Blog Entry 98 of 102
Baseball,football,the Grateful Dead,Jesus and me
Could be politics, religion, music, sports, family life or anything in-between and outside the lines. (I refuse to say "outside the box," even if my chosen line means exactly the same thing) Chronologically, I'm 41. The consensus among those who know me best puts me somewhere between 10 and 13 in terms of maturity. I love listening to Jimmy Buffett, the Grateful Dead, the Allman Brothers and all acts Country (except the Dixie Chicks who offended my long-held,closed-minded view of decent behavior) I have deep, strong beliefs in all things I believe in and sometimes in things I don't. I pride myself in my contradictory nature even though it is a sign of weakness to change one's mind. I have been known to waver more than John Kerry talking about national defense, though I remain steadfast in my beliefs. I am prepared to argue to the death on one issue and one issue alone; Dickey Betts should be allowed back in the Allman Brothers. On this, there is no compromise. I believe in compromise in all other areas so long as the compromise includes everything that I want or believe in. In all seriousness, I am a lucky man, blessed with a wonderful family and an uncanny ability to not care about anything if the situation requires such. I believe that minds are like parachutes in that they have been known to fail their user, albeit with a slightly lower fatality rate. So that's me, or at least that's kind of me. I mean, I felt that way right before I didn't.
Goin' Home
Article Contributed on: 11/20/2009 10:22:54 PM
"Again, the morning's come
again, he's on the run . . .
pick up your gear
and, gypsy . . .
roll on . . ."
Gregg Allman
I was eighteen when I left home. It wasn't to be for good. I always knew I'd be back. Wasn't sure when, but I knew I was coming back. Twenty-three years later, I'm still trying to get there.
At five a.m. on a humid August morning (they're all humid in Maryland), I waved goodbye to Mom and Dad. Daisy, our cocker-spaniel mix, was on her hind legs, resting her front paws on the screen door, sure it was just another short trip. My brother, Brett, sleep in his eyes, stood behind them. Brett got up extra early that day to see me off. I guess that's what big brothers do. Can't explain the love I feel for that guy.
When I reached for the handle of the Navy recruiter's car, I had no idea where the door I was about to open would lead. Makes sense, I guess, that I'm writing this, bouncing around, thirty-thousand feet above the ground.
Seems I've spent a lot time up here. Too much. Although today it's a good thing. I'm going home. For a few hours, anyway. Gonna see the Broncos play my beloved Ravens, as I have four times before. Except that this time, I'll be in the majority. Sorry, Broncomaniacs! This week, you'll be my guest. You will be treated well. That's how we do it in Baltimore. They don't call it "Charm City" for nothing.
If life is a circle, I'm on my forty-second trip 'round. It's been fun, sad, easy, difficult, damn-near impossible at times. But always, it's been fullfilling. Not a moment I'd change. Okay, a few, probably. Most definitely, I'd take back that rock I threw at Steve all those years ago. The "Nativity Wreath Fire of '85?" Might change that, too. Unattended candles and dry vegetation -- not a good mix.
Maybe there are decisions I'd like back but that's not how it works. God gives us the map, we choose our own route.
Mine has taken me around the world more times than I would have liked. People tell me how "lucky" I am to have been to so many places. True enough. Then I remind them how lucky they are to have spent so much time at home, surrounded by people who love them.
Something as simple as a football game can be the punch-in-the-eye that reminds me about what's important. It isn't so much the game. It's me and Brett, completing the circle. Twenty-three years ago, he waved goodbye as I set-off on my little adventure. Today, we'll shake hands and spend a few hours pretending the last 23 years never happened. I'll be home. The "O's Bros" reunite! "The Order Of The Sleepless Knights" re-adjourn!
Can't count the number of Orioles games we've attended together. How many Baltimore Colts (the only "real" Colts!) games did we see? How many times did we sit on the "Ol' Gal's" cold, aluminum seats, giving the New Yorkers Holy Hell? Yankees, Jets, Giants; it didn't matter. We gave 'em Hell!
The "Ol' Gal," by the way, was the Queen of Waverly. 33rd Street. Baltimore's Memorial Stadium. I could close my eyes and describe every inch of that grand, old, flawed, yet beautiful stadium. What Bawlamoron can ever forget Wild Bill Hagy? Rest in peace, big guy. I'll admit, I cried when I heard that Wild Bill had died. Right there at work. Tough-guy Soldier, sitting in a corner, crying over a childhood memory.
Us Bawlamorons are a proud, sentimental lot. We don't usually tell you about the sentimental part. Certainly, you won't see it at first glance. Hell, at first glance, we're arrogant, in-your-face, ready-to-fight, weird-accented pricks. We like it that way. But we'll give you our last dime, if you need it more than we do. That dime won't come free, however. You will have to listen to us tell about Francis Scott Key and the "Star Spangled Banner." (Inspired by the spirited, successful defense of Baltimore at Fort McHenry in September of 1814). For that dime, you will also walk away knowing that, for sure, Babe Ruth was born in Baltimore, and in fact, played his first professional game for the Baltimore Orioles. If you're from Denver, you will hear about how Elway was drafted by the Colts and you owe us. Big time! (Oh, and Elway would have never been famous were it not for Unitas, who changed the game of football and defined the quarterback position)
TWO WEEKS LATER, 14 NOVEMBER 2009
Never finished that entry. The plane landed, I had to turn off the computer . . . and the Broncos and Ravens played . . . you know how that turned out. Tonight, I find myself at 33,000 feet, again headed east to a football game with my brother. This time, my son, Thomas, who moved to Maryland in 2007 will attend as well. Surprise! We're going for the Broncos this time! They're playing the Redskins. Despite my short time on the "dark side," the favorite team of any real Bawlamoron is the Ravens and whoever's playing the Redskins. (I brought extra jerseys from Colorado)
My wonderful wife has reminded me many times, how lucky I am. "My friends would never put-up with that," she says.
