Michael Jordan and the Death of An Urban Legend

Any of you who've followed Michael Jordan and his career have labored under the belief that he was cut during his high school career. He then, of course, re-doubled his efforts and became the world's greatest basketball player.

Ooops. The truth is often less interesting than the legend, but if you read Thomas Lake's article about Clifton (Pop) Herring in the January 16, Sports Illustrated, I think you'll find that not to be true, at least in this case. Herring was Jordan's high school coach and, it turns out, mentor, friend and father figure. Plus, he never cut Michael Jordan, nor did anyone else.

Yet today Herring lives in a dilapidated house in North Carolina battling mental health.  He has not heard from Jordan in more than a decade. When you read the article, you'll wonder why.

Happy New Year

Wow! I just noticed I hadn't posted a single thought since November, but at least Herman Cain is out of the picture. (See last post)

And apparently Jamie Dimon got the word. Bumpy has stopped receiving offers for Jamie's credit card.

However, over the holidays, I don't think I've ever seen as many catalogues in the mail.  Our normal postman was absent for a week, and I just assumed he was having hernia surgery from lugging around the hundreds of thousands of catalogues that arrived throughout November and December.

Interestingly enough, if you paid attention, the Christmas catalogues almost all had the same Christmas decorations, the clothing catalogues mostly had the same clothing, the home decorating catalogues mostly had the same home decorations.  I just assume there is some giant, massive, Raiders of the Lost Ark-like warehouse in which all of this stuff is stored to be shipped.  I don't know who owns it, but in our overly suspicious, cynical with just a touch of feigned shock society, I'll bet it's
Halliburton.

Anyway, I've dedicated myself to internet ordering, and judging by the volume of the internet sales this Christmas, those catalogues did their job.  In fact, during the past ten months which, coincidentally were the first ten months of my retirement, I found a variety of websites from which I could order a variety of  paraphernalia including a treasure trove of World Series memorabilia that now sets on shelves in my office already choked with other memorabilia.

One thing I've discovered is that you can type gibberish into Google and someone has a website by that name.  And there's usually a Store button somewhere on that site.

I promise to do more blogging, because I suspect that my 32 followers have mostly given up.  Although I hope you're still out there Buddy!

Survive the snow!

Herman Cain

Enough already.

Jamie, you're not listening

Bumpy received another opportunity to be a Chase Sapphire Preferred Card holder, the card "that completes your lifelist."

Yesterday, I suggested to Mr. Dimon that he direct his credit card division to quit sending solicitations to  my 89-year-old, living in a nursing home, father-in-law and instead send him a bottle of 18-year-old Scotch.  Yet, in today's mail, another solicitation for the Sapphire card arrived.

Jamie, let me assure you, Bumpy's lifelist is dominated by two things, seeing his family as often as possible and a peaceful death.  I've searched the vast amount of paperwork in the Sapphire envelope and could find nothing about either of those lifelist items; even in the small print. In fact, the average age of the people in your promotion appeared to be about 31. I'm betting a good number of them are sitting in tents right outside your office.

About the only thing I could find that might entice Bumpy is that the points never expire. We'd all be happy if you could make that same never expire offer to Bumpy.

Jamie, Jamie, Jamie, let me be more precise; Macallan Single Malt, 18 years in the barrel.  That's what Bumpy wants along with his two sons sitting beside him each with a glass in their hand.

That's on Bumpy's lifelist.

What's in Bumpy's Mail

My father-in-law moved to a nursing home over a year ago.  Shortly after discovering ridiculously high late charges on his Discover card invoice because he forgot to pay the bill on time, my wife took over his finances, and she changed his mailing address to ours so she could handle his affairs in a timely manner.

Bumpy as we call him was and is one of the most kind and generous people you would ever meet. We knew that because he was a wonderful father and father-in-law.  We also knew it from the volume of organizations to which he donated small sums every month.  No issue with that. What was most striking was the amount of credit card solicitations he receives each month.  (My late mother-in-law still receives offers for new cards as well.)

Anyone who thought the credit card industry had cleaned itself up should think again.  I started to keep track of all the cards then quickly realized that all the credit card issuing companies were sending offers.  Most of them claim to be pre-approved with a simple phone call to insure activation. Bumpy could run up quite a bill right from his wheelchair. All he'd need is a computer next to his bed and creative license.

Jamie Dimon doesn't follow this blog, but if he did, I'd tell him to quit wasting wood pulp on soliciting Bumpy for a credit card.  If he want's to send something to Bumpy, send him a nice bottle of 18-year-old Scotch and someone to drink it with.

