It's been a year...

We had been exploring in York, England, for a few days and stopped in Cambridge on the way back to London. After our obligatory afternoon tea on the River Cam, we headed back to our friends’ home on the bank of the Thames. We’d been there a week and, although the jet-lag was over for us, the car ride made everyone ready for a nap, except me. The radio is always on in their home and I had to listen twice when I heard “Michael Jackson has died.” His much anticipated comeback tour was to begin in London on July 8 so his name was all over the news from the time we arrived.

Michael Jackson’s death was to this generation as Elvis Presley’s was to a generation earlier. Whether you liked his music (and I did) or not, he was an icon of the times. His persona was bigger than life. He had come from being a child star with his brothers to the ultimate pop star in front of our eyes over two decades. Even when things got very weird for him in the latter years, he stayed close to his fans and became quite a philanthropist.

One of Michael’s lasting tributes is the viral effects of the dance from his Thriller video that have permeated our society. Not since John Travolta’s famous disco moves in Saturday Night Fever has choreography moved the public the way Thriller did. It’s one of the all-time You Tube successes from subways and train stations to schools and living rooms. It is the number one music video of all time, according to MTV. I love the version that comes out of nowhere in the Jennifer Garner movie “13 Going On 30”. The movie is pretty sappy otherwise but that scene is a scream!

Michael’s music was all over BBC radio and television that night and we listened and reminisced to it right through my favorite dinner of Julia’s famous cottage pie, which just writing it makes my mouth water. His music is happy. It makes you feel good. It makes you want to dance…and we did, regardless of what the sight of me dancing does for you.

The next morning, we took a nice walk with our friends to the Two Rivers Mall near their home. I stopped in at the Boots Pharmacy and picked up all the London papers to add to my ever-growing souvenir collection. There was even a special section on “How to do the moonwalk.” People were trying it in all the open spaces at the Mall. It reminded me that Michael Jackson was an amazing entertainer. He made us smile. He made us move. He did what entertainers are supposed to do. He moved his audiences.

Throughout the period after his death and then the memorial service and burial, what struck me most was that the weirdness associated with him in recent years was not the topic. It was Michael Jackson’s talent and music and influence and philanthropy that took the front seat. That’s pretty special for an entertainer. It’s pretty special for any public figure.

I can’t do a playlist on my iPod without one Michael Jackson number just to get my feet moving and to put a smile on my face. Even one year later, Michael Jackson lives!

From my friend in South Africa

For twenty years, I have been travelling to South Africa. There have been many changes during that time and almost all for the better. The country is one of my most favorite places in the world. As we watch the World Cup open our eyes to an exciting and beautiful South Africa, I revisit the times that I have tried to explain why we, especially in America, don't fully or clearly understand the ways of that country. Now that I think of it, we are not particularly good at understanding or even trying to understand the ways of other countries. Regardless, a South African friend sent me the following "Open Letter To Foreign Media" this week and it makes my point very effectively. WAKA WAKA! (This Time for Africa!)

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by Peter Davies 09/06/2010 09:09

