What a wonderful couple of days this has been.
Both days were spend on Parkinson's related activities. Yesterday was my first meeting with The Parkinson's Disease Foundation People with Parkinson's Advisory Council. Besides sone enlightening conversation, I met people whose Parkinson's is far more advanced than mine. These people are exceptional. They don't ask for sympathy. They are passionate and vital.
The meeting adjourned at 4:00 PM, and it was off to dinner on the upper west side, with the same group. I had two hours to get there, so I decided that I'd walk as far as I could. I walked from 36th Street to 90th Street. I was tired, but I felt fine.
Today I participated in "The Parkinson's walk for unity," in Central Park. My family and friend came out to join me. All gracious and generous. Some wearing the t-shirt with my unshaven face, and a fake nose and glasses, with the words, "Team GrouchoMarc." I set a goal of $1,000.00, raised nearly $6,000.00.
My friends came out in the cold. My mother and siblings and nieces and nephew, ignored the damp weather. My Uncles, Aunts, Cousins and their adorable children walk with funnv nose and glasses all smiling.
Joann, my physical therapist, brought her workout buddy with her. Bob Nystom, of The New York Islanders. I had season tickets throught his entire career. He's a very warm, nice, generous man.
Many of us went to Patsy's for lunch afterwards. It was great to spend time with my cousins, who I don't see often enough. It was a thrill to play with their beautiful children.
This was a weekend that will remain with me forever!
Showing posts with label New York Islanders. Show all posts
Showing posts with label New York Islanders. Show all posts
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Sunday, April 10, 2011
April 10, 2011. Dear Pop
Dear Pop:
It occurs to me that 3 weeks from today is your 85th Birthday. We haven’t spoken in a while so I thought that I would bring you up to speed.
Every time I see a old Schwinn bicycle, I think that you’re sending me a message. It’s very comforting to know that you watch over us. I remember when you sold the stores. First the Sporting Goods store, then the Bike shop. You first offered it to each one of us. You were secretly glad that we said no. I don’t know how much you loved working there. I think that I loved the idea that my Dad owned a Toy Store, Sporting Goods Store and Bicycle Shop.
You never particularly liked sports, but there you were next to us and The Ranger games and later The Islander Games. Fast asleep. I tell a story about those days. There are 17,250 people at Madison Square Garden, screaming at the top of their lungs. You’re snoring. Suddenly you awaken, and say, “That was some play!” Michael says, “Dad, that was the Zamboni.” Only three people know that this is a canard. But when the rumor becomes fact, print the rumor. Anyway, I think that you’d get a kick out of it.
I remember as a kid wanting to have a catch with you. Before that day, I’m not sure that you had ever thrown a baseball in your life. You took out an expensive, Wally Bunker, Rawlings mitt from the store, and we had a catch. You weren’t bad. It meant a lot to me.
Every January we’d go to the trade shows. I know meeting Mantle, Mays, Aaron and Brooks Robinson among many others didn’t mean much to you, but you knew how much it meant to us. Because of what it meant to us, you enjoyed it.
As years went on, your love of family didn’t change. 10 years ago, I had 4 tickets to a Friday Night Yankee game. Of course one went to Michael, another to your granddaughter. We told her to choose a friend for the fourth ticket. She chose you. You hadn’t been on a subway for 30 years. (We took the 7 train to the 1969 World Series.) When she asked you graciously went. In the Fourth Inning, I looked over, and there you were, asleep.
I look in the mirror and I see your face. I wish that I had more of you. You used to say, “watch your words, you can’t take them back when they’re out there.” I know that you had a sarcastic sense of humor. You knew when to restrain it. I don’t always know. I’d like to learn to restrain my tongue.
Yours was a special generation. No hyperbole, but it truly was the greatest generation. Like many veterans of you generation, you first supported the Viet Nam war. Later you became vehemently opposed to the war, and all subsequent wars.
You may have been the most educated, informally educated, person that I’ve ever meet. You never went to college, I'm not sure if you graduated from High School. But if asked, I'd respond that my Dad was well educated.
You never were an enthusiastic writer, however. When I traveled Europe in the summer of 1976, I kept sarcastically writing and thanking you for his long letters. Until one day a letter finally came. I found in it 2 feet of toilet paper, with the words on the top Dear Marc, and at the bottom, here's your long letter, Love Dad.
I know that you worry about us, but don’t. You left us quite a legacy. Each other. My Parkinson’s has developed very slowly. I may be more functional today then I was when we last spoke.
