Like Sands Through the Hourglass....

KRISTIAN ALFONSO

St. Maarten is a Caribbean paradise that is a must visit for those of us inclined to enjoy tropical luxury (and who doesn’t?). My wife and I were there almost twenty years ago; I remember the approximate date because the triplets were about 1 year old and it took us about a month to coordinate the army of babysitters that could (and would) be able to handle the task.

Our plane had a brief stop in San Juan both on the trip there and on the way home. I wish I would have planned a longer layover, because from what I could see from the plane Puerto Rico looked like an inviting retreat in itself.

The tiny island of St. Maarten covers only 34 square miles, split in geographical halves it is actually part of two different countries; the Dutch side known for its modern accommodations and close proximity to the airport with its capital Phillipsburg, and the French side known for its gourmet cuisine with the capital of Marigot. We decided to stay at the Maho Beach Hotel on the Dutch side because it was so conveniently located, and from the brochure seemed to have everything we would need for a well deserved break. I figured we could rent a car and travel to the French side to sample the local wares if the mood would strike.

The Hotel was at the airport…I mean AT THE AIRPORT. You can see by the picture above what i am talking about. C’mon, are you kidding me? At one point the planes were so close to us I felt like a revolutionary soldier and would have been permitted to fire my weapon because I could see the whites of the passenger’s eyes. And of course, the noise was deafening! Unfortunately the hotel had a no refund policy…but actually the rooms were quite sound proof. However, earplugs while enjoying the beach were not a luxury but a necessity.

Our beach was swimsuit mandatory as were most of the sunbathing areas on the Dutch side of the island. I guess the French are a bit more adventurous, and we read where many of the beaches there were clothing optional. I’m no prude, but when I heard about that, the airplane noise was a bit easier to take. There are some areas of my body that have never been exposed to the sun. They liked the shade, and I aimed to keep it that way.

We had a wonderful week at our resort, and decided on the last day to travel to the French side and explore Marigot during the day and eat at a waterfront bistro there at night. I rented a little compact car from a rental company near the hotel and off we went with our map to guide us. I noticed a beach marked with a red star that meant clothing optional.

Curiosity got the best of us as we parked our black Saab and headed for the naughty playground. The beach was off the beaten path and as we hiked toward the area, I stopped at a concession stand to ask the attendant if we were getting near our destination. Before the host could answer me, out from behind the bush popped a stark naked man looking for refreshments, or sunscreen. He looked at our clothed bodies and shook his head in disdain; I looked at his naked body and suddenly felt quite good about myself. Terri covered her eyes and hustled back to the car. Just my luck, my only chance at a nude beach and all I get to see is a hairy fat guy wearing nothing but a glittering gold chain and worn out flip flops.

The bistro in Marigot was spectacular. We had spaghetti carbonara that was served European style with a raw egg on top. Delicious doesn’t adequately describe it. Several bottles of fine wine later we stumbled to our car for the trip home. I’m ashamed to say I made a mistake and was really in not in great shape to drive, but we were leaving the island early in the morning and I had to get the rental car back first thing. I drove very slowly until we safely made it back to the hotel. The parking lot was full, so we left it on the street with several other cars near the beach and went back to our room.

I woke up about 3:30 AM with a terrible headache, and Terri was sound asleep. Deciding not to disturb her, I headed out to take a walk on the beach to get some fresh air and clear my head. While walking, I thought I would check out the car and move it back to the hotel parking lot which now had available space. When I got to the area however, I saw no cars there. Rubbing my eyes in bewilderment, I searched the street up and down to make sure I was in the right place. There was the street sign I had parked it under, but the car was nowhere to be seen.

“Terri!” I said loudly as I shook her from her slumber after hustling back to the room. “Did you move the car while I was asleep?” “Of course not”, she said. “I would never dream of going out there at night without you.” “Well we’ve got a problem,” I added, “and since our plane leaves at 9:30 AM I don’t have much time to solve it”. We looked at each other with panic stricken eyes the shade of hangover red as we contemplated our next move. I called the police station in Phillipsburg, and they told me to come in at 9AM to discuss it with a detective. When I explained to them I didn’t have time and had to catch a plane home, the officer in charge informed me I had a problem. “No kidding,” I replied.

The rental car office opened at 7AM, so I camped out there waiting for the attendant. “Here to return your car?” he asked. “Yes, but I’ve got a bit of a dilemma, I have no car to return”, I informed him. “It was stolen last night in front of the hotel”. I expected him to fly off the handle, but without looking up from the paper work he asked me if I had filled it with gas. “Yes”, I said. “As a matter of fact I did”. “No problem masseur”, this happens all the time” he uttered stoically. “You go home; we will find your car”. I tried to hide my amazement and didn’t say another word as I gratefully headed for the door. Apparantly the temporary borrowing of rental cars is common practice in St. Maarten.

At the layover in Puerto Rico on the way home I noticed actress Kristian Alfonso, who played Hope in the popular soap opera “Days of our Lives”, sitting at the gate near us. Having become somewhat addicted to soaps in college, I was a big fan of hers and nudged Terri to enlighten her on my discovery. She persuaded me not to bother her, so I fought off the urge to ask for an autograph.

Little did she know that the last twenty four hours of my life would have made a perfect script for her next episode.

Ups and Downs

MARILYN MCCOO


Ups and downs….ups and downs; we all have had our share of them.

At fifty-two years of age as I think back on my life, it’s been a roller coaster ride of astronomical highs and indescribable lows. Here are a few:

The peer pressure of adolescence and the heartbreaking ordeals that kids go through trying to socially “fit in”; don’t you remember how difficult those days could be?

First loves….the palpitation and flutter as your heart awakens to the desire for another. Is there anything as syrupy sweet in your life as your first true love?

High School and graduation; the deadline to get that last term paper done so you can graduate on time; the 12 hour cramming sessions for your final exams because you put it off to the last possible minute. The angst you felt as the teacher passed out that last test in the hushed silence of the brightly lit classroom, and the prayer you said as you flipped over the paper hoping the questions that you studied where actually on the test.

The joy of getting your driver’s license and the sense of freedom and independence it gave you at age sixteen. My 67 Ford Fairlane with “three on the column", ear shattering static for an AM radio, and no heater was the finest of rides. I had a seven mile drive to high school in the bitter cold Illinois winter and I was frozen by the time I got there. My friends called my “Pinky” because of the color of my face until I thawed out by the third period.

My parents divorcing at age twelve and feeling the uncertainty of the future. Despising her eventual new boyfriend and future husband didn’t help.

The birth of my four daughters made me understand what the definition of true love really is.

Excelling in basketball and escaping to Memphis where I planned to make the fine people of the “City of Trees” forget about Elvis. I fell a bit short on that one.

The phone call from my brother telling me to jump on a plane and return to Chicago immediately because my Dad suffered a heart attack; one year later he was diagnosed with colon cancer, but survived both.

The thrill it was to make the 1980 Eagles and get to the Super Bowl; and the heartbreak of falling short in the game.

The passing of my Father in Law Danny Vasturo and Mother in Law Helen Vasturo; two wonderful people.

My fiancee Terri exercised poor judgment (the only knock against her) as she accepted my proposal of marriage.

My daughter Alexandra was diagnosed with a rare germ cell cancer at one year of age and it gave a new meaning to the word terror; but her “all clear” ten months later brought a relief that can’t be described.

Buying my first Cadillac, and driving it off the lot in quietly sublime splendor.

My wife’s nearly fatal car accident in May of 2008 brought our world to a screeching halt.

Ups and downs…ups and downs; we all have had our share of them.

Speaking of ups and downs, let’s talk about elevators and the interesting experiences they can bring. I was once at a fancy hotel when I entered an empty elevator that had been recently occupied by someone who had spicy chili for lunch (if you know what I mean). The odor was horrendous, but I couldn’t get to the button in time to open the door and get off, so I had to hold my breath until the next stop. One floor prior to my greatly anticipated exit, the doors opened and a young couple entered. They looked at me in horror after their first collective deep breath. “It wasn’t me!” I exclaimed as I pleaded my innocence to a terrible crime I did not commit. They gave me the verdict of guilt however as they cursed me upon their exit.

I can remember being in Atlantic City at the old Golden Nugget when I walked into the elevator and noticed a statuesque figure in the back. It was none other than the lovely and talented singer Marilyn McCoo what was headlining a there at the time. I told her I was a big fan and she smiled at me as she got off on her floor.