"I didn't marry your friends," I answer.
That's not a smart-ass answer. It's just how it is. My wife understands me. When we married, I knew she'd keep cats (can't stand 'em) and she knew I was a football freak, whos life inexplicably revolves around the game and its memories.
Perhaps it's not so inexplicable.
I remember sitting on the living room floor, one cold, dreary autumn Sunday (again, they were all dreary, that's winter in Baltimore). The Colts game was on and the whole family was watching. Dad said, "it's the third quarter."
I asked, "Top or bottom?"
Simple question. Especially for a kid who thinks Mom has a direct line to God.
Mom's a baseball fan. Up to that point, I had spent most of my spare time wondering how I could become the next Brooks Robinson. (Brooks and Al Bumbry were Mom's favorites)
After they stopped laughing, Dad and Brett failed in their efforts to explain that football didn't have a "top & bottom." Football has "quarters."
"How many?"
More laughter.
Eventually, I got it. Soon after, I caught the football bug. Baltimore football to be exact. I spent Sundays in the basement at Dad's bar, watching the Colts on the old black and white. Eating peanuts ("make sure you chew them good!" was Dad's ever-present advice), drinking Coke and listening to tales of Dad's trips on the train to New York to watch the Colts at Yankee Stadium.
So, here I am, for the second time in two weeks, on a plane to Maryland to watch a football game with my brother. Once again, the plane is landing. Going to have to turn off the computer. Perhaps I'll finish this some time. Meantime, GO BRONCOS!!! The O's Bros and son, will be there with you! We promise to ramp-up the decible level!
TWO DAYS LATER, 16 NOVEMBER 2009
Ahh, the Broncos lost. Damn Redskins! But what a time. My brother, my son and me at a football game. The way it used to be. The way it should be. The O's Bros, plus one (Two-and-a-half Men) enjoying a sunny Sunday afternoon, doing what Prather men do. Watching football.
Brett and I decided to make this an annual event. Split between Baltimore and Denver, we'll attend a football game together every season. Dad is always there, too. He can't make the trip, so we take him in our hearts. Deep down, we'll always be Baltimore Colts fans.
My son, Marty and I are taking a train trip to Oakland later this year to see the Ravens. It's a trip inspired by Dad's stories from the 1950s, and I guess, in part, by a need to connect to my past. I sure miss those days at Dad's knee, watching the Baltimore Colts battle the Patriots, Bills and Dolphins. Man, wasn't Bert Jones a great quarterback? The Rustin Rifle! Those were the days.
"They" say you can't go home again. "They" are full of it. I j went home again this weekend! Screw "They." Who the Hell are "they" to tell me what I can and can't do? (See, there's that Bawlamer, east-coast,"kick-your-ass-or-die-trying" attitude. I just can't help it)
My lovely wife recently told me how she had to defend me to some folks who were ignorant and callous enough to tell her, "Bill is trying to get away."
Instead of being mad (the first instinct of an east-coaster), I actually feel sorry for people like that. Guess they don't understand that sometimes, a man runs to something. I feel for people who don't share my strong connection to home and family.
Colorado is home now. But it wasn't always that way. I love my wife and kids. Thank God, we spend most days and nights together.
I also love Mom, Dad, Larry, Sharon, Brett and Malia. They're thousands of miles away. The memories . . . well they're alive and well, right here, in my heart. For two weekends (out of 52) I was "just a dumb kid" again. I went to a football game with my big brother. It sucks that I'm finding myself in the crosshairs of those who don't get it.
Maybe it did us all good. Perhaps a guy who loves his wife and kids can also love his parents . . . brothers and sisters. If something as simple as a football game can help a guy forget the pain of losing his mother while he watches his father's heart break . . . Ahh, Hell . . .
Why do I try?
Truth is, I love my wife and kids. I hope that someday, my son might remember that his Dad gave a damn. I hope that when I'm facing death, my son might come by and say, "Dad, remember that game when . . . "
Yeah, it's been a great month. Busy, but great.
Can't wait to take Marty on the train to Oakland to see the Ravens.
Screw anyone who doesn't "get it."
Screw anyone who thinks I'm running "away."
Why don't they get it?
I'm runninng, all right. I'm running toward my memories and hoping to make new ones for my son.
Maybe it won't work. But is it such a bad thing to try?
Thanks, Dad.
Your youngest loves you in ways he can't explain. If I could see through the tears, I'd write something profound. But . . . you know. Love you, "Old Man." I do. . .
And thanks, Brett for being here today.
Your kid brother needs you.
It isn't always true that when a man travels,
he's trying to "get away."
Sometimes, a man needs to
"get back home."
"little pictures have big ears,
don't stop to count the years . . .
Sweet songs don't last too long,
on broken radios . . ."
John Prine