The Shame of College Sports

I was sent a copy of this article from The Atlantic.  My recommendation? Read it.

http://www.theatlantic.com/magazine/archive/2011/10/the-shame-of-college-sports/8643/

As I get sick of hearing about how good Texas is and how lucky the Cardinals are.......remember this

Any parking lots that need to be repaved or painted?

In Sunday's Money section of the NY Times, Richard Thaler explores how human nature and the depressed global economy are colliding with an unfortunate outcome.

"Fear and anxiety don't bring out the best in anyone," Thaler writes. "Along with making people irritable, uncertainty can create paralysis."

Thaler notes an experiment conducted by Princeton psychologist Eldar Shafir that illustrates how people, faced with a decision in the face of uncertainty often simply don't act or  wait "to see how things shape up before they act."

American corporations are setting on bundles of cash - shit loads to those of you looking for a more crass way to illustrate the quantity - Google, for example, is holding on to $39 billion dollars.  Why?

According to a survey of chief financial officers by Duke University, they are "waiting for economic uncertainty to decline."

To that Thaler responds that we have infrastructure throughout the country that needs repair and replacement especially bridges.

"We can begin the inevitable process of rebuilding this infrastructure now, when construction costs are low and borrowing costs are essentially zero...."

"If Greece defaults, American cars will not suddenly become amphibious."

Yet, Congress is too paralyzed to act.  Businesses too.

"As a shareholder, I would worry about a company that says it can't find investments that can reasonably be expected to earn well above the tiny return of its cash."

Then Thaler cites a compelling statistic.

"Loosening the purse strings just a little could have big effects on the economy.  Suppose that American companies reduced their domestic  cash holdings by just 10 percent and invested that $200 billion in productive investments ..... these investments would spur growth in gross domestic product next year by about 1.3% and reduce unemployment by almost 0.7%."

Households aren't immune to the failure to invest at a time when costs are so low.

"Some homeowners are already embracing the idea: one of the economy's few encouraging signs is that residential remodeling permits were recently up 24 percent over the previous year."

It's time for all of you who are not facing personal financial dilemmas to return to the economy and make the car purchase you've been delaying, replace the aging furnace or buy the snow blower you're probably going to need this winter.

Or just repave your driveway.

And while we're on the subject of Caddy Shack........

Honoring Rodney Dangerfield

Seven years ago, October 5, one of America's premier if slightly insecure comics, Rodney Dangerfield, passed on to the big Comedy Club in the sky.  He's best remembered for his signature line, "I don't get no respect."  He rode it to fame on Johnny Carson, on  comedy club stages throughout the country and in the movies in such cult classics as Caddy Shack and Back to School.

No matter the memory, Dangerfield, to me,  will always be Al Czervik tormenting Judge Smales at Bushwood Country Club.

Second Eulogy for Art Rice

A bit delayed, but as promised, below is my eulogy for Art Rice. He was a good fellow, a good friend and a man of character.  That he shared his friendship with me has made me a better person.

Tina, Buddy, Caroline, thank you for the honor of eulogizing Art. 

It seems a long time ago, longer than it really was, that I opened an e-mail from Art letting me know he was off to receive a new liver but if things were to go wrong, would I please deliver one of the eulogies at his funeral.

I thought to myself, Art, you are way ahead of yourself and I put the note aside.  Then way too soon the going wrong part was all too real.

Trying to resurrect the memories of ten, fifteen, twenty years ago is no easy task.  Time lays down fog and that fog shrouds those memories.  I have trouble remembering twenty minutes ago; much less twenty years so I called on some of Art’s co-workers and friends, they being one and the same, to give me some help.

I first met Art in 1990. I was the director of marketing at a young, pharmaceutical company called TAP.  We wanted to start an intern program, and I needed top talent to build up the marketing department.  Fortunately, on the Northwestern University campus in the Kellogg School of Business, we found Art Rice.

At first impression, Art’s attire defined him. Bow ties. (Impressive enough that he could tie them.) Regimental ties.  (Of every color and pattern)  Sweaters wrapped around his neck. (crew neck preferred)  Sherbet-colored shorts. A double-breasted blue blazer with the big gold buttons.

He once said, “My dad told me when I reached 25 I should buy a double-breasted blue blazer, and I could wear it the rest of my life.”

It didn’t take long, however, before we discovered there was so much more to Art.