Another time I was in Cincinnati playing ball when I got a “lift” on the elevator and I noticed another statuesque female in the back. There was a professional women’s tennis tournament in town that week. It was called the “Virginia Slims” tour back then. My eyes started at the large feet of this extremely tall athlete, went up past her well muscled legs, flat stomach and broad shoulders. When I got to her face, I recognized her as Dr. Renee Richards, the recent transsexual tennis player that was attempting to play on the women’s tour. I can recall going a bit numb as my fingers quickly reached for the button of the next available floor.

Ups and downs…ups and downs; we have all had our share of them.

Feedback...

An amazing number of responses and interesting content to my personal email to the story about Richard Nixon. I'm wondering why more of you don't leave a comment on the blog page for all to react to.

It's fairly easy. Just sign in as a follower and click the comment section of that particular story. That way we can have an open referendum on these particular issues.

Thanks for reading...more soon.

~ Ken

Changes....

NEW TEMPLATE AND COLORS FOR THE BLOG.....HOPE YOU LIKE.

THANKS FOR READING. MORE STORIES SOON.

~Ken

Many new faces to both the blog and the Facebook site. Thanks for reading...more stories coming soon!

Ken

Goodbye, Columbus

WOODY HAYES

My NFC Championship ring bears the score; Eagles 20-Dallas 7. Although I spent most of that season on injured reserve, it is the same ring that stars like Ron Jaworski, Bill Bergey, and Wilbert Montgomery were awarded; an injustice no doubt, but a fact nonetheless.

The loser of the Super Bowl gets either the AFC or NFC championship ring. The winner gets the world championship ring. The conference ring features the score of the game they won to get there. Somehow it wouldn’t look right to have a losing score displayed on a keepsake we were to proudly wear for eternity. The world champion’s ring is bigger, gaudier with more diamonds, and every professional athlete’s ultimate fairy tale.

The day after the NFC title game was the most anticipated Monday film session of the season. You have to understand, Monday morning a professional football player wakes up and feels like he has a bad case of the flu. Your body aches to high heaven and is incredibly stiff and sore. Usually teams bring you in on Monday’s to study film from the previous days game, but more importantly to have the players run and lift weights to alleviate some of that lingering soreness. Tuesday is normally your day off unless you’re injured, and everyone is always injured. So on this day your job is to meet with the trainer, get some treatment, and get ready for Wednesday practice. Then the vicious weekly cycle begins all over again.

On this particular Monday however, there was no evidence of pain on the faces on my teammates as they made their way into the meeting room to discuss our plans for the next two weeks. This year there was an off week prior to the Super Bowl, so GM Jim Murray and owner Leonard Tose had time to prepare for the ultimate road trip. I have never been in a happier room of people as I was for this particular meeting. To make things even better, we were informed that all players would be given two Super Bowl tickets, with the right to buy up to eighteen more. The price was $40 per ticket, and I couldn’t get my checkbook out fast enough.

Coach Vermeil backed off our practices a little that off week, but not much. I can remember being in full pads on the rock hard turf of freezing Veteran’s Stadium (pre practice bubble) while the starters were back to their normal thud tempo routine. There was some grumbling amongst some of the vets that practice should have been a no pads walkthrough, letting their battered bodies heal for the big game. I was fresh as a daisy however, and was so happy and excited to be a part of this that I would have worn someone else’s pads on top of mine just to be included in this event. Totally oblivious to the rules on scalping, I was planning on selling the eighteen tickets I had purchased at face value and make a killing. When a ticket broker approached me and offered me a mere $300 per ticket, I laughed at him. When I countered at $500 per ticket minimum, he wished me luck. So I planned to have my Dad down to the game and figure out what to do with these prime tickets when I got down there.

We left the following Monday for New Orleans and were swept up in a media and fan frenzy. From the moment we disembarked from the plane, there was a never ending list of meetings, practices, media appearances, and activities that would keep us busy for just about every waking moment. The broad smiles were evident on everyone walking down the airplane steps; from hard working assistant coaches Chuck Clausen and Dick Coury to player personnel director Carl Peterson to the equipment managers and everyone in between, this was a moment of a lifetime.

I shared a hotel room that week with Randy Logan, a devoutly spiritual veteran strong safety out of Michigan. Although I was somewhat abused as a lowly rookie free agent by a few of the established players, Randy couldn’t have been nicer and I was thrilled with my lottery pick of a roommate. Soon after we arrived and checked in the team hotel, we were hustled over to the Saints training facility for a brief workout. As we entered the practice locker room, we each had a large dressing space with our name over it, and it front of the locker was an eye high pile of gifts from every shoe and apparel company that had access to the area. T-shirts, spikes, sweats, and hats were abundant as we each filtered through our stash like kids on Christmas morning. And each day we arrived to work, there were more trinkets to stuff in your travel bag.

We practiced diligently that week, and Coach Vermeil had issued a strict eleven PM curfew every night for all players. Since our team hotel was near the airport far from the French Quarter, it made enjoying the New Orleans nightlife a little difficult. Our practice and film study usually ended around 6pm, so after a shower and a bite to eat it was either a rush trip to Pat O’Brien’s or the hotel bar. We were told later that each room had been given a rental car, but the team had decided not to allow us to have them. Our opponents the Oakland Raiders however, had been to the “show” previously and were taking full advantage of the transportation and the nightlife. We had read were a few of the Raiders were fined for coming in at 3AM during the week, and we sat there smugly in our comfy Super Bowl prison with confidence that we were going to beat this partying band of thugs in the big game.

My Dad arrived midweek, and the Eagles got him a room at the team hotel. I gave him the duty of scouting around town to see what he could get for my tickets. He would call me every night with a report that he couldn’t find a buyer, but would keep trying. I even called the guy who originally offered me $300 per ticket, but he laughed at me and told me to “take my tickets to the Super Bowl and shove them up my super hole.” Negotiations were never my strong suit.

Near the end of the week, Vermeil had invited legendary Ohio State football coach Woody Hayes to address the team. Although he exited football in 1978 due to a sideline confrontation with Clemson nose guard Charlie Bauman in the Gator Bowl, with a career record at Ohio State of 205-61-10 the pep talk seemed like a plausible idea. Hayes spoke of character and work ethic, and how it was not only right for the Philadelphia Eagles to be IN the game, it was right for the Eagles to WIN the game. It was a great speech, and even though I wasn’t going to play due to injury, when I left that meeting room I could have taken on the Ted Hendricks and Rod Martin myself with no problem.

Woody Hayes was an interesting and complex man. Like Coach Vermeil, he was driven to win, and found that his way to do it was to outwork his opponent. An honored veteran having served as a Lieutenant Commander in the US Navy during World War II; over the years coaches like Lou Holtz, Ara Parseghian, Bo Schembechler, and Earle Bruce had worked under him. Players Archie Griffin and Art Schlichter had played for him. And when he taught English at Ohio State (yes he was also Professor Hayes) fabled future basketball coach Bobby Knight was tutored by him. My favorite quote from Hayes was when asked why he went for a two point conversion when up by 36 points against Michigan, his reply was “because I couldn’t go for three.” A classic win at all cost and no holds barred philosophy.

There was also speculation that Hayes was faltering a bit at the end of his career, but was such an iconic figure in the state of Ohio that neither the AD or the President of Ohio State would dare let him go, so he orchestrated the career fatal blow to the Clemson player in order to give the OSU administration reason to fire him. You see, he was done, but he couldn’t quit. It wasn’t the Woody Hayes way.

History will show that we lost the game to Oakland 27-10. My Dad sold the tickets for face value five minutes before kick off. And Woody Hayes never coached again. You see, sometimes even the best of fairy tales have inglorious endings.

A Better Man

"He is so simple, and so wise. He makes you want to be a better man." - Rick Reilly

http://espn.go.com/video/clip?id=4691772

Hope you are enjoying the blog. More great stories to follow including....Jerry Lee Lewis, Ed McMahon, Henry Fonda, Woody Hayes, Jerry Buss, Jaromir Jagr, Evander Holyfield, John Riggins, and many more.

Please keep checking in.....thanks!

Ken

Worth the Wait

ARCHIE MANNING


These were pre-historic years. You’ve heard of BC and AC? I call this era BE (Before ESPN became a household acronym).

In the spring of 1980, my dormitory mailbox at Memphis State University was overloaded. I actually had the mail attendant keep a special large box for me because the small slot afforded to students wasn’t large enough for all the mail I was getting from professional football teams and agents as the NFL draft approached. An endless cavalcade of questionnaires from the likes of the Dallas Cowboys and Cincinnati Bengals; offers to make me an overnight millionaire and first round draft choice from every player representative that owned a pair of tasseled loafers; and interview requests from local media outlets were almost too much to take, and for sure too numerous to answer.

