Rush, The Brewers, and Coming Full Circle

I first saw Rush on October 9, 1982, the day the Milwaukee Brewers tied the ALCS against the Angels. Singer/bassist Geddy Lee and drummer Neil Peart both came out sporting Brewers garb, and Geddy modified the lyrics to the opening song, “The Spirit of Radio,” to include the line, “One likes to believe in the freedom of baseball.” As an impressionable boy of fourteen enjoying the show from sensational floor seats at MECCA Arena, watching a great band with my older brother, this was one of those electrifying moments that’s stayed with me forever. What’s crazy is that this moment can now be streamed on YouTube, and I’ve done so at least a half a dozen times just to relive the thrill. The Brewers went on to beat the Angels the next day, earning their first World Series berth, which ended in heartbreaking fashion against the Cardinals.

Last Friday, I watched Rush perform for my eleventh and final time (really…this is my last one!), this time in Cincinnati with my son, daughter and son-in-law, and in a strange bit of kismet, just as Rush were beginning their show, the Milwaukee Brewers were starting their first inning of World Series baseball since 1982. Yes, my allegiances were torn, but I was determined to be present for what was in front of me: witnessing one of my favorite bands with my family well-represented. It was my daughter who couldn’t stop checking the score, and when she informed me early on that the Brewers had taken a 2-0 lead, it looked like this was going to be one of those perfect evenings.

By the time Rush completed their show, game one of the World Series was nearly over, with the Brewers clinging to a 3-1 lead. We four exited the arena and quickly made our way to a nearby bar with TVs hanging outdoors along the sidewalk, and from this vantage point we were able to witness the thrilling, stressful conclusion to the game, with the Brewers winning 3 – 2. After high fives and hugs, it came to me: I said to my kids: “That was the first Brewers World Series victory since I attended game 5 in 1982 with my buddy John.”

In a few days, I’ll once again watch a World Series game with my buddy John, this time from a bar rather than the last row of the left field bleachers of County Stadium.

For life to circle back this way: the teenager now a post-middle-aged husband and father of three; the power trio in its prime now a duo with hired hands; the young, electric future hall-of-famers Yount and Molitor now throwing out the first pitch for the new and improved young, electric Brewers, well…dang. I don’t think I could dream up a script as good as this one.

40 Years Later - We're Still Here

John Lennon was all of 24 years-old when he wrote the following:

There are places I'll remember
All my life, though some have changed
Some forever, not for better
Some have gone and some remain
All these places have their moments
With lovers and friends I still can recall
Some are dead and some are living
In my life, I've loved them all

Brilliant stuff, but goodness, to be in one’s mid-20s waxing nostalgia, it’s hard not to conclude that he hadn’t lived long enough at that point to have earned the sentimentality for the past.

At fifty-eight, I’m feeling a bit nostalgic myself, having just attended my 40th high school reunion with around 100 of my former classmates, some of whom I hadn’t seen since the day I graduated.

What I especially loved about the reunion is that none of the nonsense that occupied our adolescence matters anymore. No one cares who was popular or not, who played sports or who played in band, who dated or didn’t date or broke up with whom, who got into trouble with teachers, who was a loudmouth and who was reticent, who did drugs or who abstained. None of that stuff matters. All that matters is we’re still here, as at least a dozen former classmates are not.

But you’ve survived. I’ve survived. Sure, we’ve been kicked around some, maybe more than some, but we’re still here. We’re single or married or divorced or remarried and maybe divorced a second time. We’ve had children or not, and they’re doing amazing or they’re having difficulties, and we’re best friends with them or we’re estranged, or maybe they’re living with us or close by or in a different state or country. We don’t have grandkids yet or maybe we watch them a few days a week. We have a wonderful job or we’re cobbling together a career to make ends meet. We’ve retired or we’ve been laid off by our most recent employer. We’ve purchased a home – maybe two homes – or we’re renting or living with our ailing mother. Our parents are alive or dead or suffering from dementia or perhaps they’re still having the time of their lives. We live near the city and still attend rock concerts, or we live a secluded life in the boonies. We travel around the world or we haven’t left our home state in decades. We remember high school fondly, with dread, or not at all. We’re as healthy as can be or we’re working through our latest bout of cancer or some other challenge.