Dear World Cup visitors,
Now that you are safely in our country you are no doubt happily realising you are not in a war zone. This may be in stark contrast to what you have been bracing yourself for should you have listened to Uli Hoeness or are an avid reader of English tabloids, which as we all know are only good for wrapping fish ‘n chips and advancing the careers of large-chested teens on page three.
As you emerge blinking from your luxury hotel room into our big blue winter skies, you will surely realise you are far more likely to be killed by kindness than by a stray bullet. Remember that most of the media reports you have read, which have informed your views on South Africa, will have been penned by your colleagues. And you know what journos are like, what with their earnest two thousand word opuses on the op-ed pages designed to fix this country’s ills in a heartbeat. Based on exhaustive research over a three-day visit.
Funnily enough, we are well aware of the challenges we face as a nation and you will find that 95% of the population is singing from the same song-sheet in order to ensure we can live up to our own exacting expectations.
We are also here to look after you and show you a good time. Prepare to have your preconceived notions well and truly shattered.
For instance, you will find precious few rhinos loitering on street corners, we don’t know a guy in Cairo named Dave just because we live in Johannesburg, and our stadiums are magnificent, world-class works of art.
Which is obviously news to the Sky TV sports anchor who this week remarked that Soccer City looked ‘ a bit of a mess’. She didn’t realize the gaps in the calabash exterior are to allow in natural light and for illumination at night, and not the result of vandalism or negligence.
The fact that England, the nation which safely delivered Wembley Stadium two years past its due date, is prepared to offer us South Africans advice on stadium-readiness should not be surprising. The steadiest stream of World Cup misinformation has emanated from our mates the Brits over the past couple of years.
If it’s not man-eating snakes lurking in Rooney’s closet at the team’s (allegedly half-built) Royal Bafokeng training base, then it’s machete-wielding gangs roaming the suburbs in search of tattooed, overweight Dagenham dole-queuers to ransack and leave gurgling on the pavement.
In fact what you are entering is the world’s most fascinating country, in my opinion. I’m pretty sure you will find that it functions far more smoothly, is heaps more friendly and offers plenty more diversions than you could possibly have imagined.
In addition to which, the population actually acts like human beings, and not like they are being controlled by sinister forces from above which turns them into bureaucratically-manipulated robots.
Plus we have world’s most beautiful women. The best weather. Eight channels of SuperSport. Food and wine from the gods themselves. Wildlife galore. (Love the Dutch team’s bus slogan: “Don’t fear the Big 5; fear the Orange 11”).
Having said all that, Jo’burg is undoubtedly one of the world’s most dangerous cities. Just ask those Taiwanese tourists who got out of their hire car to take close-up snaps of tawny beasts at the Lion Park a few years back. Actually, ask what’s left of them. And did you know the chances of being felled by cardiac arrest from devouring a mountain of meat at one of our world class restaurants has been statistically proven to be 33.3% higher in Jozi than in any other major urban centre not built upon a significant waterway? It’s true. I swear. I read it in a British tabloid.
Having recently spent two years comfortably cocooned in small town America, I’m only too aware of how little much of the outside world knows about this country. The American channel I used to work for has a massive battalion of employees descending on World Cup country. It has also apparently issued a recommendation to its staff to stay in their hotels when not working.
Given that said corporation is headquartered in a small town which many say is “best viewed through the rear-view mirror”, I find the recommendation, if it’s true, to be utterly astounding. In fact I don’t believe it is true. Contrary to the global stereotype, the best Americans are some of the sharpest people in the world. The fact they have bought most tickets in this World Cup proves the point.
Of course I have only lived in Johannesburg, city of terror and dread, virtually all my life, so don’t have the in-depth knowledge of say, an English broadsheet journalist who has been in the country for the weekend, but nevertheless I will share some of my observations gleaned over the years.
Any foreign tourist or media representative who is worried about his safety in South Africa should have a word with the Lions rugby fans from last year, or the Barmy Army cricket supporters (lilywhite hecklers by day, slurring, lager-fuelled lobsters by night). They managed just fine, just like the hundreds of thousands of fans who have streamed into the country over the past fifteen years for various World Cups, Super 14 matches, TriNations tests and other international events. Negligible crime incidents involving said fans over said period of time.
Trivia question: which country has hosted the most global sporting events over the past decade and a half? You don’t need me to answer that, do you?
In addition. Don’t fret when you see a gaggle of freelance salesmen converge on your car at the traffic lights (or robots as we like to call them) festooned with products. You are not about to be hijacked. Here in Mzansi (nickname for SA) we do a lot of our purchasing at robots. Here you can stock up on flags, coat hangers, batteries, roses for the wife you forgot to kiss goodbye this morning and a whole host of useful merchandise.
Similarly, that guy who runs up as you park the rental car outside the pub intends no malice. He’s your car guard. Give him a buck or two and your vehicle will be safe while you refuel for hours on our cheap, splendid beer. Unless someone breaks into it, of course.
We drive on the left in this country. Exercise caution when crossing the road at a jog-trot with 15 kilograms of camera gear on your back. Exercise common sense full stop. Nothing more. Nothing less. If you want to leave wads of cash in your hotel room like our Colombian friends, don’t be surprised if it grows wings.
Bottomline. Get out there and breathe in great lusty lungfuls of this amazing nation. Tuck into our world-class food and wines. Disprove the adage that white men can’t dance at our throbbing, vibrant night-clubs. Learn to say hello in all eleven official languages. Watch at least one game in a township. You will not be robbed and shot. You will be welcomed like a lost family member and looked after as if you are royalty. Ask those Bulls rugby fans who journeyed to Soweto recently.
With a dollop of the right attitude, this country will change your life.
It’s Africa’s time. Vacate your hotel room. Join the party.
Waka waka eh eh.