I was eagerly buying into the hype, wondering what Mercedes Benz I was going to buy with the huge signing bonus I was sure to receive once my name was called by then Commissioner Pete Rozelle at the NFL draft podium in NYC. Even though I was considered a high risk “project” because of my playing only two years of organized football in college (and no high school football at all), many football publications and prognosticators had me rated as high as the 5th, 6th, or 7th tight end in the draft because of my size, speed, and moderate success in college. Several agents would tell me their “influence” with teams might even pump me up to a 2nd or 3rd round draft choice, so I would lie in bed salivating on my pillow as the April draft approached. The Memphis media caught on to the frenzy, and I promised several TV and radio stations interviews once my name was selected.

As I said, this was pre ESPN wall to wall coverage and pre cell phone. You would give the teams a phone number where you could be reached on draft day, and you damn sure better be by it when it rang. So I set up shop in my dorm room on that fateful day of April 29, 1980 to await my fortune and the call of a lifetime. The draft was starting about 9am, so I set my alarm clock at 7 just to make sure I was up and alert when the call came. And I waited…

The first came about 10am, and it only rang for about 3 tenths of a second before I picked it up. Expecting to hear the voice of a GM or player personnel director, it was my mother asking me who had selected me. “Ma, no one has picked me yet! It’s still the first round. I will call you when I know something!” and hurriedly hung up the phone so I didn’t tie up the line. The next call came about 11:30, this time from my sixteen year old brother Mike asking me the same question; only I could hear my mother’s voice prompting him in the background. “Nothing yet…now stop calling me!” I responded. A little insensitive yes, but the pressure was building here.

Lunchtime was here, and still no call. Not knowing if the draft took a lunch break, I decided to order a delivery pizza so I didn’t have to leave the phone. The pizza arrived at 1:30, but still no call. It’s amazing what nervous energy can do to a neurotic person's appetite. I ate the entire pie in about twenty minutes. The phone remained silent.

It was now dinner time. My friends and teammates who had enjoyed the beautiful southern spring weather by playing Frisbee and drinking beer in the park were stopping by to see me. I’m sure they were appalled by the sight of my dark circled eyes as I peered out the crack in the door and ushered them away while I waited. “I wonder how long the draft goes on the first day?” was my thought as I prepared to order another delivery pizza for dinner. “I know, I’ll switch from sausage to pepperoni”, I said to myself and prepared to drown my sorrows in carbohydrates and mozzarella cheese.

At about 10pm I gave up for the day, but didn’t dare go out and face the intense questioning that awaited me from fellow students and friends. I just figured I would be chosen early on the second day and have to settle for a BMW as a consolation prize. The local news had the draft results on the nightly sportscast, and only four tight ends had been chosen in the first three rounds. My spirits were replenished! “It’s only a matter of time now” I said as I laid my exasperated head down to try and get some sleep.

The alarm clock went off as scheduled at 7am the next morning, and knowing that the draft didn’t start until 9 I decided to leave my room for the first time in 24 hours and eat breakfast in the cafeteria. Luckily, early Sunday morning isn’t prime time activity wise for college students, so I ate my oatmeal in sublime anonymity as I prepared for my glorious moment. I was back in my room at 8:30, just in case Tom Landry or Chuck Knox needed to get hold of me.

It was lunchtime now, and still no call. I decided the best remedy for this dilemma was Chinese food, so I ordered some egg “on my face” foo young to be delivered and help me through this ridiculous ordeal. At 3pm the phone finally rang. It was a local radio station reaming me out for not giving them the draft interview I had promised them. When I explained I hadn’t been drafted yet, he meekly conveyed his mea culpa and gently hung up the phone.

At 4:30 PM the phone rang again. It was the New Orleans Saints…finally I was drafted! But wait, it was the GM telling me that they had me highly rated but the draft was almost over. If I didn’t get drafted, would I consider flying down to New Orleans and signing with them as a free agent? I was crushed but tried to maintain some semblance of civility. “Sure”, I said. “Give me a call.” That same call was repeated with two other teams. The Eagles and Rams expressed the same interest. So when the final draft bell rang and my 48 hours of brutal torture was over, I hurriedly agreed to get out of town as fast as I could and visit the teams. Escape would be my salvation. First stop would be New Orleans, Louisiana.

I arrived at the airport to a reception of one. A local ball boy had been given the task to pick me up and take me to team headquarters. While the Saints first round draft choice Stan Brock from the University of Colorado was being shown the French Quarter and eating oysters, I was being shuttled to the team facility in an old van with under inflated tires. All the reporters were gone when I entered the office of the Saints general manager and sat down. He asked me if I had a good flight, but never bothered to take his eyes off the papers on his desk. He then summoned my ball boy/limo drive/personal escort to give me a tour of the facility. We walked into the weight room and there was one lonely figure working out; it was QB Archie Manning.

He waived me over and extended a sweaty hand to shake. I grasped it and asked him why he was the only one there working out. “Good question”, he answered, “maybe because I want to win worse than anybody else here.” We chatted for a bit as he pitched the company line and tried to recruit me to sign there. We said our goodbyes, and he went back to the vigorous exercise. His son Peyton Manning was 4 years old at the time, and Eli Manning hadn’t yet been born.

As it turned out, I signed with the Philadelphia Eagles as a rookie free agent, and made the 1980 NFC Championship team. My signing bonus was a whopping $4,000. Not quite enough for the Benz or the BMW, so I settled for a used MGB that I was way too big for and had to sell about a month later. I often thought about Archie Manning that season with some remorse about my being in the right place at the right time, having the opportunity of signing with a winner, and participating on a Super Bowl team so early in my career.

Archie never got his championship, but eventually his sons got it for him. A lot like my draft weekend the prize was a long time coming, but in the end… it was worth the wait.

Changes....

CHUCK DALY

1982 was a transitional year.

I was teaching tennis at Greg Luzinski’s Cherry Hill tennis courts, working in the weight room as a personal trainer, and doing anything I could to make money as I awaited my next professional football opportunity. Actually, as fate would have it, this is where I ran into Carl Peterson, the ex-player personnel director of the Eagles who had just signed on to run the Stars of the USFL. He was there getting tennis lessons for his daughter Dawn, and signed me to a contract for the 1983 season on the spot. If anyone ever tells you that timing and “who you know” doesn’t mean EVERYTHING, don’t believe them.

The weight room was rather tiny and offered just a couple of exercise bikes, a few nautilus machines, and some small dumbbells (I was the larger one). A middle aged man with a head full of great thick hair combed back in a pompadour entered one day, gave me a nod and a smile, and made a beeline to an exercise bike as he pedaled at a ferocious pace and devoured several newspapers in about a thirty minute workout. When he pulled the paper down from his face, I recognized it was Chuck Daly, the former assistant coach of the 76’rs and recently fired Head Coach of the Cleveland Cavaliers who was currently doing the color analysis for the Sixers games on the then local cable network Prism.

He asked me if I was who he thought I was, and I asked him if he was who I thought he was (even though I KNEW), and we started a friendly relationship and talked sports several times a week during his workouts. He was furious at being fired by Cleveland in less than one season, and was anxiously awaiting his next coaching opportunity. Not knowing how solid the USFL was going to be, I offered to be his assistant coach, gofer, equipment manager, or anything else that might get me into professional basketball. He thought I was joking and laughed me off, but if he had said yes to any one of the above I was his man!

Later that year, Daly was hired as the Head Coach of the Detroit Pistons, and went on an amazing run coaching the “bad boys” Isaiah Thomas, Bill Laimbeer, Dennis Rodman, and Rick Mahorn to two NBA championships back to back in 1990 and 1991. He finished his coaching career with the NJ Nets and Orlando Magic, but never attained the success he had with the Pistons.

As we sat there talking about our respective futures back in 1982, little did we know we would win 4 championships between us in the upcoming years. Not too bad for a couple of South Jersey boys killing time in a local tennis club.

Heroes

Heroes come in many shapes and sizes. They all have a few common characteristics which are; a moral compass pointing in the right direction, a work ethic that will carry them through difficult times, and a sense of compassion and caring for others.

I’ve chosen to chronicle a few of the people in my life who I consider heroes. Some you will have heard of, some not. But I feel it’s important to recognize them all.