Whatever the case, you’re here. I’m here. I’m delighted that we’ve both survived. Let’s hope we can do it again in ten years.

Transgressions and Misunderstandings

The great film director Barry Levinson once told a story about a perceived slight he’d received after asking a high school classmate to go to the prom with him. She responded, “I was hoping that someone else would ask me, but…okay.” Levinson still took her to the prom, but he was furious, and two decades later at a gathering that included his former prom date, he reminded her of their conversation from high school. She said, “I remember saying that – there was someone else. But I meant what I said: It was okay to go with you.” 

Levinson concluded, “See, it was a put-down for me, not for her. I carried something around for twenty years that had no meaning for the other person. And that’s life. It’s all about misunderstandings.”

Goodness knows I’ve carried around baggage from when I was the recipient of various bullying and nastiness that had no meaning for the perpetrators, and I know the reverse is true. I once had a long conversation with a friend who recited a litany of ways I’d needled, insulted, or otherwise hurt him. I was clueless to all of them because none of them were purposely hurtful, and if I’m being honest, I didn’t understand how some of the things I’d said could even be perceived that way. But that’s life – full of misunderstandings, like an episode of Three’s Company. We all bring different things to the table, and it’s impossible for us to truly know how what we say affects the other person.

A friend of mine recently lamented about what an asshole he’d been earlier in his life, blurting out one-liners without even an inkling about the ramifications. On a particular occasion, a female classmate of his had to read an original poem in front of English class, and afterward he took his friends’ dare to say to this teenage girl, “That was good trailer park poetry,” resulting in tears, as she apparently came from a poor area and likely lived with the burdens associated with it. Looking back on it now, he said, “I had no idea what I was saying. My friends dared me to say something, and I said it. I didn’t even think about it.”

With drinks in hand, I toasted him and said, “Here’s to our evolution into decent human beings.”

We carry around our worst transgressions forever. The only things I truly regret in life aren’t the risks I didn’t take, that girl I didn’t ask out, the opportunity I let pass me by, or even the dumb thing I said that someone took in a way I hadn’t intended – it’s the times I was purposely cruel. Fortunately, these have been fewer and farther between in adulthood, but there are a few offenses from childhood that still make me shudder in shame. Hopefully if there’s an account of our time on Earth, we’re not held responsible for the misdoings we committed when we were impressionable children, so easily swayed by the goading of friends, convincing us to do something we know is wrong.

But dang, there are also things I’ve said as an adult that I’d like to take back. Hopefully Barry Levinson’s life lesson cuts both ways: perhaps there are dumb things I’ve said that I still carry with me in shame that the other person doesn’t think of in the slightest, a completely unnecessary burden.

So I’ll amend the toast I previously made to my friend: “Here’s to our continuing evolution into decent human beings.” It appears to be a lifetime pursuit.

Cherishing Real Human Contact

Miller beer has a current ad campaign that focuses on doing: “Make the plan. Forget the couch. See them in person. Do the thing. Play the game. Say hi to that stranger. Live a little.” It’s a message that probably wouldn’t have resonated before, say, social media, or the internet in general; people went out as a matter of course. But in an age when countries are setting up programs to help men and women meet each other, goodness, maybe a message that reminds people that being human means interacting with fellow human beings needs to be heard, even in a beer commercial.

Interacting with fellow humans can take many forms. A few weeks ago Melissa Kirsch of the New York Times wrote of the joys of running errands, something I also value. She described a friend who “praises the ‘soft-touch socialization’ you get while out and about: the salesperson you chat with before going on your way, the neighbor you catch up with when you run into them at the dump. ‘I cherish the connective tissue of errands, when you’re between stops, driving or walking. Bursts of activity followed by respites of solitude, each stop its own tidy episode.’”