"No Futbol!"...YES, WORLD CUP!!

Albissola Marina is a nice little seaside town on the Italian Riviera. We had hoped to reach Nice before nightfall but after a long, hot July day on the autostrada, where your foot constantly cramps up from pushing down on the gas pedal trying to keep up with the traffic, we were ready for a break and there was Albissola Marina. A delightful pensione, just a block from the beach, had a very nice room for us. We checked in quickly, took a beach stroll and then a nap before dinner. When we came downstairs, the reception room/bar was empty. We called out but no answer. It was a short walk to an inviting restaurant with a screened-in porch for dining. After a considerable wait, a young woman came out and begrudgingly took our order. There were no other diners and no sight of any traffic on the sidewalk or the street outside. Strange, we thought, but maybe this was another one of those European “siesta” times that we hadn’t experienced.

The meal was excellent and so was the pitcher of house wine that always seems to match the food perfectly. The young woman warmed up a bit as the evening went on but she was still a little grumpy. I finally put the sign language aside and, after a brief look at my phrase book, in my best pidgin Italian, I said, “Where are the people?”. This got no response at all. Then I asked, “Is there something wrong here?”. Two words came back, “No Calcio!”. “Calcio?,” I said. “Futbol…No Futbol!” she responded as she walked to the screen door and pointed down the street. I still didn’t get it. So we paid the bill and started walking down the empty street in the direction she had pointed. It was dark by then but it was still a very weird feeling as we walked along. A block and a half away, we heard a muffled cheer…then another…and another. In a very large house with a big front porch, we found virtually everyone who lived in Albissola Marina. The 21-inch, black & white television was sitting precariously on the top of a bookcase. THE soccer match was on television and the whole town was watching. Young and old, they all were squinting to catch every move as Milan played Amsterdam in something called the European Cup that was leading up to the World Cup in West Germany the next year.

This was my first real encounter with the power of soccer around the world. It’s football everywhere else and what we play on the gridiron is American Football. From my stuttering Italian conversation with some of the local revelers in the big house, I found that this was the only television in that part of town, that “calcio” is the Italian word for soccer and that the young woman from the restaurant had said “No Futbol!” because she was lamenting being the one left behind to work while the rest of her family came to watch the match. (Milan lost, by the way.) Soccer is indeed the world’s game.

Flash forward to today. We’re lucky here in Seattle to be a soccer town. Many of us know the game, follow it closely and even play, as long as our bodies hold together. The Sounders FC have become the darlings of professional soccer in this country and no youth or school soccer programs come close to those we have homegrown here. In my travels, I have been fortunate to see soccer being played in every corner of the world. For almost twenty years, I have been travelling to South Africa and I have made many wonderful friends there. This is their moment and South Africans are feeling the pride and jubilation. Sport is bringing us another world-changing spectacle. We saw it in Beijing with the Chinese…and then in Vancouver for the Canadians. My friends from the veld are well-connected in sports circles and they have brought me into the loop with the local organizers of these games. I’m “skyping” my opinions on a regular basis and still hope to be there before this momentous month is over.

The African continent and South Africa in particular has always been a mystical and spiritual place for me. As the players of Bufana Bufana, the South African team, came down the ramp into the stadium this morning and took the hands of school children, you could sense the emotion. Seeing our good friend, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, who has grown so close to Seattle and its people, cheering in the stands with that beautiful smile of his was truly heart-warming. Sadly missing was the heart of South Africa, 91-year-old Nelson Mandela, also a great friend to our community. In spite of a personal tragedy in his family, his message to the country came through loud and clear…these games must go on.

So put on your rally scarf. Grab your vuvuzela (we used to call them stadium horns but vuvuzela is so much more fun to say.). Get ready to toot and cheer because these games are happening…now! I told my good friend in the UK this morning that he’d better start practicing his Ugly American cheers because there will be no holds barred when the USA and England play tomorrow. British Petroleum be damned!!! It’s World Cup Fever…catch it!

June 6...a day to remember

The season began with Bobby Kennedy announcing his candidacy for President of the United States. Unfortunately that was the high mark of the Spring of 1968. Just over two weeks later, Martin Luther King was assassinated in Memphis; next came more than a month of the worst urban riots this country has ever seen; a month after that Bobby Kennedy was murdered in Los Angeles when he all but wrapped up the Democratic nomination; and then the country fell into a long demoralizing protest over the war in Vietnam that went on for years.