DICK VERMEIL

You probably think I’m going to talk about football. But the reason I consider Coach Vermeil a hero has nothing to do with football. He’s my hero because he cares about others, regardless of the amount of time that has passed or the minimal role you played in his life.

I’ve talked about my wife’s almost fatal car accident last year. Luckily she survived and is well on the road to a full recovery. But it was touch and go for a few months. A couple of weeks after it happened; I was spending most of my days at the Cooper Hospital Trauma Center in Camden, NJ and was taking a break in the cafeteria one afternoon when my phone rang. It was Dick Vermeil. He somehow had heard about the accident and was calling to check up on us. Keep in mind I only played a couple of games for him 29 YEARS AGO. But to Dick, I was still a part of his extended family. He must have called me 6-7 times over the two months Terri was hospitalized, voicing the same concerns over and over.

We had a dinner recently at the Greate Bay Country Club in Somers Point, NJ to help promote his new line of wine (which, by the way, is delicious). There were two of his ex-players in attendance, and he recognized both of us. When it came my turn to be introduced, he rightfully talked mostly about how happy he was to see my wife there and how she was “tougher” than any first round draft choice he had ever selected. His wife Carol then stopped by our table to chat for over a half hour, and Terri was overwhelmed with the attention she was receiving.

I would be flattered if he even just remembered my name. Yet he took the time to call and check in on a bit player from almost thirty years ago that most coaches wouldn’t remember. That’s why Dick Vermeil is my hero.



JOE PATERNO

I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting Joe Paterno. But I’ve heard a multitude of stories about the legendary football coach from the Penn State players who were my teammates over the years; Chuck Fusina, Tommy Donovan, Scott Fitzkee, Bill Duggan, and Roger Jackson, just to name a few. Do you remember Tommy Donovan? He was the Stars wide receiver who would do a complete flip in the end zone after scoring a touchdown (since I only scored 1 career touchdown in a 4 year pro career, I never quite got my touchdown celebration down pat like TD). Anyway, he would do a great Joe Paterno imitation, screaming in a falsetto voice “get outta here!” the way the coach supposedly would do it at practice.

I was scratching my head a few years ago when this Hall of Fame coach suffered a couple of losses and people were calling for his scalp. They said he was “too old” and the game had “passed him by”. Here is a guy who has stayed at the same University for over 40 years, has a graduation rate 10 per cent over the national average, been a shining example of playing by the rules and to my knowledge has NEVER been accused of an NCAA violation, won two national championships, is the all time leader in wins in the history of college football, and has raised over 13 million dollars in charitable contributions to the school, not to mention his powerhouse teams draw over 100,000 fans for every home game.

C’mon, give the guy a break. He should coach as long as he is capable and feels healthy. Like Coach Johnny Wooden that I chronicled in a previous blog, Joe Paterno is my hero because he has made a lifetime out of doing it the RIGHT way.


MORE HEROES

My brother Mike Dunek who chose not to pursue college basketball even though he was a much better high school player than I was. He and his wife Anna stayed behind in Chicago while I moved out east, and are doing a great job of tending to my aging parents in my absence…..a great friend and business associate Betty Stahm of American Eagle Paper Mills who has backed me and the business I started up about a year ago and is as loyal and caring a person as I’ve ever met…….My father Jim Dunek and the memory of his headlights shining in my bedroom window as he left for work at 5am to make a living for us and sometimes not coming home until midnight, only to do it all over again the next day….My friend and massage therapist Cristina Giordano who is trying to keep these old battered football bones flexible enough to go on. She is a single mom, had the courage to follow her passion and start her own business, and is the best I’ve ever seen at what she does……Helena Sprague, who is my sister-in law and has endured so many hardships over the last four years but forges ahead with an incredible amount of grace, dignity, and tenacity... University of Pennsylvania Head Women's Basketball Coach Mike McLaughlin who teaches and coaches the game the way its meant to be played...

Stars owner Myles Tannenbaum whose belief in his team and financial support transcended into one of the best records in the history of professional football...Dr. Greg Halligan of St. Christopher's Childrens Hospital in Philadelphia for making a dramatic difference in the lives of kids with cancer and their families....Pat Maguire is that special friend that comes along once in a lifetime and is someone you could call anytime day or night and know he would be there for you…My sophomore basketball coach Roger Cannon who would meet me at the school gym before school at 6:30Am to work on my game...Sam Mills, my late, great ex-teammate with the Stars of the USFL who proved its not the size of your body that makes a great player, its the size of your heart....Brian Sprague, my nephew who survived a terrible worksite accident and is courageously on the mend....My friend and associate Tommy Hyland who has taught me more about kindness, honesty, and generosity than anyone ever did, and has made me a better person in return….

My late mentor Coach Murray Armstrong of Memphis State University who encouraged me to give football a try, and then to stick with it when the going got rough....Marjorie Sprague, who is the sister of my brother in law Mike Sprague. She survived non hodgkins lymphoma AND a heart transplant and started a charitable foundation called "The Queen of Hearts" that benefits heart disease and cancer patients....Carl Peterson for believing in me enough to sign me to my first professional contract....Ernie Banks of the Chicago Cubs, whose effervescent personality and indominable enthusiasm endeared me to the team and to the greatest ballpark on earth..Wrigley Field.

My daughter Ashley Dunek, who was a standout basketball player and got a full ride to Holy Family University, a nationally ranked D2 school in Philadelphia. I have never enjoyed anything as much in my life as I enjoyed watching her play basketball….her triplet sisters Alexandra, Taylor and Jamie are great examples of young people that give us all hope that the future is in good hands…..and finally my wife Terri, who has been a great Mom to four girls… slept on the floor of our nursery for six months as she tended to triplets, gave nursing care to our daughter Alex who battled cancer at 1 year of age, and has put up with an over inflated ego as a husband for 27 years now. When I think of her, the words respect and gratitude immediately come to mind.

You are ALL my heroes…and I thank you.

Mr. Wizard

Lot's of people joining the facebook site for the blog.....thanks!

Hope you enjoy this story about two legendary basketball coaches...Ken

JOHNNY WOODEN AND DENNY CRUM

There is nothing like college basketball.

If I had to rate my favorite yearly sporting events, they would be in this order; the NCAA college basketball tournament, the Masters, the Super Bowl, the US Open golf tournament, and then the World Series.

There is something about college basketball; the purity of the game and the excitement of single elimination provide a drama that no other sport can come close to for me. The George Mason’s and Gonzaga’s of the world knocking off the Duke’s and UCLA’s on a last second shot is electrifying and mesmerizing. I absolutely love NCAA basketball.

Actually, any state high school basketball tournament is almost as good. Although I was able to compete in sports at a very high level, to this day my worst athletic loss was being upset my senior year in the Illinois high school state tourney by a team from South Beloit, Illinois who was 6-6 in our conference and had only made it that far by hitting a buzzer beater half court shot to win by one point the previous game. I can remember my coaches Bill Barry and Roger Cannon with tears in their eyes after that loss. They loved the game as much or more than I did, and it killed me that we weren’t able to win it for them. I did learn a valuable lesson though; never underestimate your opponent. In my opinion, you can learn the best lessons sometimes in the most difficult of circumstances.

NBA basketball doesn’t come close to college bball. The guaranteed contacts and lack of emotion and hustle provide a funeral like pall over most of the games I have attended. Even though the league sports the “best of the best” in talent, something is missing. Keep the pyrotechnics and scantily clad cheerleaders. Spill your guts on the floor if you want me to buy a ticket.

I was having dinner with a friend recently in Philadelphia when he recognized an acquaintance and waived him over to the table. It was Harold Katz, the former owner of the Philadelphia Seventy-Sixers. We were introduced, and in my effort to make small talk, I asked him if he missed owning the team. He replied, “not at all”. I was puzzled by his answer, so I asked him why. He responded, “how would you like to own a business where you guarantee all the salaries before they start work, and then they can tell you to go f*** yourself if you say anything to them about their performance”? It was blunt language, but I got the picture. I quickly crossed owning an NBA franchise off my bucket list.

As a member of the Memphis State basketball team for two years, I had the privilege of participating in the Metro conference tournament at the end of each season. My junior year it was held at the University of Cincinnati, and being the college hoops nut that I am I attended every game our coach would allow me to. Many of the guys stayed back at the team hotel eating and watching movies. I was at the arena soaking up the atmosphere. At one preliminary game I found myself sitting next to a familiar figure; legendary Louisville basketball coach Denny Crum.