He laughed easily.  He pondered frequently. He was thoughtful.  If you posed a dilemma, he didn’t respond immediately. There was always a brief delay that let you know he listened to you.  Art was a listener.  Yet, when he talked, there was substance and there was inquisitiveness in his response that left room for continued dialogue.  He was serious but never took himself too seriously.

As I think back on those days, I believe Art’s style made him particularly effective with the researchers and physicians with whom he worked though he was no less effective with people from all parts of the company.  Everyone was comfortable with Art, even if they were engaged with him in some disagreement or conflict.

In 1991 Art took a career job with TAP and became the corner stone of a great marketing department.  Right from the beginning, we didn’t make it easy for him. Despite no experience launching a drug, we handed him responsibility for what we hoped would be the crown jewel of the company, Prevacid, a drug to treat ulcer disease.

TAP wasn’t in a position to teach Art, because the company didn’t have the experience either.  It turned out Art was the right person at the right time in the right job. He learned quickly and as he learned, he taught the company. 

Prevacid became one of the most successful launches in the U.S. pharmaceutical history, becoming a multi-billion dollar product.

My goal this afternoon is not to recite Art’s resume. My goal is to share some good stories about him, stories that come from my own experience and the experiences of others, stories that I think will illuminate what a character Art was and how much his character shaped the people around him.

Plumbing the depths of Art’s character is a productive

endeavor revealing many traits to admire and emulate. For the moment, I’d like you to think of him as an optimist coated in resilience dressed by Brooks Brothers.

Optimism was one of Art’s most endearing traits.

Jeff Stewart shared a story, a harrowing story, about a Delta flight out of Calgary following a marketing meeting in Banff.  Shortly after lift-off, still in its climb, the Delta jet lost an engine. Didn’t lose it, it exploded. The plane veered to the left, at a 45-degree angle and a plane full of TAP employees thought it was the last marketing meeting they’d ever attend.  But not Art. As the story was later told, and re-told, while the pilot was increasing power in the good engine to level the plane and return to the airport, while the outcome was still much in doubt, Art was pulling his credit card from his wallet, swiping it on the plane phone and calling to get a reservation on another flight.

When he was asked how he could even think to do that in such a dire moment, he replied, “The odds against a plane crash are astronomical.  I have to get back to Chicago tonight.”

While everyone else overnighted in Calgary waiting for another plane, Art was back in Chicago in his own bed.

His competitive streak was as enduring as his optimism was endearing.  On one occasion, Art’s fashion consciousness, resilience, competitiveness, and optimism collided in the wilderness on a trip that started out badly with a maple syrup incident.

I had planned four days of bushwhacking through the Maine wilderness for the TAP marketing leadership team.    While the rest of us arrived in Maine in  hiking/camping gear, Art showed up wearing Case-Swiss tennis shoes, Brooks Brothers Bermuda shorts and a white polo shirt.

We were all thinking the same thing, but I think Jeff Stewart said it.

“Art, we’re going camping not to Wimbledon.” 

During the days leading up to the trip, Art kept telling me he couldn’t wait for a Maine breakfast with fresh, all-natural, tree-tapped maple syrup.   Maine, neighbor to Vermont and Quebec, the two biggest producers of maple syrup, was bound to have natural syrup for a big stack of pancakes.  So imagine his surprise and chagrin when the waitress showed up with two plastic, foil-sealed packets of what was effectively Aunt Jemima syrup tapped from a factory line in Georgia.  It was one of the few times that I knew Art that he was visibly and outwardly upset. We had to threaten to take away his needlepoint belt to get him to calm him down.

I’ll interrupt this story to point out something many of you already know. Even if I’d intercepted the waitress and put that syrup in a container, Art would have known it wasn’t real.  He had the same devotion to Canada Dry Ginger Ale.  And as Doug Cole reminded me, he could tell the difference between his favorite and any other.

He felt the same way about Tropicana Orange Juice.  Doug said he never saw Art lose his temper about the absence of either, but no one who tried to substitute for them ever forgot those were his favorites. 

What followed the maple syrup incident was four days of rain, cold and exaggerated near-starvation all of which took a back seat to day four’s Bermuda shorts incident.  On that last day while navigating a mud-filled ditch, Art was forced to slide down a hill in those white Bermuda shorts.  The backside was covered with mud. Sensing a “told you so” moment; I told Art he never should have worn those shorts and he was never going to get the mud out of them.  Art just as emphatically told me he would.

About a six weeks ago, Art reminded me those shorts were up in his closet . . .and they were clean.  

Art’s competitiveness ran deep and wide.