Spring is supposed to be a rebirth and a rejuvenation. Bobby Kennedy’s run for President was just such a breath of fresh air. We were ready for a change and it was clear that Bobby could deliver.

My first encounter with him had come earlier in my Capitol Hill internship as part of something called the White House Seminars. I was on the steering committee and each week during the spring and summer months, all the interns would gather to hear from various members of the amazing cadre of advisors that had been assembled by President Kennedy during his all-too-short term. Bobby was on the list as Attorney General and that initial engagement was electric. He was a whirling dervish. He was everywhere and hardly drew a breath while he was connecting with everyone in the room. There was a glimmer of recognition when we shook hands as he remembered his involvement in bringing my father and our family to Washington, DC, but that’s another story for another time.

Now Bobby Kennedy was going to be President. We just knew it. From my office in the Rayburn House Office Building, I had frequently connected with his staffers and, as I got to know them, it was an easy decision to join the Capitol Hill Supporters for RFK. The group was informal because we couldn’t be seen as political in our government positions. We met in nearby pubs and apartments while we were reviewing campaign strategies and speeches. Our opinions, along with many others, were constantly being sought on a host of relevant issues including the war.

Not five years earlier, his brother Jack had been assassinated in an earth-shaking event that changed our country immeasurably. Bobby constantly reminded us that a mere 8 years before, he was a campaign manager and, therefore, knew and appreciated all the work we were doing to help him get elected. Working on his campaign made it easier to cope with the volatility of the times. It definitely kept us moving in the right direction. Even when the orders came to report for military service, my father’s life-long commitment to the Army seemed in perfect concert with the fact that Bobby and his brothers had all served as well. You don’t have to want war to feel compelled to protect your freedoms. I never questioned it.

Just before Bobby headed to the west coast in May for the Oregon and California primaries, he stopped by the Capitol Hill apartment where we were meeting. He was there for half an hour. He read parts of speeches on civil rights, poverty and the war that he wanted feedback on. We had heard his words before but now the messages were very finely tuned. To the group, he said, “I’m a little concerned about Senator McCarthy in Oregon (note: McCarthy upset Bobby there) but Cesar Chavez and California will put us over the top.” He shook hands with each of us as he left with thanks for our efforts. “I’m told your father is doing a great job at the Pentagon,” he said to me. The rush of pride had to be noticeable. And then, he was gone.

Certain dates become landmarks in our history. “Black Thursday” when the stock market crashed on October 29, 1929, was indelible to my grandparents; The attack on Pearl Harbor, December 7, 1941; D-Day, June 6, 1944, when allied troops, including my father, landed in Normandy; of course, September 11, 2001; all dates ingrained in our learning. We celebrate the birthdays of some our great leaders but lately I’ve noticed that the dates when our leaders have been struck down are beginning to blur. Abraham Lincoln was shot on April 14, 1865, Good Friday, and died on April 15 (OK, I looked that one up!); JFK was killed on Friday, November 22, 1963…even this date has dulled in the minds of the current generation; Martin Luther King was gunned down on Thursday, April 4, 1968, and I’ve written about that day and those immediately after; and a serious attempt on the life of President Reagan occurred on Monday, March 30, 1981 as I was on my way to a client meeting in Austin, Texas, when we heard the news on the new upstart cable television network called CNN.

Tuesday, June 4, 1968, was a run-of-the-mill day on Capitol Hill. I did some research and writing on two education bills that were being presented for committee review. Lunch was at the Rayburn Building cafeteria for some of its famous bean soup. The Capitol Hill group met briefly at the end of the day for a quick rally before we all headed home to watch the primary results come in from California. Nothing was really instant then. There wasn’t even much instant reporting because live coverage was very limited. Although there were voting machines, it felt like every ballot was being counted by hand, maybe literally one hand, and it took forever. It was after 2am eastern time on Wednesday, June 5, that Bobby Kennedy was declared the winner in California. Bleary-eyed, I watched him give his victory speech on my little black & white television just before 3am. All I could think about was Bobby becoming President. Things would be right in the world again.

I left the TV on while I got ready for bed. Suddenly there was a commotion, screams and shouts of “Bobby’s been shot!” It was frightening. I woke up my parents and the vigil began. I think we really knew he would not recover but we held on to that slender thread of hope throughout the entire day. Reports came periodically and we would try to work in between but our minds couldn’t function clearly. The office was a tomb. No one could leave the conference room where there was a television and radio. We all drove home in silence and it wasn’t until the early morning hours on Thursday, June 6, when word came that he had died.