Denny Crum was the top assistant for someone whom I believe is the greatest coach in the history of sports; UCLA’s John Wooden. As I introduced myself to Coach Crum and chatted a bit, all I could think of was the wealth of experience he must have gleaned from Wooden. Anyone can coach X’s and O’s, but Coach Wooden took it farther. I’ve read where he never talked to his team about winning, only about playing and preparing as best they could, and yet they won. How about 10 NCAA championships and seven in a row? Now that’s winning! And Denny Crum participated in that success with Wooden helping him to three of those titles as an assistant before becoming the Head Coach at Louisville in 1971, where he won two national championships himself.

I’m sure I bored him during our twenty minute talk. He probably at one point thought I was planted there by the Memphis coaches to distract him while scouting his next opponent. But he was very nice and polite and we shook hands as he left his court side seats to huddle with his assistants. I shook the hand that shook the hand of the greatest coach in sports history. For a basketball junkie like me, it doesn’t get much better than that.

I thought I would leave you with John Wooden’s seven point creed. It applies not to basketball, but more importantly, it applies to life:

Be true to yourself.
Make each day your masterpiece.
Help others.
Drink deeply from good books, especially the Bible.
Make friendship a fine art.
Build a shelter against a rainy day.
Pray for guidance and give thanks for your blessings every day.

Thanks Coach Wooden for your wisdom, and thanks to you Coach Crum for your patience … with a young man with stars in his eyes, and the courage to try and accomplish extraordinary things.

And I might add this; treat each day like its your single elimination NCAA tournament game. But like Coach Wooden, don't play to win. Play the game right, and you're sure to come out a winner.

Hey everyone. I'm a novice at the internet, but I was able to put a fan page on facebook for the blog. You see it on the top left of the page. The problem is I can't really seem to do much else with it. Hopefully once I get a profile picture on there it will start to look more professional.

Thanks for checking in...more stories soon. Let's get some more followers...spread the word!

Ken

Sorry for the delay.... be back soon with more stories. Thanks for checking in..... Ken

Go Phils

Interesting that the Phillies play at 9:30 and 10pm this weekend in weather more suited for hockey than baseball. Like i said in my previous post, the tail is wagging the dog here, and its all about the almighty dollar.

Working on several stories...Jack Kemp, Burt Reynolds, Jaromir Jagr, Joe Torre, John Matuzak.

Thanks for checking in.....GO PHILS

Comments...

Received many phone calls, emails, and text messages about the post titled " A Friend in Need". Thanks!

If you haven't had a chance, please read some of the comments that follow that post on the blog. Obviously, many people felt the same about Leo Roselli.

Ken

Breath of Fresh Air..

Hold outs.....Plaxico Burress......player's union on strike.....Pac Man Jones.....charging for autographs.....Pete Rose...... contract renegotiations......games that end far past my bedtime....Barry Bonds.......HGH.....Roger Clemons...personal seat licenses....Milton Bradley...guaranteed contracts....rich NFL owners that won't give even meager benefits to struggling older Hall of Fame players....lock outs....Sammy Sosa.......opposing players having a friendly chat and patting each other on the rump both pre game and at halftime....John Calipari...it goes on and on and on.

Sports has become a soap opera. The big money has clouded everyone's judgement. If I can't stay up late enough to watch a World Series game, how can I expect my kids to follow baseball with the same passion that I developed as a kid?

NCAA basketball coaches go from program to program getting richer and richer leaving a wake of recruiting violations for their former school and ex-players to deal with.

Have you watched an NFL game lately? There are so many commercials, it wouldn't surprise me if in a cost cutting move the teams did away with oxygen tanks on the sideline. There is no need when you have a 3 minute break every 6 plays.

$100 a ticket for Flyers games? In this economy?? How are the blue collar Dad and Mom supposed to take their two sons to a game and spend this kind of money? Let's see...$400 for tickets...$20 to park....$80 for hot dogs, beers, sodas, and souveniers. $500 for a night out? Outrageous!

NBA players that have 100 million dollar deals and complain that their teammate has a 110 million dollar deal. The union refuses to test for marijuana. Come on...I'll bet you there is more hash in an NBA hotel than Dinty Moore.

Having said all that, two things happened last week that gave me hope. Small signs for sure, but it's something for a sports lover to cling to:

The Detroit Lions won their first game this year after going 0-16 the previous season. After the game and the post game prayer, the players filed out of the locker room and shook hands with the loyal fans that remained in the stadium and have supported them through this ordeal. Finally, a touch of class.

The Philadelphia Phillies clinched their third consecutive NL East crown last week. After the usual champagne celebration in the locker room, the players went back on the field to spray bubbly on and touch the sign honoring the late Phillies broadcaster Harry Kalas who died unexpectedly earlier this season.

Two signs that maybe some small shreds of sanity and humanity are creeping back into sports. It's about time, wouldn't you say?

A Friend in Need...

Stuck at 27 followers...if you like the blog please spread the word!

Hope you enjoy this post about a dear friend....

Ken

LEO ROSELLI


I’ve chronicled my athletic background ad nauseum in this blog. For a guy most people don’t remember (I’m too egocentric to say never heard of), I have a fairly impressive athletic resume, if I do say so myself. Special mention All State basketball in High School, All- Region NJCAA basketball in junior college, division one scholarship basketball at Memphis State, division one football scholarship at Memphis State (without having played ANY high school football), member of the 1980 NFC Champion Philadelphia Eagles, member of the 1983-85 two time USFL champion Philadelphia/Baltimore Stars, three professional football championship rings, and a scrapbook that equals the bulk of the local yellow pages. For a farm boy from northern Illinois, I can look back on my achievements with great pride. However, I won an award on Monday that I will forever cherish. It doesn’t have any diamonds, and it is possibly the smallest trophy in my possesion. But what it represents is incredibly important.

For those of you who know me personally, my family hasn’t had the easiest of times. Blessed with four daughters and a set of triplets, our daughter Alexandra is a cancer survivor, but the chemotherapy treatments cost her most of her hearing and part of her eyesight. My wife Terri had a terrible mishap last May in front of our home when she was hit by a car while standing near our driveway. I rushed back from a business meeting in NYC to find her in the Cooper Hospital trauma unit with a badly bruised and bleeding brain. Thank God she survived, but it was two months of hell between Cooper and the rehab hospital. During this period, I had a dispute with my employer regarding the time I missed while being at the hospital attending to my wife, and I left my six figure position. Two weeks later, the stock market crashed and even though I have an impeccable resume and a history of success in my field, I found most employers shying away from hiring a 50+ high salary salesman due to financial conditions. So I started my own company and now work out of my home. It’s been a roller coaster ride to say the least.

Prior to my wife’s accident, she was employed in food preparation for the family owned Italian specialty food store L. E. Roselli’s in Medford, NJ. This small shop with a huge kitchen in the back turns out some of the most authentic and delicious Italian lasagna, marinara sauce, sausage and meatballs (among other goodies) that you have ever tasted. It was owned and operated by Leo Roselli, who took it over from his parents Delores and Leo Roselli several years ago. Around the holidays the line wraps around the door to get in. Not only is the food great, the prices are fair. Needless to say, it’s a most popular and thriving business.

When Terri was injured, my cell phone was ringing off the hook. I was literally exhausted and my nerves were shot. Although I was so appreciative of the love and concern everyone was showing for my wife and our family, I was physically incapable of answering all the calls I was receiving at that time. I did try to call a select few, and they were so kind to spread the word to the others that we were all doing as well as could be expected, but it was touch and go at the time. When the phone rang one more time and I saw it was Leo, I mustered the strength to hit the “send” button on my cell and accepted the call.

“Listen, Ken. I won’t keep you long. I just want to tell you that everyone here loves you and your family, and we are going to keep paying Terri her full salary as long as we possibly can” Leo said. “When you get around to it, eventually you can stop in and I can help you fill out the state disability papers, but for right now I want you to just take care of your family and let me help you here”. “By the way, Ed DiLorenzo (Leo’s second in command) and I are coming over tonight to cut your lawn. You stay at the hospital, and call me if you need anything” Of course I was appreciative, but was too tired to express it properly at the time. I merely whimpered a heartfelt “thanks” as we ended the conversation, and brushed the tears of gratitude away from my eyes.

On Friday of that week, Delores Roselli called the house and my daughter Taylor answered. “Can you come over here”? she asked. “I’ve got your Mom’s paycheck and I’d like to give it to you”. So Taylor got in her mom’s Honda Pilot and headed towards the store. She was back in about thirty minutes and hurried inside to speak to me. “Dad”, she said, “I need your help bringing all this in”. “Bringing what in”? I asked. “Why do you need help bringing Mommy’s paycheck in”? “No”, Taylor countered. “They filled the car with food.”

