 

Recalling these moments is fun but leaves me a little wistful. Let's see, what can pick up my spirits? How about a little more Neruda?

"So I wait for you like a lonely house

till you see me again and live in me.

Till then, my windows ache."

Awwww.

Extraordinary next door

You don't have to look far to find the extraordinary. Sometimes you just have to stick your head out your front door. My wife and son did and they found the extraordinary Herman Kleine.

Herman Kleine

Barb and Mark have come to know Herman over the past few years. His front door is about 50 yards from ours in our condominium complex in Fairfield, CT. The only times I had encountered Herman was watching him drive by our place in the morning on the way to the gym for a workout. Herman is 96.

But that's not even the most extraordinary thing about him. Herman was involved in many of the most important world events of the past century. World War II, the Battle of the Bulge, the dropping of the atomic bombs on Japan, the Marshall Plan, the Cold War, the Peace Corps, the Vietnam conflict, the first American relief effort for a foreign natural disaster, and even the Live Aid Concert to fight hunger in Africa. This is not the full list. 

Not bad for a guy who grew up during the Depression in Brooklyn and later in Hempstead, Long Island, where he was his high school's valedictorian. He went on to earn a doctorate in economics from Clark University after serving in the U.S. Army Air Corps during World War II, rising to the rank of captain. 

Herman was an administrator in the Air Corps but that doesn't mean it was easy duty. His superiors recognized his sharp, analytical mind and gave him the responsibility of selecting which of his Air Corps colleagues -- mechanics and air crew members -- would become infantry reinforcements for the Battle of Bulge, where Americans were taking the brunt of Germany's desperate offensive. Herman recalled the base commander saying, "'Kleine, this is your job to select the men. You make the selections. I'll back you up.'' The men and their families made appeals to Herman on why they shouldn't be sent. Soon after getting this responsibility, Herman began to hear that many of the men he selected were killed or wounded. "It was a horrible experience," he said.

He didn't know it at the time, but Herman played a similar role at the Army's Dalhart, Texas, air base in selecting flight crews for the B-29s that dropped the two atomic bombs on Japan, ending the war in the Pacific. "They just told me to get the best men," he said. "I didn't know what it was for." Herman learned the true nature of the missions when he left the service and read a book about the Enola Gay, the plane that dropped the bomb on Hiroshima. 

Herman, right, and his brother, Harold, in 1944 when Herman was commissioned as an officer in the U.S. Army Air Corps. 

After the war, Herman took the Foreign Service Exam ("the toughest four days of testing I ever had before or since"), which launched him on a 30-year career in the foreign service and international economic development. After a stint teaching at Worcester Polytechnic Institute, Herman joined the Marshall Plan mission to the Netherlands in 1949 as a finance officer. Its headquarters was in The Hague, where Herman lived for three years. He went on to assignments in Washington, Brazil, Ethiopia, and at the United Nations headquarters in Manhattan, becoming friends and associates with legendary journalists, emperors, and presidents. During the Kennedy Administration in the early 1960s, Herman was involved in the startup of the Peace Corps and toured South Vietnam with then President Ngo Dinh Diem as America's painful involvement in that country was just beginning.

He has earned numerous awards from the U.S. government and his alma maters for service to his country. During his year at the National War College, Herman met his late wife, Paula. His son Michael, also graduated from the War College in 2013 and has followed in Herman's footsteps, recently serving as acting U.S. ambassador to Laos. Herman went on to work at Georgetown University, where he ran a program placing students in service abroad with development and refugee programs. 

Some of the members of the Fairfield Prep Historians Club after placing third in the 2016 Connecticut History Bowl. Third from left is Mark Sheffer. 

A few weeks ago, Herman accepted my son Mark's invitation to tell his story to The Historians Club at Fairfield College Preparatory School. Ten young men and their teacher listened intently for 90 minutes to Herman humbly and softly recount his life. What did these young men want to know?