Such emotional times those were. Bobby’s funeral would be in New York while I was driving to the Midwest to attend college graduation ceremonies. I came right back to DC feeling the need not to miss a moment of the requiem. A week later, I went to the gravesite at Arlington Cemetery. Near his brother, in the green grass, was a simple white cross and marker. It seemed so right. I shot a couple of pictures (one above) because the crowds were gone. It was an intense moment. It was hard during those times to keep mustering the strength to feel good about our country. But we had to try.

So you can place Thursday, June 6,1968, on the list of dates to remember from our times. We lost ground in our quest for peace and equality on that day but the example had been set. We just have to keep trying.

"Mick" and "Oh"

The Irish love to talk. Telling stories is even more fun. When I first met Lance O’Toole, he said, “I’m glad to have a “Mick” on my side, even if you’re not a Marine!” The “Mc” on the front of my last name and “O” on his immediately told us we were countrymen of some sort from the Ould Sod. Mick, from Mc, has become a slang term for Irish(sometimes derogatory, if you’re English) and O-anything is a dead giveaway. Everyone in this amazing country has roots somewhere in the world but some of us feel the ties more than others. The two of us never stopped talking from the day we met.

Lance and I were learning to be field artillery officers together in Ft. Sill, Oklahoma. We were far away from families, in our 20’s and newly married. He had already done his “Boot Camp” and I had done my “Basic”. We reported for duty on July 4. Jane and I had changed our wedding date to June 29 after my orders came and we had five days to drive from DC to Ft. Sill. Lance had come in on 4th too and we met at PT (physical training in military speak) the next morning.

We always argued about how “Irish” each of us were and I have to say that his red hair gave him a distinct advantage. The stories we told each other about our families and childhoods filled the long hot days of summer that were full of classroom work in sweltering Quonset huts, days and nights on the firing range with the 105mm and 155mm howitzers being used in Vietnam and endless forays into the countryside to practice being forward observers who direct the artillery fire onto the enemy targets. “FO” was the pre-determined job for most 2nd Lieutenants so, believe me, we paid very close attention to those drills.

Lance always wanted to be a Marine. Some fall into it but he had thought about it a lot and as soon as he could enlist, he did. Becoming an officer was a very proud moment for Lance and we talked about what it meant and would mean to our lives. My dad, who spent his life in the military, couldn’t be there when I was commissioned but, years later, he told me how much my being an officer during Vietnam had meant to him and that filled a void in me that to this day is very satisfying.

It wouldn’t be the last time but I was the odd duck in my gunnery school class. Because of the war, the Department of Defense was running all the services with ground troops through the same schools. As luck would have it, I was in a class of Marines with only two other Army officers so we were constantly being verbally abused. My ace in the hole was Lance P. O’Toole. He called me “Mick” and I called him “O” and we stood back to back when we were in the field ready to take on anything they could throw at us. It was good-natured but you know as well as I do that boys will be boys.

Our orders came in late September. As I opened the envelope, I remember that for the first time since we’d been in Oklahoma we had opened the windows of our apartment to let in some “cool” night air and I could feel it. I had been levied overseas but was being temporarily held back to be a gunnery instructor at the school. The next day I learned that all the Marines were headed for Vietnam.

Lance and I spent those last few days before they left talking about plans for the future. What were we going to do when we were discharged? What kind of jobs would we be looking for or even be qualified for? Where would we call home? That summer on the plains of Oklahoma was our first step out into the light of our own lives. Like our troops today, we were doing what our country asked us to do. In spite of what your mind tells you, your heart says being a patriot is the right thing.

The day Lance left, I helped him pack the car because he had stored some of his gear at our place overnight. “Good luck, Oh, it’s been great getting to know you” I said. “Mick, I’ll see you on the other side.”

Two months later, I had just been assigned to the Agent Orange project and was stationed at Edgewood Arsenal outside of Baltimore. Another Marine from our class called to say that Lance had been killed in a firefight less than a month after arriving in country. He wasn’t the first friend I had lost to that war, nor would he be the last, but we were Irish and we’d made a connection that was hundreds of years in the making. In the boxes that we shipped cross country from Ft. Sill was something that Lance had left behind. It’s a simple Army-issue green canvas camp stool. I still use it today to sit on while I shine my shoes. Stamped on the leg in true Marine style, it reads “Lance P. O’Toole”.