I went outside and my jaw dropped. My large SUV was filled to the brim with more food than Mussolini’s army could have hoped for. Italian bread, cheese, frozen and fresh pasta, sauce, you name it. It took us about 20 minutes to unload it all and put it away. And this episode repeated itself week, after week, after week; more food, more paychecks, and more philanthropy than I had ever experienced.

Leo didn’t want to bother me with phone calls. But I noticed when I would come home late at night from the hospital the lawn was mowed and edged often. I knew who did it, and it was so incredibly thoughtful. “What a great guy and what a nice family”, I said to myself as I struggled in the door to do the household duties Terri had done so often that I had so much taken for granted. I truly had an appreciation for my wife, the Roselli’s, my health and family, and many other things this latest life lesson had taught me.I visited Leo as often as I could during this period, and expressed the gratitude that I felt to him and his family. The last time I saw him I mentioned that he looked like he was losing weight, and he said he had no idea why.

Leo Roselli died on Tuesday, July 14 2009 after a short but courageous battle with a rare cancer of the sweat glands. He was 43 years old, and left a wife Laura, two young sons Matthew and Leo, along with hundreds of heartbroken family, co-workers and friends. They had a golf tournament in his honor last Monday. I shot a 77 and won a small trophy of a school bus as my prize. Although I never got to play golf with him, it seems Leo had a terrible slice and hit his ball inside a school bus traveling down an adjacent road to the golf course once. Luckily no kids were on the bus at the time, and he disavowed any knowledge of the act when the angry driver confronted the foursome. So it was decided that the trophy to the winner would be that of a school bus. I will place it on a prominent spot in my trophy area and cherish it as much or more than any of the afore mentioned accomplishments.

When Billy Joel wrote “Only the Good Die Young”, he could have been writing about Leo Roselli. And he will be missed by all of us. Had he gotten to know him, even that school bus driver would surely miss him as well.

Thanks for the great response to "A Father's Wishes". More posts soon to follow.

Ken

A Father's Wishes....

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A little change of pace today from the celebrity posts. Not to worry, I have a ton of stories yet to publish regarding well known people I've run into over the years.




As many of you know, I am the father of four daughters. 26 year old Ashley, and 19 year old TRIPLETS Alexandra, Taylor, and Jamie. To say raising them has been interesting is the understatement of the year. All good kids...but quite the handful for my wife Terri and me. And I'm proud to say I still have my hair! Admittedly it is turning a nice shade of sandy blond but I can blame that on the sun from golf.




My daughter Alexandra is currently writing a short bio regarding her experiences being a cancer survivor, and she added a letter I wrote to all of them as they entered high school titled " A Father's Wishes". I thought I would share it with you:

A FATHER'S WISHES

As you enter high school and become young ladies, here are my wishes for your lives:

Enjoy a relationship with God and talk to him often. He will help you get through whatever difficult times may lay ahead. Even though I’m not a devout church goer, I pray everyday for strength and guidance.

Maximize your educational experience by studying and working hard, getting involved in as many school activities as you can. I know school can be boring, but education can be essential to financial success and becoming a worldly and well rounded individual. Its not always the hard and fast rule (your mom is one of the greatest people I ever met and she didn’t go to college, but I’m sure she wishes she did)...but you can be ANYTHING you want to be, so start setting those goals now.


Enjoy sports. Its not always about being a star, sometimes it is great fun just to be a part of a team and enjoy new relationships, I think all three of you have the potential to shine in whatever sport you pick, but it takes WORK to stand out above others. I hope you choose to do that. As hard as it was for me to make a professional football team, I don’t remember the work. I just remember the good times and achievements.


Trust your conscience, it will tell you if something is right or wrong. Peer pressure can be one of the biggest challenges you will ever face. It takes a strong person to make the right choices, and even though I don’t expect you to be perfect, I expect you to have the strength to do the right thing.


Appreciate your health and work on keeping fit and strong. All the money in the world will not matter if you are not healthy enough to enjoy it.


Communicate with your Mom and Dad. We care for you more than anyone will ever care for you in your lives. And even though you may get on each others nerves, stick together as sisters. Your relationship with each other will last all your lives.


So that’s it. As I was looking at you blossom into beautiful young ladies this weekend, I just figured it was time to write this all down......I love you all to the depths of my existence, and wish you the very best life has to offer.

Love, Dad

Boy Am I Thirsty

Here's a riddle. What's black and white, 13" across, has three channels and a knob that keeps falling off? The answer is... my bedroom television while growing up in the 60's. Can you imagine the inconvenience of actually having to GET UP to change the station or to raise the volume without a remote? And the three choices were limited to the major networks on VHF, with rare occasional features on public television (for some reason I couldn't get into The French Chef with Julia Child back then), and some scattershot programing on UHF if you could actually see through the snowy reception. Thank God for rabbit ears and aluminum foil.

There wasn't much to do in Northern Illinois on an isolated farm about 65 miles northwest of Chicago where I grew up. My brother Mike and I created games like "home run derby" played with a wiffle ball bat and crumpled tin cans off the wall of the barn. You got 27 outs and had to hit the very top to score. Coupled with an old basketball hoop in the barn that didn't help my severe hay fever back then, we were really struggling for extra curricular activities. Skipping stone contests off the pond on the back of the property and driving my Dad's beat up Volkswagon beetle around the place took up a lot of the idle time. But when the dastardly Chicago winters came around; forget it. It was indoor activities only, which meant the television.

Wrestling was a great option for Sunday morning viewing since I wasn't into church programming like "Mass for Shut ins or Lamp unto my Feet". It was bawdy, loud, unsophisticated, and thoroughly entertaining. Verne Gagne, Nick Bockwinkle, Hercules Cortez, Dick the Bruiser with his brother The Crusher, and Red Bastien were my TV companions back then, and my brother and I would huddle around the screen to watch the crude drama unfold each week. (I actually met Red Bastien and wrestling legend Lou Thesz at a wrestling promotion once, similar to a scene from Mickey Rourk's movie "The Wrestler", which is quite the accurate pictorial of this genre by the way. They both were quite personable, but Thesz had an ear that looked like a cauliflower.) If you got REAL lucky, you might see a title match, or the best scenerio was some actual blood might shed from the forehead of an unsuspecting victim. Morbid, I know; but remember we are talking extreme boredom here.

After leaving home for college, I had other options for entertainment and my interest in professional wrestling wained. Also, I found out it was "less than authentic" and my feeling of violation was exceeded only by my finding out that Santa Claus wasn't for real. I was mad at my parents for that and I was almost as mad at the wrestling profession for their lack of honesty, so I stopped watching for the most part. Like I said in previous posts, I did catch Hulk Hogan in Memphis or Ric Flair on TNT from time to time, but it was no where near my level of devotion growing up.

My teammate and quarterback for the Stars of the USFL in the 80's was Chuck Fusina, an All American from Penn State who was actually the runner up to Billy Sims in the 1979 Heisman Trophy voting. (He actually won an award called the "Weisman" instead which got him free food and beverages at all Victoria Station restaurants back then, and believe me we took full advantage of it.) It turns out he was still a big fan of pro wrestling, and he asked me to go to the match with him after practice one night. I wasn't really all that interested, but he said he knew the wrestler Dusty Rhoads from his time spent being Doug Williams back up QB with the Tampa Bay Bucs and he had free passes to the event courtesy of Rhoads himself. I had nothing to do that night so I tagged along across Broad Street to the Spectrum to watch this fraudulent opera in tights take place.

We get to the arena and go to will call for the tickets. There is a message waiting for us to go to the far north end of the building and ask directions to the "Participant Lounge" where Virgil Runnels Jr. aka Dirty Dusty Rhoads will meet us and take us backstage before the bouts begin. As we've discussed in previous stories, backstage of ANYTHING is an interesting journey, so we headed there with a sense of anticipation. Upon entering the lounge I see human beings of immense proportions stretching large limbs and whispering secret instructions to each other. This was either a big man's gay nightclub or pro wrestlers getting their act together for the coming performance. "WHAT'S UP CHUCKY?", Rhoads bellowed as we caught sight of him approaching us, showing no sign of the legendary lisp he would speak with on televised interviews. "Great to see you again, Dusty", Fusina replied. "Thanks for the tickets". Rhoads and I were introduced and the three of us began to chat.