A beautiful, hot sunny day on the sand dunes south of Cabo San Lucas would turn into a NASCAR race between the two of us.

Art and I were riding four-wheeled dune buggies up and down the sand hills. Riding turned into racing. Soon we were flying across the dunes trying to beat each other to an agreed upon finish line when Art made an abrupt turn and the ATV turned over on him several times with him underneath it each time it rolled. We got to the wreckage and found him dazed, perhaps even in shock. Without so much as a “take me to the hospital”, Art looked up and said, “I won.”

But even in the direst situations, the softer, gentler, kinder Art was never far away.

Scott Maske recalled a meeting in Art’s office with Art, Scott, Stafford O’Kelly, TAP’s CFO and me.  As recounted,  “a testosterone-charged verbal altercation” took place between me and Stafford leading to a demand by me that Stafford step outside so we could duke it out.  Scott noted Art had beaten a quick retreat from the office so Scott was left to diffuse the situation.  When asked later why he’d made such a quick departure, Art replied, “I’m a lover not a fighter.” Of course, today we know what a fighter Art was.

Art was not only a good friend but he was an excellent business partner.  His insight and thoughtfulness made him a popular addition to any meeting. Because we spent so much time together, Art was someone we thought we knew well, but occasionally he surprised us.

Robin Powers recalled a planning meeting we held in Beaver Creek, Colorado. We arrived in the middle of what turned out to be about a 50” snowfall.  Like most of our business meetings we’d left room for some recreation, and skiing was the recreation we chose. Unfortunately, all the wide-bottomed skis suitable for this deep a snowfall were rented so we were doomed to normal skis that simply don’t work very well.

In short order, we all ended up struggling through the snow on different parts of the mountain except for Robin and Art.  Later when I came across Robin, she was laughing and said something like “You won’t believe it. Art was cussing up a storm.” He’d gotten so frustrated with those skis mismatched to the snow that even he let loose. Still, none of us could believe it.  It didn’t take long for Art to return to his usual modest self.

As we were sitting around our condo drinking wine and talking, Art came out of his room wearing matching top and bottom cowboy pajamas.  (He owned them before we went to Colorado) That would have been amusing enough, but we fell on the floor laughing when we saw he’d buttoned every single button on the shirt.

Art was a fellow of inestimable talent and a dash or two of quirkiness. He’d never launched a pharmaceutical drug then went on to launch one of the most successful drugs in industry history.  He created one of the most memorable brands – a pink stomach named Tummy - that survives to this day.  He helped overcome the objections of an FDA that wanted to keep Prevacid off the market.  He became a mainstay in the gastroenterology industry and among the industry’s physician leaders.  He was an honored member of the John Wesley Powell Society and a sailor afraid of no sea.

All the while he carried a Hartmann duffle bag instead of a briefcase.  He called the sales force “my people”.  He would travel to places off Google’s map in search of a better vanilla milk shake.  He wore raspberry-colored shorts. He didn’t know a damn thing about baseball.

How a man who grew up in Boston didn’t understand baseball always amazed me.

Scott Maske reminded me of a meeting with the former president of Abbott, Tom Hodgson. During that meeting we were introducing a new campaign for Prevacid that used baseball allegorically to combine three different products to treat a cause of ulcers.  It became clear from the start that Art knew nothing about baseball and was confusing umpires with referees. It wasn’t ten minutes before Tom was making fun of him and about 10 seconds after that for the rest of us to join in.  Art was such a good sport, he simply took the ribbing and ultimately got the money he was looking for.

He didn’t know baseball, but he knew his business and he knew his product and he knew and loved his customers.  Art was a master working with our key opinion leaders, the finest and most well known gastroenterologists in the world. It was absolutely amazing to watch them working together and how quickly men with more degrees than a thermometer came to respect Art.

So it was with some horror and a little bit of Rodney Dangerfieldesque amusement that we watched Art nearly kill our single most important investigator; the leader of the Prevacid advisory board, the doctor who would make our presentation to the FDA, the chief of medicine of the University of Connecticut, Dr. Jim Freston. 

We were playing golf during an advisory board meeting. Art and I were waiting in the fairway for Jim and his group to finish putting when Art decided to go ahead and hit his ball, because he couldn’t reach the green. Ninety-nine times out of a hundred he’d be right. But not this time.

In retrospect I’ll tell you if had Art applied himself, he could have been a good golfer. He had a nice upright swing and he delivered the club to the ball the same way, consistently.