• "Did you meet (Ethiopian Emperor) Haile Selassie?" Herman had a number of times when stationed in Ethiopia in the late 1950s. He recalled the time Selassie seated 100 American diplomats at one large table in his palace to serve them a traditional Thanksgiving meal. "The silverware was solid gold," Herman said.
• "Did you meet President Ford?" Yes, Herman had briefed Ford and Henry Kissinger in the Oval Office on the devastation wreaked by Hurricane Fifi in Latin America. As the meeting began, Kissinger said, "Dr. Kleine, you are a misfit in the foreign service. You write a readable report."
• "What are you most proud of?" Playing a part in the Marshall Plan, Herman answered, quoting 1997 remarks from then-U.S. Treasury Secretary Robert Rubin: "That plan -- its spirit and vision -- marked one of America's finest moments."
• "What is the key to success?" Networking for one, Herman said. "In life, I find, there are connections, one thing leads to another -- and you have to be ready when the opportunity comes." He added with a laugh: "A little obsessiveness doesn't hurt."

I drove Herman to and from his meeting with the young men at Prep and sat in on his talk. I came away with something rare -- the feeling that I had just met a man of great wisdom and judgment. It wasn't just his long list of accomplishments. It's that after spending a lifetime dealing with some of the world's most complex issues and influential people, Herman remains humble, gracious and optimistic. 

Barb and Mark gave Herman a small gift to thank him for talking to the Prep students. Herman wrote a prompt thank-you note to Mark -- his "friend and neighbor" -- for inviting him: "I thank you too, for giving me the opportunity to take a walk down memory lane on a beautiful October day."

When people say government is bad or that our problems are intractable, think of Herman. When critics deride America's exceptionalism and doubt its generosity, think of Herman. When you wonder whether you should stop and say "hello" to your neighbors, think about the extraordinary Herman Kleine.

Nervous brake down

When you smell the rubber of your bike's brake pads burning as you descend a twisting ribbon of a mountain road at 40 miles per hour, you think, in order: 1. hey, I am a genuine badass; 2. hmm, there are no guardrails on that hairpin turn ahead; and, 3. I wonder if Barb will remarry.

Ten minutes to start: Should I really do this, or should I just play in the bounce house all day?

That was me as I bounced, swerved and skidded like a runaway coal car down Skyuka Mountain in the Blue Ridge Mountains this past weekend. I was a "participant" in cycling star George Hincapie's Gran Fondo, an 80-mile race that included 8,000 feet of climbing and several scary descents. I survived the ride but it took several hours to pry my hands from the handlebar so I could write this ode to an exhilarating, exhausting and intriguing event that drew 2,300 cyclists to ironically named Travelers Rest, South Carolina.

I have taken to cycling recently because my body is worn out from years of daily running. Plus, I admit I was intoxicated by Lance Armstrong and his inspiring comeback from cancer. Because of him, the Tour de France has become my favorite sporting event, despite the lingering stink of Armstrong's deceptions.

Road cycling is hard and it hasn't come easily to me. It takes courage, concentration and, as real riders say, "a lot of time in the saddle" (or your butt will bark). Having my feet clipped to the pedals was a difficult change from my childhood bikes. I have scars on my knees and hands from when I forgot to unclip at red lights and fell slowly to the pavement. Enduring the searing pain of climbing a steep hill at 6 miles per hour came naturally to a marathoner like me but descending the other side at 40 mph on two narrow tires horrified me (hence the burning brakes). 

Cyclists are serious about their sport, which has many unwritten rules. They will bellow at you like a drill sergeant, "Hold your line!" if you get a little wobbly near them. They spend thousands on their machines and they know that a mistake by a newbie like me can bend their frames and break their bones. At the same time, they are friendly and generous and will stop on the side of the road to ask if you are okay or to help fix a flat tire.

One of the many switchbacks on Skyuka Mountain.

Cycling was difficult for me even when I was young. I just couldn't graduate from training wheels to the red bike with the banana seat and motorcycle handles my parents bought for me at Barker's department store (my brother Ken got one, too). I remounted repeatedly and tried to ride it but had to keep diving off on to the grass or end up with more dirt and gravel embedded in the palms of my hands after another fall.

As my First Holy Communion approached when I was eight, I was certain that would be the day I would succeed. I guess I just thought God would give me that one little victory. After Mass, I hopped on the bike, wobbled a bit at first, but then cruised down our street without a problem. I victoriously dropped my bike in our driveway (you never used the kickstand - that was uncool) and ran inside to tell my parents about my premonition and the miracle that had just occurred. The house was full of friends and relatives for a post-Communion celebration so all my mother had time to say was, "That's great, now wash your hands for lunch."