I stared at Rhoad's forehead and saw a line of 20-30 little scars right under his hairline. He noticed me looking at them and referenced his cut line, which turns out to be where these guys nick themselves with a shred of a razor blade to make themselves bleed. The line of scars was bleached much whiter than his normal skin tone, and he explained they have to keep peroxide on the cuts to avoid infection. I guess every job has its unique set of dues to pay.

"Can you do me a big favor?', Dusty asked us. "A fellow wrestler named Magnum TA (Terry Allen) and I need a ride to the hotel by the airport after the match, can you hook us up?' It was in the opposite direction of our respective homes in South Jersey but we agreed to do our host and his co-worker the favor. Dusty then directed us to our ringside seats for the matches with details on where to meet him afterwards. I must admit being that close to the action was more interesting than i anticipated. These guys are real athletic, and how they don't really hurt themselves more often while doing some of these incredibly difficult stunts is amazing. We enjoyed the matches and waited afterwards for our riders to meet us for the trip back to the airport hotel.

Leaving the arena we were besieged by fans. Chuck and I were used to dealing with a few autograph seekers from time to time, but these guys had a following like the Rolling Stones! We eventually made it to our car with a little help from security, and drove off to get our combatants home for the night. "Come have a drink", Rhoads insisted as we arrived. So we parked the car and headed inside. Sitting down in the bar I noticed every wrestler from the show was in here. Good guys and bad guys who were "fighting to the death" mere moments ago now had their arms around each other drinking and laughing out loud. I felt the anger rise up in me again, but fought off the memories of Santa and the feelings of betrayal as I saw the waitress coming over to take our order. "Sorry guys, last call", she said.

"Last call?" we questioned, not realizing how late it had become. She said it was twenty minutes to closing and it was definitely last call. "Fine", Rhodes counters," bring me 30 beerths". The lisp that I thought he had mastered and previously mentioned had shown up. The three of us looked at each other in astonishment. "Thirty beers?", Chuck exclaims. "We don't have time to drink thirty beers? But Rhoads insisted on his order and the waitress filled our table with 30 bottles of Miller Lite. Magnum TA had three of them, Chuck had two, I had three, and no lie; Dusty drank 22 beers himself by the time the bar closed about 30 minutes later. I had never seen such a drinking exhibition in my life! He insisted on paying the tab with no help from us, and seemed totally fine as we ended our night and he headed for the hotel elevator. What was even more astonishing was that he never went to the restroom while we were there! I kept thinking to myself that he must have a hollow leg. "Where in the world is the beer going?", I kept repeating to Chuck.

Let's see...thirty beers times 4 performances a week times 52 weeks in a year. What's the NYSE symbol for the Miller Brewing Company? It's got to be a good investment as long as pro wrestling is around. And I think I know what Dusty asks Santa for every year. Razor blades, antiseptic, and salty pretzels have got to be on his list.

Response

Got the biggest response yet from the last entry Love, Love. Was it the writing or the picture of Patti McGuire??

Working on the next batch...will post soon. Thanks for checking in.

Ken

Working on....

Jack Kemp, "Dirty" Dusty Rhoads, Tommy Lasorda.....

WORKING ON MORE GOOD STORIES...WILL POST SOON!

Improvements

Adding some pics and colors to the blog. More stories in the works.

Thanks for checking in ~ Ken

Thanks for reading...working on the next batch of stories.....Ken

If You Could Read My Mind....

18 followers and growing! I appreciate it, and if you enjoy the blog tell your friends and let's make this thing grow! I have many, many more stories to tell, so I think we will be in business for awhile.

Here is a brief story about singer/songwriter Gordon Lightfoot. And as always, your comments and reactions are appreciated.


GORDON LIGHTFOOT

On a snowy winter night during the 1977-78 season, the Memphis State University basketball team shuffled into the old Kiel Auditorium in St. Louis, Missouri to play the St. Louis Billikens in a division one NCAA Metro conference game. This place was a mausoleum, really archaic. But it was rich with history having been built in 1934, and was the home of the old St. Louis Hawks of the NBA, and had hosted several NBA All Star games.

It was the norm for the team to get to the arena quite a bit before game time to get dressed, taped, stretch, and go through the normal pre game warm up routine. Normally only a few die hard fans were there on our arrival since the tip off was about two hours away. I mentioned to my teammate John Kilzer that the parking lot was unusually crowded when we got there, and he mentioned he had heard there was a concert at the arena this night. “A concert”, I said quizzically, “How can there be a concert on the night we are playing a game?” He informed me that Kiel was split into two parts and could house both events simultaneously. “Who is performing?” I inquired. “Gordon Lightfoot, I think”, was his reply.

Gordon Lightfoot was a native Canadian and folk singer who had a string of hits starting in 1970 with his classic “If You Could Read My Mind”. He followed that up with other hits like “Sundown”, “Carefree Highway”, and my personal favorite, “The Wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald”. He was truly a balladeer and his songs always told an interesting story. I was a big fan and excited to hear he was in town.

So the team is dressed and lined up in the staging area waiting to go onto the court, when Kilzer and I notice that we are also sharing the backstage area of the concert arena. We poke our head out the stage curtain, and see the place is packed with excited fans. “Wow”, John says, “I think there are more people in here than to see our game”, which didn’t surprise me since the St. Louis University program at the time wasn’t having much success. We are both acting like a couple of kids when I feel a tap on my shoulder.

“Good crowd tonight?” was the question the stranger asked me. I turned around to reply, and I’m standing face to face with Gordon Lightfoot himself. “What song do you think I should start with?” he asks. “Do you have a favorite?” I was stammering and blubbering trying to think of a witty reply when he erupted with a big laugh and extended his hand. As I shook it, I noticed something strange. He had the longest fingernails I had ever seen on a man. Kilzer, being a musician himself, explained to me that it is common for acoustic guitar players to grow them long so they can pluck the strings. We quickly said our goodbyes, wished each other well on our respective performances, and hustled off to do our business.

I don’t remember the outcome of that game, but we were the better team and finished the regular season 20-6, so I’m pretty sure we won. I didn’t get to play much, and I can remember sitting there on bench sorry that I wasn’t on the other side of the arena listening to Gordon Lightfoot.

One final note; my ex teammate John Kilzer went on to a recording career himself playing and singing Bob Dylan type music, and had quite a following in the south. He never really made it to the big time however, and quit to become a preacher in Tennessee. Gordon Lightfoot, who has been nominated for five Grammy awards, is still playing and singing his unique brand of music. Hopefully he has the entire arena all to himself.

Growing...

15 followers...not bad!

Great stories in the works.....Gordon Lightfoot, Joe Torre, Charles Barkley..and many others.

Please pass the address to anyone you think might be interested...and thanks for reading!

Ken

Update

After receiving multiple emails, phone calls, and text messages regarding the blog, I am hopeful most of you are enjoying it. There should be an average of 3-4 new stories per week.

So many left to tell.....keep the comments coming.

Thanks, Ken

On Deck

Thanks for all the positive feedback....

John Travolta, Johnny Unitas, Bryant Gumbel, Jack Kemp....all in the near future.

Please keep reading......Ken

Thanks for the feedback

Thanks for the feedback on my Hulk Hogan story.

If it wasn't clear....Hulk's real name is Terry Bollea. He used the name Terry Boulder while wrestling in Memphis, and then changed it to Hulk Hogan after being on a talk show with Lou Ferrigno who played "The Incredible Hulk". Terry also wrestled under the name Sterling Golden for a brief period of time.

Next story soon to follow.....Ken

Back to Work

Hope everyone had a great weekend.

I guess some of you are enjoying the blog. I was actually getting email and texts asking for more stories...but I took the weekend off!

I do think you will enjoy today's entry about wrasslin superstar Hulk Hogan. And don't forget the comments!

Ken


HULK HOGAN

The summer of 1978 was a good one. I was working as stage security for Mid-South Concerts in Memphis where music has legendary roots. From Elvis to the blues to Jerry Lee Lewis, it is a large part of the cities history and culture. All the shows were at the Mid South Coliseum, a place I knew well since it served as our home court for the Memphis State University Tigers basketball games. All the big touring acts had Memphis as a stop. I can remember seeing Heart, The Eagles, Bad Company, Kansas, The Cars, Jackson Brown, and many other great sounds of the era. It was such a cool job.