Mom is great. You had great taste in women. My brother, my sister and your four grandchildren, follow your example of loyalty and love.
It’s been almost three years. I miss you dearly, but I’m not sad. I’m very satisfied with our relationship. We spoke frankly with each other and I know, just as I hope that you did, that we love each other.
I hope that you don’t mind if I write again. Please write back, I’m low on toilet paper.
Love,
Marc
It occurs to me that 3 weeks from today is your 85th Birthday. We haven’t spoken in a while so I thought that I would bring you up to speed.
Every time I see a old Schwinn bicycle, I think that you’re sending me a message. It’s very comforting to know that you watch over us. I remember when you sold the stores. First the Sporting Goods store, then the Bike shop. You first offered it to each one of us. You were secretly glad that we said no. I don’t know how much you loved working there. I think that I loved the idea that my Dad owned a Toy Store, Sporting Goods Store and Bicycle Shop.
You never particularly liked sports, but there you were next to us and The Ranger games and later The Islander Games. Fast asleep. I tell a story about those days. There are 17,250 people at Madison Square Garden, screaming at the top of their lungs. You’re snoring. Suddenly you awaken, and say, “That was some play!” Michael says, “Dad, that was the Zamboni.” Only three people know that this is a canard. But when the rumor becomes fact, print the rumor. Anyway, I think that you’d get a kick out of it.
I remember as a kid wanting to have a catch with you. Before that day, I’m not sure that you had ever thrown a baseball in your life. You took out an expensive, Wally Bunker, Rawlings mitt from the store, and we had a catch. You weren’t bad. It meant a lot to me.
Every January we’d go to the trade shows. I know meeting Mantle, Mays, Aaron and Brooks Robinson among many others didn’t mean much to you, but you knew how much it meant to us. Because of what it meant to us, you enjoyed it.
As years went on, your love of family didn’t change. 10 years ago, I had 4 tickets to a Friday Night Yankee game. Of course one went to Michael, another to your granddaughter. We told her to choose a friend for the fourth ticket. She chose you. You hadn’t been on a subway for 30 years. (We took the 7 train to the 1969 World Series.) When she asked you graciously went. In the Fourth Inning, I looked over, and there you were, asleep.
I look in the mirror and I see your face. I wish that I had more of you. You used to say, “watch your words, you can’t take them back when they’re out there.” I know that you had a sarcastic sense of humor. You knew when to restrain it. I don’t always know. I’d like to learn to restrain my tongue.
Yours was a special generation. No hyperbole, but it truly was the greatest generation. Like many veterans of you generation, you first supported the Viet Nam war. Later you became vehemently opposed to the war, and all subsequent wars.
You may have been the most educated, informally educated, person that I’ve ever meet. You never went to college, I'm not sure if you graduated from High School. But if asked, I'd respond that my Dad was well educated.
You never were an enthusiastic writer, however. When I traveled Europe in the summer of 1976, I kept sarcastically writing and thanking you for his long letters. Until one day a letter finally came. I found in it 2 feet of toilet paper, with the words on the top Dear Marc, and at the bottom, here's your long letter, Love Dad.
I know that you worry about us, but don’t. You left us quite a legacy. Each other. My Parkinson’s has developed very slowly. I may be more functional today then I was when we last spoke.
Mom is great. You had great taste in women. My brother, my sister and your four grandchildren, follow your example of loyalty and love.
It’s been almost three years. I miss you dearly, but I’m not sad. I’m very satisfied with our relationship. We spoke frankly with each other and I know, just as I hope that you did, that we love each other.
I hope that you don’t mind if I write again. Please write back, I’m low on toilet paper.
Love,
Marc
Saturday, January 15, 2011
January 15, 2011. Float Like a Butterfly, Sting Like a Bee.
There are artists who shine above the rest, Beethoven, Mozart, The Beatles, Van Gogh, Picasso. In the world of sports there are those who are no lesser artists than those listed above.
Willie Mays was the Picasso of Baseball. Tom Seaver said that he was the only outfielder that he ever played with, that wanted to know what pitch he would throw. This is because Mays could usually tell by the combination of the pitch and the angle of the batters bat where the ball would be hit. He knew that the game was entertainment, and that people came to see him, he rarely disappointed.
Wayne Gretzky made everybody around him a superstar. They used to say that he could see the play unfolding in slow motion. I had season tickets for the Islanders for 20 years, much of it during Gretzky's prime. Although I always rooted against him, I marveled at how great he was.
