THE HARVARD BOOKIE

April 30, 1952, on "Ted Williams Day,"before 24,767 at Fenway Park, the "Kid" plays his final game before going to Korea as a Marine fighter pilot. In his last-at-bat, Williams hits a game-winning, two-run homer against Detroit's Dizzy Trout to give the Red Sox a 5-3 win.

There was another machination in play that day which caused quite a tradition-shattering event on the Harvard milieu. It involved me, then a junior at the college and bursting with the "everything  is another chapter in the magical book of life" proclivity, which has has shaped and molded me for my entire life, for better or worse. But what a way to live---tackling every challenge as a romantic adventure which cannot spawn a loser, even if things go a bit awry. My rose colored glasses, you see, are quite permanent. Viva la venture!

The idea hit me the night before--a romantic, challenging adventure from which, once conceived, there was no turning back. The lure of the risk was intoxicating and therefore irresistible. The instant my brain began its incubation, I was hooked and seat belts were fastened.

The trigger for this foray into madness was a remark made by a classmate, the involuntary commitment of whom became my life's ambition which , as I look back on things, was accomplished with the haste necessary to afford my sadistic glands complete satisfaction.

One balmy day, as I was walking in the Haavaad Yaad, (having already paaked my caar)---this bobo, a math major doomed to crash and burn, announced to one and all that the odds of Ted Williams hitting a home run in this farewell game were 20 to 1. What this cast -member of Deliverance, one pump short of being born an ape, failed to realize was that these hefty odds applied to each time Williams came to the plate----not for all of his game at-bats. This crucial distinction  passed right through me, laxative style. In any event, I, probably attempting to prove the superiority of my intelligence over that of Willie Sutton---(ask your grandparents, my chilluns), spread the word throughout the student world that I would immediately accept bets of $20 and lay 20 to 1 odds against the Splendid Splinter hitting a homer in any of his trips to the plate.

The student body, already half-nuts, ran to their stashes (not pot, you fool, but cash--although probably to both) and a long line began to form at the entrance to Dudley Hall, the Commuters' Center, home to all the poor students who couldn't afford to live at one of the Houses on campus. No bitching here, because, to me, hanging with these Townies enriched my "college education" ten fold. These were the guys who had gotten the message and been around the block a few times. Solids.

At game time , I had collected $300, creating an exposure of $6000 which was not embraced by my investment portfolio. I could only pray that Teddy Ballgame would not hit a home run, and decided to watch the game from my family apartment where I would not be embarrassed by using a pacifier to control my hysteria.

The first three times at the plate, Williams smacked solid hits but no home runs. One more at-bat to go. My hands were glued, clench-style, to the arms of my chair as the Thumper came to the plat for the last time in the game. What happened next has, over the years and despite several shock treatments whose purpose was to permanently erase painful memories, never lost any of its horror and terror of specific recall. Williams blasted the ball out of the park and it was last spotted floating aimlessly in the atmosphere by George Clooney and Sandra Bullock. I owed 6 grand.

As soon as the ball left the park, my phone began ringing. All I could hear was screaming, joyful yelling and people wanting to know when I was going to pay up. What was I to do? Headlines like "Killed By Classmates" kept imploding across my brain. This was serious shit, Man! The bettors were out for blood. Gotta get outta town, Tonto, and fast! I put my head in my hands and searched for an escape route. And then, a plan for survival began to formulate and I realized that desperation could spawn the seeds of salvation.

I called my friend, Nick.

Nick was the left tackle on the Harvard football team. But he was more than that. He was a brute---275 pounds of muscle and a unique brain that brimmed with love for me. He would always be in attendance  when I would frequently do stand-up shows in the Dudley Hall common room, laughing at every joke. And he had been one of the $20 bettors in my retarded Williams debacle.

I explained everything to him including a just-hatched scheme in which he was to be the prime mover. He listened intently, especially when I acknowledged the validity of his bet. He was to get $400 post haste. He agreed to save my life  for the duration of which I agreed to worship the ground he walked on.

As I emerged from the subway at Harvard Square the next morning, my fellow commuters who now comprised a swelling manhunt, began bellowing victory chants as they escorted me on the short walk to the commuters' center. They brought me into the dining hall and hoisted me onto a table, all united in their screaming demands for money. When I saw Nick standing next to the table, I re-believed in a higher power. I addressed the throng in quivering voice, feeling like Spartacus looking up and trying to ascertain whether the Emperor's thumb was up or down.

"I want you all to know that I took your bets with a complete understanding of my potential liability. But, as I watched the game on TV, it seemed to me that Dizzy Trout had served up a nothing-on-it hitter's pitch to Williams. He grooved it for him to hit it out of the park. And so, to be fair, I contacted Dizzy Trout and laid it on him. Not only did he admit it but, in an effort to let the truth be known, he provided me with a letter admitting what he had done. (I was holding a paper in my trembling right hand.) The fair thing to do, therefore, is to return your bet money to you."