Me after a training ride. No one told me to smile or suck in my gut.

Nonetheless, I had my freedom. For the next five or six years, our bikes were our ticket to fun and trouble -- Oakdale playground, Polar Bar, the corner store and the entire city of Hudson, NY (we once rode our bikes through the inside of the volunteer firefighting museum for which we got banned for life). In summer, we'd get on our bikes after breakfast and return only for lunch or dinner.

It is the same today. I have seen amazing things from my bike on the backroads of Columbia County NY -- wildlife, wild flowers, the satisfying symmetry of a recently mowed hay field, the beautiful contrast of a blue summer sky with the rolling green lines of the Berkshire and Catskill mountains. Some of my rides last six hours or more and have introduced me to clerks and customers at nearly every convenience and general store in the county -- Stewart's, XtraMart, Cobble Pond Farms, The Farmer's Wife -- where I stop for food and drinks.

In two trips to the Carolinas, my wife and I have met a neurosurgeon and his wife from Tennessee, a veterinarian and his son from Florida, a real estate lawyer from Philly, professional racers, and others who share a passion for cycling. This past weekend as we waited in the early morning cold for the start of the Gran Fondo, I chatted about the race with a father and son from Barcelona, Spain. They had ridden the race previously and they could sense I was nervous about it.

"It's not too bad," the father said reassuringly. The son smiled, thought a bit, and then warned, "Just watch the descent down Skyuka. It's very steep and technical. Don't be distracted by the beautiful view." 

Gulp. 

Y I rite

I didn't have a subscription to Sports Illustrated magazine when I was a kid. Too expensive. Luckily, my parents' friend Eddie (Sully) Sullivan would bring over a dozen or so of his past issues when he stopped by for coffee occasionally on Saturday mornings.

I would disappear for days to pore over every page of the magazines (and not just the swimsuit issue). Despite its "Illustrated" title, I loved the writing by greats like Frank DeFord, Robert Creamer, William Nack, John Underwood, Tex Maule and others. It made me love words as much as sports, and I have tried -- poorly -- over the years to imitate the styles of these superb writers.

They led me to start my career in sports writing at my college and hometown newspapers. To this day, I think much of the best newspaper writing is in the sports section. Read this amazing opening paragraph from George Vescey of the New York Times on the death of Mickey Mantle:

"People will mourn the tortured man with the hollow eyes and prematurely wrinkled face, whose liver went fast, just as his knees had done. But the real reason they are mourning Mickey Mantle today is that first he was a young lion who prowled green urban pastures, sleekly, powerfully, unpredictably." 

SI's cover when Mickey Mantle died in 1995.

I had inspirations beyond sports. My English teacher at Hudson (NY) High School, Frank (never Sully) Sullivan, lit a fire in me for reading. I was an indifferent student in most subjects but not his class. Still, I often got the answer wrong when called upon, to which Mr. Sullivan would respond, "Oh dear boy, it is better to remain quiet and be thought a fool than to open one's mouth and remove all doubt."

He taught me that to be a good writer, you have to read good writing. Although I could have done without the torture of Silas Marner (I constantly fell asleep reading it), he introduced me to great storytelling. I was riveted by Truman Capote's In Cold Blood and Shakespeare's Henry V (the latter of which Mr. Sullivan made us read while standing on a chair, theatrical sword in hand).

Covertly, because it wasn't cool in high school, I drank up everything in his class and supplemented it with my own reading. Roger Angell of the New Yorker and author of numerous baseball books taught me words such as "expunged" (a team wasn't "eliminated" from the playoffs, it was "expunged."). 

I also read Edwin Newman's Strictly Speaking and William Safire's On Language columns in the New York Times. Even though I'd rather read Silas Marner again than diagram a sentence, my interest in words and language continues today with books such as Between You & Me: Confessions of a Comma Queen by Mary Norris, a long-time copy editor at The New Yorker. 

Mr. Sullivan helped me get one of the highest scores in the class on the Regents English exam, much to the surprise of my classmates because I also got some of the lowest scores in other subjects. That test score, and an essay I wrote on journalism, helped me get into Siena College with an otherwise lackluster academic record.