The minute that ball left the ground it was clear Art had hit the shot of his novice golf career and it was going to land on the green.  The big question was where?   We all began to yell “Fore!” and  “Run!”

Jim Freston heard us just in time to turn around and have that ball hit him squarely in the stomach.  Art was mortified and probably apologized about a thousand times. Jim loved Art, so eventually all was forgiven.

Art miscalculated that golf shot on that day, but Art rarely miscalculated, In fact, Art was actually quite clever.  

Jeff Stewart shared another story about a meeting held in Providence, Rhode Island that ended on 9/11.  Like so many people they were stranded with no plane service. Art said, “let’s rent a car” a suggestion that was met with derision by his less optimistic teammates. 

“We’ll never get a car. Everybody is trying to get a car.”

So what did Art do? He waited in the rental lot for a car to come in, and before the driver could turn it in, he simply climbed into the car, gave his credit card to the attendant and they drove back to Chicago.”

I sat down with Art for three hours a few weeks ago.   As we revisited our days together at TAP, I reminded him that he occasionally would second-guess his career choice. He told me back then that many of his friends had gone on to greater wealth in the financial industry, and he wondered if he’d somehow missed the train he should have boarded.

Art didn’t board the wrong train.  He helped create thousands of new jobs; ease the suffering of millions of people; was a friend and mentor to hundreds. I reminded him that his was a career that few would ever experience. I thanked him for being such a good friend to so many. For being Uncle Art to my children. For providing such a formidable leadership example to his friends and to “his people”

For many people, success comes at the expense of someone else. Not Art’s success.  He had broad shoulders on which there was room for everyone he encountered. 

What I’ll remember most about him was that he never had an ill word to say about anyone.  I believe that of all the gifts God gave Art it was the one He intended for him to share with everyone he encountered with the hope that we’d learn to behave the same way. We have a formidable new ally in Heaven, and I expect he’s going to do his best to remind us everyday that the knucklehead who just cut you off at the exit may have some redeeming qualities. 

I’m certain that God was waiting for Art with the perfect vanilla shake – no vanilla extract or artificial anything. Real vanilla. Perfect temperature.   Brother Andre, the patron Saint of Maple Syrup, was near-by with a pot of it, freshly tapped. I’m pretty sure there’s no patron saint of Hartmann duffle bags, but in his closet were a dozen double-breasted, gold-buttoned blue blazers. Ties? He only has to imagine the color or pattern.  Mud resistant Bermuda shorts fill the dresser.   A Canada Dry Ginger Ale tap is on one side of the counter.  Tropicana is piped right into his refrigerator.

Tina, Buddy, Caroline – all of us are better people because we knew Art even if the world is poorer because he’s gone.  

He had a favorite speech he delivered to a TAP sales meeting. Its source of inspiration was a song by Lee Ann Womack called I Hope You Dance.  Its refrain was simple.

When you get the choice to sit out or dance, I hope you dance. 

I believe Art left us a blueprint and a set of instructions. His wish for us is to dance.

A Eulogy for Art Rice

Below is a eulogy delivered by Art Rice's boyhood friend, make that lifelong friend, Tom Dunlop, during a memorial ceremony this past Saturday.  Many of you who read my blog knew Art. Those of you who don't should know he was a man of great character who died way too young.  I will post my eulogy for Art - Tom and I each delivered one - when I return from Montana.  This blog won't capture Tom's delivery style but it will begin to help you appreciate the man, Art,  you knew or would have enjoyed knowing.

My name is Tom Dunlop, I am a writer living in New York, and Art Rice was my oldest friend.

We met forty-eight summers ago on the Island of Martha’s Vineyard in Massachusetts, both of us two-year-old sons of young parents who were renting adjacent houses in Edgartown. I am told that I introduced myself to Art by simply running from my house to his, invading the yard where he was playing, and crying out, “I’m Tommy!” I am also told that my parents were oblivious to my disappearance, that Art’s father was at work on the mainland, and that when his mother Irene saw us tearing happily around the yard, she left for the doctor’s office because she had just stepped on a rusty nail. A few weeks ago, I asked Irene about the wisdom of leaving behind a two-year-old son to play alone in his front yard with an unknown new friend of the same age, no matter how sleepy the little seaport town might have been in June of 1963. Irene replied, “Well, Alison was there to look after him.”

Alison, his older sister, was three.

I am a journalist and, like most journalists, I stand before you this afternoon with too much story to tell and too little time or space to tell it. And as journalists sometimes do, I also stand before you today with a bias and an agenda, both of which I freely admit: My purpose is to illustrate for you, in Art the kid, the spirit of dedication, of single-mindedness, of adventure, of passion, of sympathy, of justice, of fun, and of bravery that we would all later see flower so vividly and fully in Art the man.