At this point, an ugly, negative roar began to emanate and steadily grow. I looked around. There was no way I could make a run for it, so I continued.

"This will all be handled by Nick, here. Any questions, take them up with him."

The ugly roar committed suicide. I jumped from the table and Nick, with whom I was beginning to fall in love, shielded me with his hulk as he just about carried me to safety in his arms. Rescued from the heathen savages!

It took several weeks for the uproar to die down with many days spent almost exclusively in the company of Nick, to whom I decided to give an extra $100. Is my soul not permeated with kindness and good will?

The whole deal eventually was forgotten (forgiven?) and, at the very least, everybody was refunded his original bet. No winners but no losers either. When my contemporaries reminisce about it today, they laugh when they remember, for those were "college days" when the world seemed tamable and our hearts were young and gay.

I sometime wish, for an instant, that I could revisit that period when we didn't appreciate how lucky we were. But that would be against the natural order of things, for who I am today is the result of my life's experiences, some good--some less than good. It's part of the molding process. We are what we've gone through, and now, in the September of my years, I look back and remember.

And when I do, I always sport a smile.

MY PARTY

Once upon a time, in 1976 to be exact, I had opened my new law ofice, and, in celebration, threw a  party in the Presidential Suite of the Sheraton Boston hotel. I was very proud and invited the world---and it came. The place was packed and smacked of that sometime elusive spark when everything goes right and the joint goes electrical. Trust me, it was one of those nights.

Booze and food and plenty of it--that was the key. I instructed the hotel captain that I never wanted to see an empty platter on the food table. "Keep it coming until the last guest leaves", was my order of the night. Shrimps, lobster, filet mignon and a never-ending flood of Chinese food. People who were there still remember and rave. Even now, as I write, my pulse quickens and palms get sweaty. You can't guarantee this atmosphere in advance, it just has to happen and, on this night, it did.

A little background:

I had met and hit it off with Paul Burke. Paul was a very successful movie and T.V. star. Among his hits were Naked City and Twelve O'Clock High. He starred in Valley Of The Dolls and the first production of The Thomas Crown Affair. He was stunningly handsome---I mean gorgeous---and he dug the grape, a denominator which sealed our friendship firmly and forever.

On one occasion, he asked me to fly to L.A. and represent him at a lawyers' meeting involving his agent. I took the earliest flight from Boston, enjoyed the first-class tickets which he had provided, and looked for him as I deplaned. No Paul. I decided to take the escalator up to the main terminal and as I was half way up when I saw him. He was coming down the "moving stairs" and we were about to pass each other. Passengers were gushing in adoration for he was blessed with that type of persona. He saw me and, putting one hand on the railing, vaulted into my side of traffic. What a move! Clark Kent would have been put to shame. He was magnificent.

The next time I saw him was at my party. I hadn't thought to invite him and to this day don't know how he found out about it---he just appeared---like a Greek God. As we embraced, it became rather obvious that he was one or two (hundred) sheets to the wind, but as an adorable rascal as ever.

I noticed that he had brought a friend who looked vaguely familiar. He was leaning against the wall, completely out of it, just staring straight ahead, saying nothing. He was gaunt, sported a goatee and shades which successfully hid eyes from the world. Who was he? I had seen this face before---but where?

As the evening wore on, with the pace of the revelry steadily increasing, I kept trying to place him and was fascinated by the fact that he hadn't moved from his station against the wall and was mumbling to no one except Paul. And, finally, a possibility hit me.

I owned an impressive record collection. I loved hip vocalists backed by a swinging orchestra. One of my albums was on the Columbia label and its title was "His Heart In His Hands". The face on the cover was the face of my mysterious guest still glued to the wall. It was a jazz vocalist widely respected by musicians who knew what was happening. The album was glorious and it portrayed the face of Bobby Scott. It was him! Or was it? Only one way to find out.

My favorite song on the LP was "If Ever I Would Leave You" from the musical Camelot. I walked up to my guest, extended my arms and sang, "oh no, not in springtime" which were the song's words and, without missing a beat, the stranger-no-more responded, "summer, winter or fall" which were the immediately subsequent lyrics. I screamed, "Bobby Scott!" and he yelled out, "a fan---I've found a fan!"

What a night we had! I was so proud of him as I introduced him to everybody. He ultimately gravitated to the piano and played---and sung--- 'til 3 am. We listened and became his captive, adoring audience.

An indelible memory, impervious to staleness.

It was magic.

It was my party.

JUST IMAGINE!