Each Memorial Day, I pull out that stool and the picture of Lance and me that Jane took on the day of our graduation from gunnery school. My memories of him and that summer in Oklahoma paint a brilliant picture of life, of freedom, of ancestry, of country. To me, wars are much less about ideology, nationalism, religion or politics than they are about the people who fight them. I long for a time when we can find peace in this world…when the “Oh’s” and “Mick’s” don’t have to be “good soldiers”. That time can’t come too soon. I miss you, Lance. I’ll see you on the other side.

It's just a play...

The annual ArtsFund luncheon in Seattle is one of those “can’t miss” affairs. Every corner of our art world is represented. Most organizations and major underwriters have their own tables. Over a 1000 supporters of the arts are in the house. It’s an arts “love in”.

This year, I was honored to sit with my friends from the Seattle Symphony as their world renowned Music Director Gerard Schwarz was presented the lifetime achievement award. It was particularly moving to have his son Julian perform a very engaging Handel piece on the cello with violinist Elisa Barston. For sure, it moved Gerry.

Being at the luncheon prompted me to reflect on how the arts have affected my life. My interests have always been wide ranging. I had a fourth grade teacher who loved the Renaissance and took every opportunity to tell us that pursuing all of your interests was very important to experiencing a full life. It did not take me long to immerse myself in music, art, performing, science, sports, astronomy, world culture and language, which made my parents scratch their heads. Why in the world was I taking an interest in all these subjects? A short attention span? I hope not. There was just so much out there to learn and more importantly experience.

As I sat listening to Handel’s Passacaglia, I was reminded of an incident in high school that was a tipping point for me. As my teen years progressed, I developed more than a passing interest in writing, music and language. But before I knew it, the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat consumed me and sports became my life. After all, you didn’t get a cool sweater and jacket with letters, bars and pins all over them from the Spanish club, or the Glee club or for writing for the school newspaper. It seemed as though sports were everything. Then along came the class play. That sounded like fun. “The Diary of Anne Frank” gave this young Richie Cunningham (“Happy Days”) a chance to recite a lot of Hebrew and make some pretty heady decisions as Anne’s father.

The play occurred during basketball season and that year I was in Indiana where, as I’ve said before, basketball is next to Godliness…as long as God makes the ball go through the hoop for you. I was always a team player in sports. I never gave the coaches a hard time. But then a note was handed to me in class that said the coach wanted to see me BEFORE practice. Not a good sign, I thought.

When I reported to his office, the coach barely looked up. After making me sweat for a couple of minutes, he said, “I understand you want to be in this play.” “Yes, I do. It’s just a play and I thought it might be fun.” Then the lecture started. This wasn’t supposed to be fun. This was about discipline and learning to respect others. You can’t play a sport and then “waste” your time “goofing around” in this “silly play”.

Wow! I was floored. Why was this so bad? I don’t think I had ever felt the need to stand up for myself so strongly. And why I did then, I’ll never know. But the words came out of my mouth without hesitation. “How am I doing on the court, Coach? If I’m doing ok and I don’t miss practice and I keep up my grades then how can you tell me that I can’t be in the play and still play basketball?” Silence. “Are you going to cut me from the team half way through the season if I want to be in the play?” More silence. Then,“Well…your grades are good. Mind you, if you miss five minutes of practice for this play, you’re done.” “I won’t, Coach.” I’m sure I was shaking. I know I thought my head was going to blow up. I turned slowly and walked out.

Times were pretty medieval then. Thank goodness the renaissance mentality has crept back into our lives. But never another word was said about the encounter. Oh, I thought the coach worked me harder than everyone else after that, but, if he did, I probably needed it. We had a great basketball season and the play was fantastic! My Hebrew wasn’t bad, either.

Turns out, it was not “just a play”. It was a little piece of freedom that my fourth grade teacher gave me. Finding those things in life that excite and stimulate you is an adventure that everyone should experience. That’s what I think the arts are about. They are very personal. They exercise our minds. They fill in the blanks in our lives. They make us complete.

That’s what keeps me coming back to the ArtsFund Luncheon. It’s about being with people who have found the value and the emotions in art. We can’t all be artists but we can enrich our lives by being around them, by thinking about them, marveling in them and, perhaps, even participating. What would our lives be without the arts? Pretty dull and grey, I think.