At Siena, an American Literature Between the Wars course introduced me to Hemingway, Fitzgerald and Steinbeck. Reading Hemingway was like a punch in the stomach and made me realize how wordy and pedestrian my writing was. My professors usually agreed. On the cover of a term paper, one wrote, "Gary, I am not sure what point you are trying to make. I guess the only thing I can say is your footnotes are well done. C-"

After college, daily journalism improved the clarity of my writing but then 25 years in politics and business gunked it up with legal grit and corporate residue. An exception was what I learned from GE CEO Jeff Immelt. His writing is authentic, empathetic and energetic. His response to Sen. Bernie Sanders in the Washington Post is the kind of courageous and clear writing that is in short supply in business. Working with him on his annual share owner letter and speeches made me determined to knock the muck off my writing.

So this is why I write. It's fun to think back and recreate things that have happened in my life. Plus, it's a differentiator in the workplace; good writing, after all, is about clear thinking and simplicity, which many big organizations lack. And you need not look past Winston Churchill, Teddy Roosevelt or Ronald Reagan to know that great leaders are often great writers, a combination that is sadly lacking today. In his 1946 essay, Why I Write, George Orwell provided four main motives for authors, and perfectly captured today's politicians:

"Political language is designed to make lies sound truthful and murder respectable, and to give an appearance of solidity to pure wind."

Powerful. But Orwell knew his writing was imperfect, as do I. I also know that the more I write, the better it will get. I hope communications students, particularly, feel that way. 

We need young people to better represent their amazing ideas and deep passions if they are to be fully realized and lived. A PowerPoint slide won't do. 

We need leaders -- CEOs, presidents, mayors, educators -- to compel, persuade and explain. A sanitized "holding statement" won't do. 

We need bold words like Lincoln's second inaugural, FDR's first inaugural and Martin Luther King's civil rights speech at the Lincoln Memorial. A Tweetstorm won't do. 

We need great prose and poetry (go Bob Dylan!) to inspire, entertain and unite us around common values and ideals. Slogans won't do.

Good writing can do these things but most people don't try because it can be risky and is just plain hard. Orwell wrote, "Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a bout with some painful illness."  Maybe so. But, with apologies to Mr. Sullivan, I'd rather give it a try and be thought a fool than to not try at all.

Fritz, Mike and me

The great novelist Richard Russo (Empire Falls, Nobody’s Fool) is a remarkably keen observer of small towns and the flawed, funny and unforgettable people that inhabit them. I love Russo’s work, partly because his towns are in upstate New York, where I grew up listening to the stories from and about quirky, eccentric and endearing characters.

I have been reading a lot of Russo lately and it reminded me of a story from my hometown of Hudson, NY, a historic former whaling port 40 miles south of Albany on the Hudson River (parts of the movie Nobody's Fool were filmed in Hudson). My story isn’t quite up to Russo’s high comedy but it does tie together my love of the Yankees, baseball and how a young boy reacts when blindsided by his heroes.

Nearly every hour of my childhood (even when I was in school) was filled with sports – reading, thinking, playing and watching them. Baseball was my favorite and I was a Yankees fanatic. Sadly, my Yankees weren’t the champion Yankees of Munson, Jackson and Nettles that would emerge in my late teens. 

The Daily News treated the trade with subtlety and sensitivity. From left: Marilyn Peterson, Mike Kekich, Susanne Kekich, and Fritz Peterson.

My Yankees were the awful but lovable Horace Clarke, Jerry Kenney and Jake Gibbs Yankees that sleep-walked through games and usually were out of the pennant race by July. In the late 60s and early 70s, the great shrine of baseball, Yankee Stadium, had become a doleful, dirty and deserted place.

Despite that, I still loved watching them on TV but you could only see them if they were on NBC's Saturday game of the week, which wasn't often because they were, well, bad. Then a miracle happened -- one of the local stations picked up the Friday night WPIX broadcasts of Yankee games. My cousin Mike and I prepared for every game by riding our bikes to Kenneally’s corner store to get soda, chips and candy. Unfortunately, the combination of M&Ms, bubble gum, barbecue-flavor chips and Coke combined with another woeful Yankee performance usually made us nauseous.