I love this, and I too cherish the little niceties that I exchange with fellow shoppers, the local mail carrier, store clerks and cashiers. Kirsch goes on to encourage all of us not to stay in and hibernate on the weekends to chill and recharge, but instead to go out into the world and run errands.

Here again – we need coaxing to actually leave the house on the weekends to get stuff done. Yikes.

And sure, a quick chat with a cashier at a store can be pleasant – on some days even life-affirming – but this of course doesn’t constitute a relationship. Nothing is required of either party except being kind to each other (which, granted, is not always so common these days).

And this feeds into another essay I read last year, this one by Elizabeth Oldfield, who wrote a guest essay in the New York Times that addresses our declining social muscles and how we need to rehabilitate them. One thing she addressed was our impatience with human relationships that naturally lead to occasional conflicts. Instead, she says that we increasingly “avoid ties of mutual obligation in favor of frictionless transactions.” I’ve seen this in my own life; so many of my casual relationships go no deeper than a talk of the weather and sports scores.

But people need to do so much more to experience the value of real, honest, human relationships. There’s nothing more frustrating, more exhilarating, more stupefying, more joyful, more heart-breaking, or lovelier. It is the be all and end all.

But don’t take my word for it – trust the wisdom of a Miller Beer commercial. They got it right this time.

Rainy Days and Monday

After three and a half weeks without rain in the Chicago area, the skies finally opened up on Monday just as my wife and I exited Costco, $250 poorer than when we entered. The rain was such a welcome site that we opted to get wet and load up the car, but after arriving home the weather got more serious with a deluge of rain, wind gusts, hail and tornado warnings – none of which, I might add, had been forecasted by our weather apps, which had merely predicted a “chance of rain.”

As we hunkered down in our basement, I marked the occasion of this wonderful, beautiful rain (granted, with a side of danger) by playing a recording of The Carpenters’ song, “Rainy Days and Mondays,” as it was both raining and a Monday! How perfect! Well, the gods were having none of that nonsense, and one minute into Karen Carpenter’s glorious delivery, the power went out, flashed back on for a second, went out again, flashed on again, and then went out for good. There would be no music for the time being.

Once the worst of the storm had passed, I headed upstairs and I took matters into my own hands, sitting at the piano to pluck out the 1971 tune penned by Roger Nichols and Paul Williams. The chords were no problem, but I botched the melody pretty badly. It brought to mind how much easier it had been to play the song when I could just hide behind my daughter Jessica’s singing voice, who performed the tune with me from time to time when she was around 12 years old. Playing chords while someone else took the melody? No problem. Melody on the fly? Not so much.

On one occasion in 2009, Jessica and I performed “Rainy Days and Mondays” for my mother and her husband. Jessica had – and still has – a very good voice and vocal technique. We picked the proper key, I played the intro, and she took it away from there. I added some silly backup vocals behind my daughter’s controlled performance, but overall it sounded good.

After we finished the tune, my mother said, “Oh Jessica, why didn’t you use your pretty voice?”

Now, it would take years of psychoanalysis to understand what prompted that remark. I had gotten used to callous comments from my mother over the years, but this one left me dumbfounded. I stood up, looked at Jessica with eyebrows raised, wiggled my finger toward her and said, “Follow me.”

When Jessica recounts the story today, she says that she thought she was in trouble, that she had possibly embarrassed me in front of my mother, but nothing could have been further from the truth.

We walked to the back room of our house, I crouched down to her eye level and said, “Do you know what tactless means?” She said she didn’t. “It’s when you say something rude, something unkind. You sang beautifully, and what Grandma said was tactless.”

Jessica and I will occasionally recount this story when reminiscing about her childhood. It was one of my prouder parenting moments and one of my mother’s weaker moments. But Jessica wasn’t deterred. She went on to sing throughout high school and college, and even made a career as a music therapist for half a decade.

“Rainy Days and Mondays.” I love that this wonderful song that accompanied me during my early childhood now has a personal history with my daughter. However, I’d be much obliged if the next time I choose to play the record, the skies let it go to its completion.