As I listened to the moving Handel piece, the hair on the back of my neck stood up and tears filled my eyes. Whether it’s the beauty of a new ballet, the excitement of a Broadway musical, a dramatic new play on stage, an astonishing display of glass art or even hearing Kurt Cobain scream at you from the wall of the Art Museum, your life has more meaning from these encounters. I love the arts…and the Seahawks too!

Butler takes us back to better times

No one will deny that the Butler Bulldogs could have won the National Championship in college basketball, just as Duke did. It was a fair match every step of the way. Gordon Hayward’s 4-second jump shot and 1-second half-court heave were the only difference between victory and defeat. The Bulldogs made a magnificent run for the title. We love to root for David over Goliath. We seem to always like the little guy…and the team from Indy was something to admire all season long.

Butler University’s story has given new life to one of the greatest legends in sports history. The small town Milan Indians (pictured above) defeated the far-superior Muncie Central Bearcats for the Indiana State High School Championship in a game that even my grandmother could describe in minute detail. The victory was the inspiration for the award-winning movie “Hoosiers” and, although the back story of the principal characters was fictional, the final game was played out with pain-staking accuracy in the film.

I’ve got Hoosier blood in me. Both my parents were born and raised in Indiana. While I was growing up and moving from base to base every year with my military father, my summers were spent on the family farm in Indiana and whenever the chores were done, I was shooting hoops…or fishing.

My uncle was a high school basketball coach, which if you’re successful, gets you any other job you want in Indiana. He coached in the same state tournament that Milan won and, although I didn’t know the significance then, he took me to that final game as a grade schooler.

Butler Fieldhouse was mecca for high school basketball in those days. And it made the same impression on me as it did on the players in the movie “Hoosiers”. It was HUGE and the packed crowd was almost scary. High School players looked like giants to me then and the Muncie team dwarfed the Milan crew. Bobby Plump was the star that day and he’s one of those people who can never get past that one big moment in their lives. Like Bobby, nothing else that Jim Whittaker has done in his lifetime will ever make him more than the first American to climb Mt. Everest. When I met Bobby Plump at a family wedding a few years ago, he held court all day long talking about THE game. It’s been 50 years!!

But I digress…Milan’s coach was from Butler and had only been coaching for two years. He was 26-years-old. That was old to me then, but now, I realize that he was just a kid himself. He found a way to control the game and keep the bigger, more physical Bearcats from running and shooting. It’s called “the stall”…just hold on to the ball, don’t take a shot until you absolutely have to or want to, then get it back as quickly as you can and keep stalling. With a minute to go in the game, the score was tied 30-30. Bobby Plump held the ball for the last four minutes without ever making a pass. Remember, the rules were different in those days. There was no shot clock and Milan made it to the finals in a single-elimination tournament with every high school in the state participating…there were over 750 of them.

With 18-seconds left, Bobby dribbled to the right side of the key and shot a jump shot that touched nothing but the net. 32-30 Milan wins! I remember being engulfed by fans streaming onto the floor to celebrate. I kept my eye on my uncle who went straight over to congratulate the Milan coach. As the story goes, when the team drove back home to southeastern Indiana, over 40,000 people lined the road to greet them. All the players from the team went to college because of that game and Bobby Plump played for Butler and in a professional league before becoming a life insurance salesman in Milan where he is today.

Thirty years later, the whole state of Indiana rallied around the making of the movie “Hoosiers”. My uncle was asked to be the basketball consultant for the film and he even got a cameo as one of the opposing coaches. In the Director’s Commentary on the 10th anniversary edition of the DVD, Uncle Tom gets some real props from the filmmakers.

In Texas, it’s football. In Indiana, it’s basketball and always will be. Many of the game’s greatest players have learned the fundamentals there. I know I did during my two tours in and out of the state while I was in high school…we moved twice and I went to three different high schools during my four years. But I learned that basketball was king and playing the game made you proud…and got you a free haircut on Saturday, after a win.

The Butler University team will be an inspiration to an untold number of youngsters who are growing up in school now and joining in athletics. Basketball teaches a lot about skills, conditioning and teamwork. You gain respect for others while playing the game and you learn a lot about yourself and what motivates you. Last night’s championship game will be remembered as one of the greatest college basketball games ever played. And the most beautiful thing is…nobody lost.