One story does most of the job for me.

It was August of 1978. In this recollection, I’m going to use the name we knew him by back on the Vineyard – Arthur – which his father Alan, from Boston, so memorably pronounced “Aa-thah.” Arthur and I, both seventeen, were working for the Vineyard Gazette, a weekly newspaper on the Island. We both helped in the pressroom on the Tuesday and Friday mornings when the paper was published. We delivered papers, organized the storage areas, cleaned up the back shop, looked after the lawn and garden, and I was also interested in reporting and writing stories.

But the weekend the big story of the summer broke on the Vineyard that year, I was at home recovering from an emergency appendectomy. So the editor and publisher of the paper, Dick Reston, sent Arthur out to gather the facts, and if he learned anything, to come back with his notes to my sickbed, and I would write it all up. The big story on Martha’s Vineyard that summer? Kate Jackson, who starred with Farrah Fawcett-Majors and Jacklyn Smith in the television series “Charlie’s Angels,” was getting married secretly on the Island, and amazingly enough – as I look back on it now – the whole world seemed to care.

(If you have forgotten “Charlie’s Angels” or are too young to have any idea what the TV series was about, here’s everything you need to know: “Freeze!”)

Borrowing the editor’s 1969 Buick Skylark a little before nine o’clock that Friday night in August, Arthur and a fifteen-year-old compatriot drove to the hotel where the paper had been tipped off that Kate Jackson was staying before her clandestine weekend wedding. There Arthur found two sets of reporters milling listlessly around the parking lot, one from The New York Post, the other from the National Enquirer. While the fifteen-year-old chum distracted the tabloid reporters with questions and conversation, Arthur began to scout the cottages on the grounds of the hotel where, he reasoned, a TV star might try to hide out from the world press but also – at a key moment, like right before escaping to your own supposedly secret wedding – you could be discovered by the world press.

On the instant, a white Checker sedan pulled up to the first cottage Arthur was checking out. Arthur was standing right there. A beautiful woman jumped out of the Checker, rushed by Arthur, ran up a flight of stairs to the second floor of the cottage, threw open a door, and in a majestic rush, the beautiful woman, then Kate Jackson, and then her fiancée came pounding down the stairs. In a second the parking lot was ablaze with camera flashes and shouted questions. “Why can’t you leave her alone?” cried the beautiful woman as the beautiful people piled into the Checker.

Arthur took it all in, awed. “The photographers,” he said, “were on the other side of the car from where Kate was sitting and where I stood. She looked amazed, and then when she saw I didn’t have a camera, she smiled.”

The Checker groaned into gear. The Enquirer and Post guys ran for their cars. Arthur and the fifteen-year-old looked at each other for half a moment, and then sprinted for the Buick. It was a two-door sedan with an eight-cylinder, three-hundred-and-fifty cubic-inch engine delivering two hundred and eighty horsepower. Arthur had had his license for six weeks.

Ripping down village streets at speeds approaching forty miles an hour, it was the Checker first, the Post second, Arthur and fifteen-year-old third, and the Enquirer fourth. Occasionally hobbled by his all too recent experiences with Driver’s Ed, Arthur initially found himself doing things you probably shouldn’t do at key moments during a car chase, like stopping at Stop signs, signaling before turns, and letting other cars pass. When the Checker, Post, and Enquirer pulled into an empty A&P parking lot at the edge of town, Arthur was peeved to find himself in the unenviable position of fourth among four.

But there was a previously unforeseen advantage to being last at this point, because when he got there, the chauffeur of the Checker was standing in front of the Post and Enquirer cars, yelling at them. The second Arthur pulled in, the chauffeur jumped back into the Checker and pulled out. Arthur swung in right behind him. Now it was Checker, Arthur and fifteen year old, the Post and the Enquirer, heading for a state highway along a beach. “But then,” said Arthur, “The National Enquirer and New York Post passed me, and I realized, you know, these guys are serious.”

Hissing down the roadway behind the caravan, something in Arthur began to stir. It was, of course, his sense of fair play: It occurred to him that with his big V-8, he could pass the Post and Enquirer himself, spin the wheel, slam the brakes, block the road, and let the tormented bride and groom get away. But no! This was a race, and it was a race Arthur Rice was going to win!

Which is kind of inappropriate, actually, if you’re supposed to be chasing another car.