Working stage security was a piece of cake. The promoters loved having the Memphis athletes as security for several reasons. For one, we are rather large and served as a deterrent to some of the rowdy fans. For two, Memphis at that time has no pro sports, so we were actually big celebrities in the city, which added to the buzz of the concert when the people saw our recognizable faces at the show. They never gave us the bad jobs either. We were always situated to the side where we could sit near the stage and watch the performance. I always felt bad for the guys in front of the stage. They had their ears blasted by the amps, and had their back to the show the entire time. And when there was a rush of fans toward the talent, I’m sure it looked like a tidal wave of humanity coming towards them.

After the show, the promoters had no problem with us hanging around backstage. This was advantageous for a couple of reasons. We could get a glimpse of the musicians, and catch sight of the female groupies following the musicians. Keeping with the PG theme of the blog, I won’t go into great deal about some of the activities I witnessed going on here, but just let me say that the sex, drugs, and rock and roll theme of the era was very, very true.

There were also levels to the backstage areas. The immediate area was pretty much open to anyone with a badge. There was not much going on here other than the engineers, techs, and roadies breaking down the set for the next show. Then there was the intermediate area where band members would actually take some photos, greet some fans, and make their “appointments” with pretty girls for that night, the next show, or the next time they were in town. Then the ultra exclusive area was the talent dressing room area. This was ultra exclusive with no access permitted to ANYONE that wasn’t a member of the group or close entourage… except for us, of course.

I was a big fan of Ann and Nancy Wilson of Heart. Actually, to this day I think it was the best live musical performance I have ever seen. Ann had incredible vocal range, and Nancy could wail on the guitar about as good as any guy. So my security buddy and I decided to venture towards the “forbidden catacombs” of the dressing room. We got to the final door when a figure emerged from the shadows. This figure looked to be about 6’8” and about 300 pounds. He was one LARGE hurdle to jump to get to see the Wilson sisters.

Back around this time WMC-TV in Memphis had a live local professional “wrestling” show every weekend. I put “wrestling” in quotation marks because it is undeniably orchestrated and should go under the heading of theater rather than sport. I will write about “Dirty Dusty Rhoads” in another blog to follow, so stay tuned.

There was a brother act in the show featuring Terry and Eddie Boulder. It was comical because it was basically the same scenario every week. Eddie was a slightly built guy who would take on the local champ (ala a Jerry “The King” Lawler), get the tar beat out of him, and then his massive brother Terry would jump in the studio ring to save him from certain death, or at least massive injuries. I wasn’t a huge devotee of the program, but I did watch occasionally and the theme seemed to repeat itself over and over and over, with only Eddie’s opponent changing.

As I approached the figure at the dressing room door, the light hit his face and I immediately recognized him as Terry Boulder. “Hey, you’re the wrestler” I said to him. “And you’re the basketball player that never seems to get on the court”, he replied. We were both correct. “Can I get in to see the sisters?” I asked. “No can do my friend” was his answer. “But I can crack the door and give you a peek”. I took him up on his offer, and actually caught Nancy Wilson blow drying her hair. I stared for as long as I could before his benevolence ended and the door closed.

We chatted for a few minutes about wrestling and basketball. He was kind of quiet, but actually a pretty nice guy. He had this “tiger eye” ring he let me try on. Keep in mind that my ring size is 14 and his ring was spinning around my finger with plenty of space to fill. This indeed was one large human.

As I understand it, soon after this Sylvester Stallone was traveling through Memphis and caught Terry’s act on TV. He then went down to the studio to meet him, and found he was just what he was looking for to cast in his next sequel Rocky III. Obviously Terry parlayed that into mega success and the WWF championship, and remains in the public eye today. I often wondered what he did with the $20 a night we got for working stage security. He probably bought razor blades to tuck into his wristbands.

Recap

Hope everyone enjoyed this week's entries.

In the weeks to follow, look for more true stories including the likes of Don Rickles, Hulk Hogan, Vince Lombardi, Mike Tyson, Tommy Lasorda, and many others.

Keep the comments and emails coming....have a great weekend!

Ken

First Entry

Welcome to my blog!

Some of you may know that I played professional football from 1980 to 1985, officially retiring in 1987. Retiring in my case is a nice way of saying no one was interested in my services any longer. Regardless, I played four full seasons and made it to the league final game all 4 years ( 1 Super Bowl, 3 USFL Championship games). I tried to market myself as a good luck charm to several general managers, but with no success.

During those years, and even before, I had the opportunity to meet and interact with some of the most famous and interesting people on the planet. In the near future, you will hear short stories about people such as Michael Jordan, Don Rickles, Bryant Gumbel, Lawrence Taylor, Julius Erving, and many others. I can tell you with utmost sincerity that all of the stories are true, and will provide an entertaining unique perspective on some of these legendary figures.

Here is the first story about basketball superstar Michael Jordan. Hope you enjoy, and please send me your feedback!

Ken Dunek



MICHAEL JORDAN


Eagles training camp in West Chester, Pennsylvania in the summer of 1980 drew an odd assortment of onlookers. Local sports celebrities, national media, and Hollywood personalities were often seen wandering around the area. I guess they were all football fans, but I always wondered how the heat, pain, and drudgery that was my perspective of training camp could be enticing to others to be around. I never quite understood it.

Doug Collins, the local basketball star from the 76’rs, was a mainstay at camp. In fact, there was a full basketball court next to the athletic dorms where the players were staying, and he was seen there numerous times working on his jump shot. Few players had the energy to play in the sparse amount of time we had in between the military like practices held by Coach Dick Vermeil, but my basketball background and Illinois roots (Doug played at Illinois State) proved too powerful to resist so I would play some one on one with him from time to time.

Several years later after I retired from football, I was working for Roosevelt Paper Company as a salesman. The outfit was owned and operated by Irv Kosloff, who had owned the 76’rs until selling them in the early 80’s to local businessman Fitz Dixon. Although no longer having a principle interest in the team, he still had the 4 best seats in the house which were on the visiting bench. And I mean ON THE BENCH! I was in literal basketball heaven. You could converse with the coaches, listen to strategy, and get a most unique perspective on NBA basketball. It just so happens that my good friend Doug Collins was now the Head Coach of the Chicago Bulls.

At this point I must interject about the pain associated with being a Chicago sports fan. The Cubs have been a lifelong misery, the Bulls were always competitive but never quite part of the NBA elite, the Bears had one shining moment in 1985 with Ditka and Payton, the Hawks were one of the cheapest and worst run franchises in the NHL, and the Sox hadn’t won since the 50’s (but I didn’t care because no true Cubs fan roots for the Sox anyway). The Bulls had not won a championship yet, but you could see the ground was being laid for a potential great team. I was so happy for the long suffering Chicago sports fans.

I was on the court about a half hour before the Bulls-Sixers game when Collins recognized me and walked over to chat. My wife Terri didn’t believe me when I told her I knew Collins personally, and she was wide eyed as he approached. “Hi Ken”, he said. “What are you doing here with Koz, looking to buy back the team?” Irv shook his head with an emphatic no, and I told Collins I was about 80 million dollars short of the down payment.

After a couple of minutes talking about the Eagles 1980 Super Bowl team, Collins says, “Hey, you’re from Chicago. Would you like to meet Michael Jordan”? I was stunned, speechless. Would I like to meet Michael Jordan? It’s like asking me if I’d like to kiss the Pope’s ring. Of course I’d like to meet him, and my wife’s eyes became wider still.

He yells across the court to where Jordan was taking some pre-game warm up shots. “Hey Michael come here, there is someone I want you to meet”, Collins says. He introduced him to Mr. Kozloff first, and I was salivating with sweaty palms as I awaited my turn to meet one of my only true sports idols. “And this is my friend Ken”, Collins exclaims as he directs Jordan in my direction. I extended my rather large pass catching right hand, and I was immediately engulfed by his. “No wonder the guy can perform magic tricks with the ball”, I thought. “It looks like an orange in his hand”. We are smack dab in the middle of the longest handshake I can remember, when Collins utters the immortal words…”And Michael, Ken says he can KICK YOUR ASS”. I looked at Jordan’s face, and his smile turned to a pregame scowl. “Football player or no football player”, Jordan responds while letting my hand go in an icy manner, “You tell Ken he can’t kick my ass... in anything”. And he walked away without a goodbye to continue his pre game ritual.

I could have killed Collins. “Why did you say THAT?” I exclaimed. Doug responds, “Yeah, he didn’t take to kindly to that, did he”? He then excused himself to prepare for the game, leaving me aghast at what had just happened.

My only personal interaction with possibly the greatest player in the history of basketball had nearly turned into a confrontation, and I have my good friend Doug Collins to thank for it. The next time we play one on one, I’m think I’m going to post him up.