Rob Madeo writes this stuff.
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Bethlehem was lovely when I moved there, but it gets uglier every day. Every open space is filling with cookie cutter houses and fast food outlets, the traffic is becoming unbearable — and now this abomination:
The local soccer club teamed up with an area company to put up the dome which holds “grass-like playing surfaces to simulate the feel of outdoor play.” None of the grass-like playing surfaces qualify as large enough to a play a high school lacrosse or soccer game, so it seems they are used for practice, clinics or scaled down matches.
Now, here comes the “when I was a kid” part.
When I was a kid, sports had seasons in the Northeast that were enforced by weather. Maybe it varied in other parts of America depending on the weather — or maybe it was just common sense that certain games were played at certain times of the year.
Taking the seasons out of sports is another way adults have taken the play out of play. They’ve created a culture where games are a measure of their child’s worth — and by extension, their own. Don’t buy that it’s damaging? Then look at the rise in the number — and severity — in youth sports injuries.
If kids want to kick a soccer ball around in the winter, maybe they should do it outside. I see people outside all year round at St. Rose’s Christian Plumeri Sports Complex in Albany. Bundle up and deal with it — and take your big ugly bubble out of my town.
My mother died in July.
Times like that are always busy, and I don’t think you really have any perspective on big things like death until later, but I was forced to reflect on her passing right away because I was asked to do the eulogy.
I’ve been thinking about it a lot lately, and I wanted to share it with you.
~ ~ ~
Near the end, my mother asked if she’d done enough, if she’d made the right choices. I said yes – except maybe for that time with the underwear.
Let me tell you a story: when I was in first or second grade I was sent to the nurse’s office because I couldn’t stop scratching. It turns out that my mother had washed my underwear with the drapes — and the drapes, they had some sort of fiberglass or something in them. So there I am at school, scratching uncontrollably — down in my underwear area.
So I got to go home.
But that’s just one of the things your mother does when you’re little — washing your underwear. When you’re a kid, you don’t think about it — and this is very typical — I only remember the day I was itchy, not all the days that I wasn’t.
There were a million things she did for us. Just think about school lunches. 180 school days. A sandwich every day between, say kindergarten and sixth grade? For five kids? That’s like 63-hundred sandwiches. That’s a lot of peanut butter and jelly.
I’m sure some of you are saying that’s a lot of baloney.
But as a parent, you try to do your best. What does anybody really know about that job — except what we learn from our own parents.
And what was growing up like for her? A small apartment with six kids on Tiebout Avenue in the Bronx. It was the middle of the depression – but that probably didn’t make a huge difference to people who really didn’t have much to begin with.
But those had to be hard days. They were humble beginnings, and like so many people from those neighborhoods, it gave way to the suburbs and the nice house, and all the things you only imagined growing up. So, it must have really been something to hear us kids complaining about things – we had no idea what it was to struggle. And she made sure of that.
I can’t stand up here and not mention my father.
Some of you may remember that he was… a polarizing figure. Not everyone appreciated his sense of humor, for example — but those who loved him loved him a lot. You wonder sometimes what brings people together, but in the last few days looked through a bunch of photo albums and I could see it. They were a striking couple – beautiful together — and obviously very much in love. It was a great blow to lose him so young.
The last few years were hard. Getting older is a roll of the dice, so easy for some people and so hard for others. But while her body failed her, she remained very sharp and that’s a great blessing.
A couple of years ago I visited my mother and she stopped me as I was leaving and said, “Robbie, I love you. I don’t think I ever told you that.” This really surprised me and I mumbled something back like, “Oh, and I love you too.”
Everybody talks about love. What does that mean, anyway? I think one way could be how much you worry about people – you don’t worry about people you don’t care about — and she worried about us endlessly. In fact, if love is measured by how much you worry about someone, her love was immeasurable.
So, yes, it’s how much worried about us. And the million little things she did. Her attention to little things. That may not be saying “I love you,” but they are certainly the signs and the symptoms. She couldn’t have loved us more.
Gotta say, I love pizza rat!
And who wouldn’t love this little scamp?
Look at him challenging the odds to make the big score, rather like the little old ant with the rubber tree plant in High Hopes!
So any time your gettin’ low
Instead of lettin’ go
Just remember that rat
Oops there goes another… slice of pizza
The college DJ in me is constantly hearing songs that belong together.
Today I present two artists who couldn’t be more different with two songs that are long lost twins, The Offspring’s Get a Job and Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da by The Beatles.
Seriously, you can’t convince me that The Offspring didn’t have that song in mind. You be the judge.
Ooh, look! Delmar now has an intersection where Abbey Road and Penny Lane meet!
Don’t get too excited. Abbey Road and Penny Lane are not quaint byways that will remind you of merry olde England, but posh townhouses that run in the $350,000 to $450,000 neighborhood. And that’s a fancy neighborhood.
And there does not appear to be a cool crosswalk where you can take a picture.
I’d love to name a street after a rock & roll song. Thunder Road, Shakedown Street, Creeque Alley… how about Desolation Row? I’m curious what you would name your street.
When I was a kid, I somehow ended up rooting for the Philadelphia Flyers. This was the height of the Broad Street Bullies era, the heady days between 1973 and 1976 when the team made it to the Stanley Cup finals three times and won twice.
I was such a big fan that I once staked out the Island Inn in Westbury to wait for the team as they departed for a game against the Islanders. In the lobby I got autographs from Bobby Clarke, Bernie Parent and The Hammer Dave Schultz, whose number I wore on the back of my Flyers jersey.
Over the years I lost interest in hockey, but now the game seems interesting to me again. A big part of it is TV; brilliant widescreen HD has made hockey a spectacle to watch at home, compared to the awful wide angles and invisible puck that used to dominate hockey coverage.
Watching the Rangers and Canadiens the other night reminded me of this wonderful short film based on made Roch Carrier’s iconic story The Hockey Sweater. If you have ten minutes, it’s really worth the time; it’s a story of boyhood, but also a thinly veiled commentary on the tension between Quebec and English Canada.