The Yankees’ incompetence did not deter our fanaticism. We collected Yankee trading cards, wore their hats and remained immovable in our optimism. One day my father brought me 4-by-6 inch color photos of a few Yankee players (I have no idea where he got them). Among them were pitchers Mike Kekich and Fritz Peterson. Remember those names. 

The Yankees were the perfect team for me as a player because I was as bad as they were. Every year at the Hudson Little League banquet, a Yankee – such as outfielder Bill Robinson or shortstop Gene Michael -- would speak and present the best players with trophies, none of which bore my name.

When I was 11 the speaker was Peterson, a good left-handed pitcher and an All-Star in 1970. I was shut out of the awards but I didn’t care because I was seated 20 feet from a real Yankee. I carefully studied Peterson like the fanboy I was -- how he ate, what he drank, how he walked. If it worked for him, maybe it could for me.

That's Mike Kekich in the upper right of the photo and me directly to his left in my brother's sport coat and tie at the 1972 Hudson Little League banquet.

By the time I was 12, my team – the Bucks – and I had improved enough to get a few trophies. Kekich, a mediocre pitcher and Peterson’s best friend, presented me with my baseball trophies. I also had won the local Punt, Pass & Kick football competition and was called forward to get that trophy.

Kekich handed me the statuette and then punched me in the arm – hard -- and said “I thought you were a baseball player.” I was too lightheaded to respond – a Yankee had spoken to me and actually punched me in the arm like we were buddies. I went back to my table, my arm still smarting a bit and said to my brother, “Holy shit, did you see that? He punched me!”

Needless to say, Peterson and Kekich became my favorite players and I put their photos on the top of the set my father had given me.

Sadly, the bromance soon ended when the strangest trade in baseball history happened. In March 1973 Peterson and Kekich announced at Yankee Stadium that they were trading wives. Yes, wives. Actually, they were trading families, kids, dogs and all. I was completely confused when I read the Daily News story. How in the name of Mickey Mantle do you trade wives?

But they did. Yankees General Manager Lee MacPhail is said to have quipped to the press that day, “We may have to call off Family Day.”

Compared to today's athlete misbehavior, this may seem tame – maybe even a funny and touching love story for some "rom-com" writer. But in 1973 it was a big scandal for the staid Yankees. By June, Kekich was trundled off to the lowly Cleveland Indians. I sent my Peterson and Kekich photos to the bottom of my trash can. 

Peterson is still married to Susanne Kekich; Kekich and Marilyn Peterson never married and later split. Kekich later said he felt "left out in the cold" by the whole thing. There has been talk of a movie involving Matt Damon and Ben Affleck. If it gets made, two things should happen: first, Russo should write the screenplay; and, second, I should play the shocked “say it ain’t so” young baseball fan. Makeup!

'My fellow Americans: One-two-three-four!'

A very successful person once told me that the only person in the world he would trade places with is Bruce Springsteen. I told him, "Get in line."

Springsteen, the iconic American rocker is nearly everyone's wannabe. Almost 67, he is having a moment, as they say about the famous. Vanity Fair gave him the full Annie Leibovitz cover treatment in its October issue. His much-anticipated memoir, "Born to Run," comes out this month. And he is completing an acclaimed 84-show tour celebrating his seminal 1980 album, "The River."

I was at the final U.S. show last week in Gillette Stadium, the football palace just south of Boston in Foxborough. It was a rollicking 33-song, four-hour show with barely a breath taken between songs by the musicians or audience, which danced non-stop. It was an amazing demonstration of stamina and durability; someone should find out what Springsteen's indestructible vocal chords are made of so we can make airplanes and baby strollers out of the same material. 

My last Springsteen concert was 31 years ago at New Jersey's Giants Stadium, which has since been torn down. That Born in the U.S.A. Tour was a rocket ride of musical muscularity in Reagan-era America that was feeling pretty good about itself. The Foxborough show was less rock and awe and more introspection and validation of Springsteen's rise from blue collar nobody to the world's best rock-and-roller.

Springsteen at 1985 "Born in the U.S.A." show

"Dorian" Springsteen at 2016 Foxborough show

It began with some of his early songs (more than 40-years-old!) interspersed with spoken stories about Springsteen's frustrating attempts to break into the music business. The denouement of each story was a song.