But Arthur pulled it off. At a police station in the next town, the Checker pulled in for a moment to complain to two startled young officers about the Post and Enquirer. When Arthur rolled by, the Checker backed out of its space, and suddenly Arthur found himself leading the car he was supposed to be following.

Now a moment of crisis: Would the drag race carry on to the next town, or brave the main street of the town they were actually still in? Arthur, in the lead, chose the next town. Unfortunately the Checker, in second, chose Main Street. When Arthur looped around in the Buick, he found himself last again, but now one of the cars in front of him was an Oak Bluffs police cruiser.

Some races just aren’t worth finishing, let alone winning, and at seventeen, with a license so new in his wallet it wasn’t yet laminated, and rocketing over former cart paths with a fifteen-year-old friend in pursuit of a pretty television star while also claiming to be reporters for the local paper – well, Arthur that night was wise beyond his years. It was a race he elected not to finish – the only one I know of in which he ever made that choice.

Looking back across forty-eight years, there are other stories I could tell you. At the net in a tennis game Arthur grew arms seventeen feet long and he could jump nine stories high – he smashed lobs back at you as if someone had given him a howitzer on his way up and he’d pulled the trigger on his way back down. Though the sails in his sixteen-foot Beachboat sloop were blown out like a hoop skirt, he made her go like a corsair even in the stiffest Edgartown outer harbor breeze. He monitored soda jerks making vanilla milk shakes as if he were a chemist, and they were rather dim-witted lab assistants. And if you want to know about some of the clothing he chose to wear in adulthood – well, all I can tell you is, the first seventeen summers I knew him, Arthur Rice dressed like a traffic light.

But I have run out of time and space. Happily, though, the story of Arthur Rice carries on. I see him now in his sisters, his mother, in the extraordinary person of his wife, Tina, who fought for her husband’s life with otherworldly reserves of dedication, of single-mindedness, of passion, of sympathy, of bravery, and of love – reserves that matched his own, and without which he would left us long ago.

And I see the best parts of his story living on in you, Andrew, and in you, Caroline. I see your father – man and boy – in your faces, in your smiles, in your senses of humor, of adventure, of intelligence, of bravery, and in your love for him, for your mom, and for each other. Nothing in his life of achievements made your dad prouder than you. And when your turn comes to jump into a Buick Skylark and chase a star through the night, he will be with you, as will all of us who know and love you as he did. And as he still does. 

First Pitch

If a first pitch were thrown in a forest would anyone hear it?

dOOOOH!

Throwing Out the First Pitch - Update

Quincy - QMan - Coulter and I took a couple of baseballs to the Lake Forest field and spent about 45 minutes in the blazing sun while re-discovered throwing a baseball. (QMan is a member of the state champion Lake Forest golf team and noted that many of my pitches resembled a soft sand shot around the green)

Throwing a baseball properly is not like riding a bicycle.  If you don't throw it for a while - think 30 years - it doesn't just return as before.  The ball sailed left, it dipped - unplanned - sailed over QMan's head, veered right and headed for the backstop.  And it made all those moves randomly.

I thought that if all else failed I could simply throw a lollipop into the catcher.  First you have to find the release point to throw it and get it high enough to reach the plate.

Best advice I've received so far is from a friend, Bill Kettlewell, who simply said, "aim for the catcher's chest".  It works - when you get it there.

After Quincy nearly wore himself out retreating again and again to the fence, I finally found a bit of a groove and began to get the ball between his shins and his neck and within 5 feet of either side of the plate.  Good enough for me to be sure.

But I need work and lots of it. I did get a bit of anxiety diluting news yesterday when I found out the first pitch is actually thrown well before the game starts. Game starts at 7:05, first pitch is thrown between 5 and 5:30.  It explains why I can never remember seeing a first pitch other than at an All-Star or World Series game.

I've promised free beer to QMan's dad, John, if he'll catch me this afternoon. He accepted.  

Throwing Out the First Pitch, Update 2

The glove and baseballs, purchased at Replay Sports in Kalispell, remain unused and in the garage. In the meantime, an 80-year-old woman, throwing out the first pitch in St. Louis, delivered a strike to the catcher.

Is this new standard too high?

First Pitch Update

Thursday I was on the way to the airport to pick up my wife and daughter when I saw one of those "play it again" sports stores, the ones that sell used equipment.  Jack and I stopped and bought a glove and two baseballs for $8.

I now have the requisite tools to begin preparing for August 21.  If I only had shoulder muscles.