Everybody knows about Michael Jordan. There was nobody like him. He walked on air. During his prime I had season tickets for the Knicks. As long as Jordan played, the Knicks would remain the perennial also ran.
I never was a boxing fan. It wasn't a sport to me. With one notable exception. Muhammad Ali. Ali was grace, pure entertainment. He'd dance and recite his poetry, and have the crowd roaring. He even made Howard Cosell enjoyable. Thirty years after his last fight, he is still considered the most recognizable face in the world.
Ali suffers from Parkinson's disease. Most likely the disease was caused or at least exacerbation by the many blows to the head that he took. He was diagnosed in 1984. Today Ali barely speaks, needs help walking, his hands tremble and shake. His infectious smile is a struggle, that he seems willing to overcome.
"When Ali was first diagnosed with Parkinson's Syndrome, he went through a battery of tests, first at the renowned Mayo Clinic, then at a series of other highly respected institutions. Ali's physical exams and tests indicated a surprising amount of abnormalities, all of which seemed to be boxing related. It was found that Ali had a hole in the membrane separating the two sides of his brain. While this type of abnormality is often congenital, being punched in the head repeatedly, if not causing such a condition, can certainly exacerbate and worsen it. Further complicating matters, Ali was shown to have a series of degenerative changes in his brain stem; a part of the brain that is linked with dopamine production, a neurotransmitter that is lacking in those afflicted with Parkinson's-like afflictions. Ali's brain stem was shown to be significantly damaged, and his attending physicians, in a statement released at Muhammad Ali's behest, stated that they believed Ali's brain damage to be boxing-induced." http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/436969/muhammad_alis_battle_against_parkinsons.html?cat=25
Ali doesn't appear to be bitter. He appears at many charitable events. Somehow he seems to be able to fake a combination to excite his legion of fans.
I haven't watched a Boxing match in more than thirty years, and will unlikely ever watch another. Because there will never be another Ali.
Willie Mays was the Picasso of Baseball. Tom Seaver said that he was the only outfielder that he ever played with, that wanted to know what pitch he would throw. This is because Mays could usually tell by the combination of the pitch and the angle of the batters bat where the ball would be hit. He knew that the game was entertainment, and that people came to see him, he rarely disappointed.
Wayne Gretzky made everybody around him a superstar. They used to say that he could see the play unfolding in slow motion. I had season tickets for the Islanders for 20 years, much of it during Gretzky's prime. Although I always rooted against him, I marveled at how great he was.
Everybody knows about Michael Jordan. There was nobody like him. He walked on air. During his prime I had season tickets for the Knicks. As long as Jordan played, the Knicks would remain the perennial also ran.
I never was a boxing fan. It wasn't a sport to me. With one notable exception. Muhammad Ali. Ali was grace, pure entertainment. He'd dance and recite his poetry, and have the crowd roaring. He even made Howard Cosell enjoyable. Thirty years after his last fight, he is still considered the most recognizable face in the world.
Ali suffers from Parkinson's disease. Most likely the disease was caused or at least exacerbation by the many blows to the head that he took. He was diagnosed in 1984. Today Ali barely speaks, needs help walking, his hands tremble and shake. His infectious smile is a struggle, that he seems willing to overcome.
"When Ali was first diagnosed with Parkinson's Syndrome, he went through a battery of tests, first at the renowned Mayo Clinic, then at a series of other highly respected institutions. Ali's physical exams and tests indicated a surprising amount of abnormalities, all of which seemed to be boxing related. It was found that Ali had a hole in the membrane separating the two sides of his brain. While this type of abnormality is often congenital, being punched in the head repeatedly, if not causing such a condition, can certainly exacerbate and worsen it. Further complicating matters, Ali was shown to have a series of degenerative changes in his brain stem; a part of the brain that is linked with dopamine production, a neurotransmitter that is lacking in those afflicted with Parkinson's-like afflictions. Ali's brain stem was shown to be significantly damaged, and his attending physicians, in a statement released at Muhammad Ali's behest, stated that they believed Ali's brain damage to be boxing-induced." http://www.associatedcontent.com/article/436969/muhammad_alis_battle_against_parkinsons.html?cat=25
Ali doesn't appear to be bitter. He appears at many charitable events. Somehow he seems to be able to fake a combination to excite his legion of fans.
I haven't watched a Boxing match in more than thirty years, and will unlikely ever watch another. Because there will never be another Ali.
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