For example, he recalled a record company executive telling him that an early version of his first album lacked a hit song. Standing alone with his guitar at the microphone, eyes closed and speaking softly while projected on 100-foot video screens, Springsteen looked and sounded like he still felt the sting of that rejection. But Springsteen's smile returned when he told the crowd that he went out and bought a rhyming dictionary, and "one-two- three-four!" Springsteen is into "Blinded By the Light," his first, very rhyming single ("Madman drummers, bummers, and Indians in the summer..."). 

Another story recounted visiting a record company building for an audition and riding up, up, up in an elevator "above the trees...above the clouds...above where angels sing." As he arrived, a record company exec demanded, "Play me something." The story ends with Springsteen barking "one-two-three-four!" to begin "It's Hard to be a Saint in the City."

Music for Springsteen is not just a salve, but a celebration, which came when he took written requests from the audience via poster-size signs and one, "No Surrender," on a pleated paper fan. In the party-like encore, which lasted eight songs, Springsteen's genuine joy in performing saturated the stadium. 

It would have been easy for Springsteen and E Street Band to become one of those wax museum-like bands you see during on a PBS pledge week playing the same few songs over and over.  But Springsteen's endless well of creativity and passion for reinvention doesn't let that happen. The band's terrific new saxophonist is 36-year-old Jake Clemons, nephew of the late Clarence Clemons, the band's longtime larger-than-life sax man. Jake gives the band a new sense of energy and a feeling that this might go on forever, like the shows. Maybe it will. A 20-year-old college student sitting next to me said he and his friends love Bruce because "he writes music he cares about...I don't know...he's just a bad ass."

Indeed. I am not knowledgable or talented enough (see video below) to critique Springsteen's music so I'll just focus on how the concert made me feel. I left the show inspired, exhausted and wanting more. I couldn't remember the last time I felt that way walking away from a speech, show or athletic event.

Springsteen is real and raw, an open book that we want to read and re-read. Many political and business leaders, by contrast, are plastic and pinched, afraid to go off script for fear they may reveal some weakness, ignorance or bias. As a result, they are generic, uninspiring, even repugnant, despite their self-delusion of "boldness."

Springsteen is an approachable hero to the working class and affluent baby boomers who pack his concerts and buy his music. They like him even though his politics might not agree with theirs; Springsteen has supported John Kerry and President Obama and his "Long Walk Home" is not kind to President George W. Bush. In Foxborough, in his one brief political remark, he called this presidential election the "ugliest I've seen in my entire life" with appeals not to angels who sing, but "to our worse angels."

He is right. Maybe we need a little more originality, artistry and lyricism from political leaders. Here's an idea - maybe they should begin their speeches not with banalities, but with a meaningful and genuine personal story followed by Springsteen's catalytic words: "one-two-three-four!..."

30 pounds of fat

In my early teens I was convinced that I would play professional baseball. Preferably for the Yankees. I was a pretty good catcher and my Rawlings Johnny Bench model mitt was my favorite possession. I still remember the satisfying smell of its leather mixed with glove oil and the home plate-area dirt it had absorbed.

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Nothing got by my Bench, which sadly, is long lost

Of course, I was delusional. The reality was I wasn't much of a hitter and my catching skills were barely good enough for high school and American Legion ball. Turns out being an All Star in the Hudson Little League -- go Bucks! -- and Babe Ruth Baseball is no guarantee of professional stardom, fame and wealth. 

I got a shockingly clear understanding of how pedestrian my baseball skills were when I was 13 or 14 years old. My father took me to see the team he loved and I hated, the Mets. From our perch in the second deck of Shea Stadium (hold on, an airplane is flying over and I can't hear myself write...okay, better now), I watched the Mets warming up on the field below. I was horrified. They could throw a baseball great distances -- 150, 200 feet or more -- on a line with seemingly little effort. They were sometimes talking and laughing as they did this! I knew I would never come close to throwing a ball that far even if I had a running start and I was throwing it down a steep hill.

My baseball dreams were over.

I had a similar shock recently when I spent a few days in the Blue Ridge Mountains of South Carolina riding my road bike with professional cyclists. The inclines were murderous and the temperatures merciless -- 100 degrees with high humidity. Now, I never had delusions that I could be a pro cyclist but I thought, maybe I could hang for a while with the pros on these tortuous climbs. It would be a story I could tell the kids.