On Throwing Out the First Pitch....Without Throwing Up

There will be much more to come on this subject, since I'm due to to throw out a first pitch Sunday, August 21 at Wrigley Field where my beloved but currently wildly inconsistent Cardinals will be playing the Cubs. It's July 21 and I've yet to practice, so I plan on intensive training for at least a couple of days beforehand. I've also considered whether I should learn how to chew tobacco or chew and spit thousands of Sunflower seed shells all over the floor in preparation. I've waived both of those ideas.  

I did Google up throwing out the first pitch and found a simple, very simple, answer on e.How.  Seems all I need to do is.........

If there is a baseball team in your area, you may one day be asked to throw out the first pitch. Throwing out the first pitch is a way to recognize someone who is famous or is being honored before the start of a baseball game.

Difficulty:

 

Moderately Challenging

Instructions

1. • 1
     Confirm the time and date you are to throw out the first pitch of a baseball game. You should be given at least a couple weeks to prepare. While it's not mandatory that you throw out a perfect strike, it's best to prepare if only for safety reasons. You can injury your arm by throwing a baseball if you haven't prepared for the throw.
   • 2
     Set aside a couple days to practice. Get a baseball, a glove and go to a field with a friend. Start off throwing to each other from about seven feet away to loosen up your arm. As you get comfortable, get further and further apart. Limit your first session to about fifty tosses, and don't throw harder than what feels natural. If you go out to practice again, you can increase the number of throws you do the second time.
   • 3
     Arrive early to the game. Throwing out the first pitch occurs before the official start of the baseball game, so show up to the game at least an hour early. Before you go to the pitching mound to throw out the first pitch, warmup your arm by playing catch for a couple minutes.
   • 4
     Remain calm as you walk to the pitching mound to throw out the first pitch. When you are ready to throw the ball, throw it using the same motion that you have practiced. Wave to the crowd as you leave to the mound.

     
     

     The next thing I Google is What to do if the Cubs' catcher starts laughing.

Steak Knife Contest Answers Revealed!

We left Chicago on a steamy June 30 and arrived in an even steamier St. Louis, Missouri mid-morning.  The first place (last time I looked) St. Louis Cardinals new home stands in the foreground of the St. Louis Arch, gateway to the west though St. Joseph, Missouri town fathers are still steaming because they believe the Oregon Trail started there but who the hell would go to St. Joseph, Missouri?  Come to think of it, not that many people go to St. Louis.

During our stay we visited world famous - no exaggeration - Ted Drewes Frozen Custard on Hampton though there is one on South Grand as well.  This man could have franchised a thousand times over but has stayed in two sites and is ten-deep at every window all day long. This stuff is amazing and the concrete is a shake that will not fall out of the cup unless you buy it on a typical 98 degree St. Louis day.

We left St. Louis July 1 and traveled to Hays, Kansas where we spent the night then awoke early to drive to Steamboat Springs, Colorado and the Rabbit Ears Motel. The sign in the picture was built in 1952, my birth year, and is a town landmark even if it is incredibly kitchy.  While in Steamboat Springs, we visited our favorite ranch in the west, Vista Verde. I guess you'd call it a dude ranch but more like a guest ranch that an occasional dude wanders into.  We spend Christmas there every other year and fortunately 2011 is that other year. I discovered a lot of features I'd never seen under fifty feet of snow.

We left Steamboat Springs at 4 a.m. July 5 driving through Wyoming and on into Jackson and through the gates of the renown National Elk Preserve.  We went from asphalt to gravel to a really uneven and rutted and rock strewn and frightening forest service dirt road that led to a little piece of heaven called Flat Creek Ranch.  Only five cabins and only 12 guests but with the food service of a five-star Paris restaurant and a wine list that would make Robert Parker feel at home.  And a setting that leaves your mouth ajar or agape or just plain wide open.

After four lovely days at Flat Creek, we left Jackson and crossed over the Teton Pass into Idaho, and I immediately had a hankerin' for a big, fluffy, butter and bacon filled potato.  After a long hard day of driving through Idaho and Montana we arrived at 1161 Whispering Rock in Bigfork.


A couple of days later we drove up Going to the Sun Road in Glacier National Park.  Due to heavy winter and spring snows, it only opened July 13, the latest opening since the 1950s.  During our drive we encountered Heaven's Peak.


Bryan Sanzotti submitted a close, but incorrect answer so he will get a steak knife not knives.  Thanks for playing Bryan.  Get a life.

Family Vacation Contest: Put these in the right order from east to west and win a set of steak knives