Reality again was cruel. On nearly every ride, I was what cyclists call the "Red Lantern," the last rider in the group (the phrase comes from the red lantern hung on the last car of a train). Sometimes by a lot. Sometimes I'd fall behind even though others were doing things like taking phone calls while riding. Sometimes I caught up only because the group stopped for water. I'd see them ahead lounging in the shade of pine trees and wonder if they were talking about me.

I'd dismount and break out the excuses: "Did I mention I'm 56 years old?" Or, "Hey, I've had five knee surgeries." And "It's never this hot in Connecticut." They responded only with their eyes. 

Actually, they are all great guys and they often hung back with me to provide encouragement and instruction. But clearly I am not made of the same stuff as them. You can see it by just looking at the photo below. I am the shorter guy with the unshaved legs among three retired American cycling titans: Christian Vande Velde, George Hincapie and Bobby Julich.

Which one is not like the others?

Let me be more specific about the differences between these pros and me:

• Body: Even in retirement, these guys are lean and, I am, well, gelatinous. I figured I had about 30 pounds of fat on these guys. That's like strapping an average-sized English Cocker Spaniel on my back, although I don't know why anyone would do that. 
• Frame:  They are all legs, like Vegas show girls. I am no legs, like a Corgi.
• Skills: They could cook a five-course meal while riding. I couldn't order take out.
• Experience: They have competed in the world's great races such as the Tour de France against and with Lance Armstrong, Alberto Contador and Fabian Cancellara. In a recent charity ride, I got passed by a guy pulling a bike trailer with two kids in it.

Dreams are hard to give up and hills are hard to get up. I did both on the rural backroads of South Carolina.  

In Praise of Arm Hanging

One of my favorite things to do in summer is to drive with the windows down, the music cranked and my arm hanging out the window – the crook of my elbow on the sill and my hand extended straight down.

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Red Sheffer exhibiting Air Force cool

I got this from my dad, who looked super cool driving around our hometown, Hudson, NY, with his left arm hanging out the window of his white Pontiac. Dad, known to everyone as Red, had long, sun-freckled arms and a shock of red hair that warned everyone he was ready for a good time. The editors of his high school yearbook recognized his capacity for fun, writing that whenever there was a party, "Red's around." He was not deterred from this perspective by military service or getting married and having four children. Even the corporate chill of his employer IBM could not cool Red.

Cars were very important to him. As a young father, he bought the cars Detroit made during its glory days – long, sleek and muscular. When he grabbed his keys and asked if anyone wanted to go to the store with him to buy cigarettes, the Sheffer kids would put up our hands. We knew there was the possibility of candy, including my favorite, red rope licorice.

Dad would light up a cigarette as we drove to resupply his habit. He’d cup the cigarette in his hand, which hung all the way down to the middle of his door.  I watched his cigarette carefully from the back seat and wondered to myself if the wind was smoking it as he held it outside the car. One time he tossed a finished butt out the window and, to our horror, it was blown by the wind into the back seat. We all scrambled to find the small torch and disposed of it out the window as Dad watched calmly in the rear-view mirror.

My cars and my arms are shorter than Dad’s and I don’t smoke but I still mimic him when driving around Hudson. I know "10 and 2" driver's ed teachers are anti-arm hangers -- and rightfully so -- but there are advantages, including the ability to do a quick, lukewarm wave when you see someone you know, but not that well. Don't make eye contact, just flip your hand casually.

Arm hanging says I'm local, I know where I'm going and there's no hurry. There’s also the trucker’s tan but more importantly, you get to inflict your great taste in music on others. The three best songs for automotive arm hanging are: Hey Jude by The Beatles; No One to Run With by The Allman Brothers Band; and, Travelin’ Man, by Bob Seger and The Silver Bullet Band. There will be no arguments on this.

Admittedly, there are times when arm hanging is a bad idea, such as in heavy traffic, the months of November to March in the Northeast, after you’ve waxed your car, as you pull into the driveway of your prospective in-laws for the first time, and when following a truck carrying loose stone and gravel.

Some say the art of arm hanging reached its peak in the 1950s as portrayed in the movie, American Graffiti. I say its zenith was the 1960s on the streets of Hudson and its Picasso was my dad, Red Sheffer.