I just watched a Barbra Streisand concert and was struck by something very rare these days.

The capacity audience was sitting and listening. Their pleasure was unmistakably evident in the heartfelt smiles beaming from their faces. There was no screaming, no standing, stomping or voicing obscenities. No color lines were observed. It was simply  an admiration society of well mannered people.

Took me back. Nice and emotionally warm vibes

"Didn't We" unexpectedly teared me up a bit. An age giveaway if ever there was one. But felt sentimentally good afterward.

No profanities! Just imagine!

ROPES DON'T GOT IT SO EASY

A rope was in desperate need of a drink.

He stumbled into a bar and asked for a beer.

The bartender looked up and asked, "Are you a rope?"

"Yes, I am."

"Well, get the hell out of here! We don't serve ropes!"

Panting for a cold one, the rope soon found another saloon and again, with grace and determination, requested a beer.

"Your'e a rope, aintcha?"

"Well, yes I am but----"

He was suddenly staring at the barrel of a shotgun.
"Disappear and fast! We simply don't cater to no ropes! Never have, never will!"

On the verge of dehydration, the rope entered a third drinking establishment and was immediately confronted by one huge pissed-off server who bellowed out,"Hold everything! Are you a rope?"

Wisdom had taken its toil.

"No. I'm a frayed knot.

A beer was served.

FAMILIAL SYNCHRONIZATION

I, the romantic fool, getting more so as with older, just finished watching the season two finale of NEWSROOM.

As the sound of a delicious cover of Pete Townsend's "Let My Love Open The Door" embraced, captured and swept me away, tears began impairing my capacity to see. But my sensory abilities to hear and feel were more than enough to permit the appreciation of genius, which is what Aaron Sorkin is and has.

It's too detailed and dove-tailed for me to try and recap, but take it from me, the last few minutes of this installment was richly overflowing with emotional chords which should strike the heart of everyone who has one.

I'm a Pisces and therefore romantically cuckoo. I'll find love in every tender moment, for it is the oxygen of life. Accordingly, when Sorkin, who made his bones with the West Wing, goes for it, he usually hits a home run. Tonight, it was a grand slam. Biting wit, brilliant social commentary and political dissection all came together in a wind tunnel and rewarded faithful fans with a many splendored thing.

Loose threads were bordered, ambiguity was replaced with optimism and emotional punchlines were perfectly dealt to let you know what is always in the air.

But to the point of this post: I immediately reached for the phone to call my son and reinforce his conviction that I am sentimentally nuts. I blurted out, "Did you just see the Newsroom?" but was cut off  before I could articulate the last word.
"I'll have to call you back," he stammered, "my eyes are full of tears."

My poor son's distance from the tree is indeed short. No DNA is required to ascertain his genes. I adore him. Much thicker than water. Joy of joys.

I'm very grateful. The Lord made room for two of us.

And about the power of love: Believe in it.

MAGIC TIME

It's 4:00 am, on an early Saturday morning. In about 90 minutes, the sun will make its appearance, innocently and without malice, and will bring to an end my favorite time of peaceful solitude. Most of the rest of the world is asleep, affording me the opportunity to ponder my plate, with everyday's problems in the shadowy back rows, much more tolerable and much less menacing than they will be when brought to full light by the center of hustle and bustle powered by the sun.

No surprises here. I'm always grateful for being able, without interruption, to size up my life in its present and foreseeable posture, during those magic hours when I can push away the things that vex and concentrate on dreams with which I am fully familiar and am prepared to embrace and deal with as they become real, which they most surely will. I am permeated with important information which makes me all the more ready to handle things in the uncompromising light of day. It's like charging my batteries without turning off my brain. When I fall asleep, just before dawn, there are no bad dreams to wrestle with, no negative thoughts to diminish the adventure which every new day brings. I have found that an optimistic attitude causes a thorough expedience of positive accomplishments. It's easier to climb a steep hill when my face sports a smile and I whistle as I walk. I find myself accomplishing good things becayse my positive energy of the night before has caught up and united with other vibes of confidence, coming from other people who have also spent a sleepless night in the serenity zone. You see, I are not alone. In a way, I am part of a non-criminal Ponzi scheme which gives and gets playthings from other members of the club. For we are good people who are eager to share our good fortune and ever present stress with others of similar ilk, if only we could find them.

Time to turn it off. Time to hit the hay. I've confronted several existing problems, wrestled with them all, resolved some, narrowed the scope of others and gone as far as I can, at this sitting.

I'm tired in a good way, like after a workout in a gym. My brained is as relaxed as it can ever be, dormant for the moment but always at the ready.

What have I accomplished? A little bit of slightly turbulent peace.

Temporary to be sure, for another day is about to signal its arrival with the sunrise.

And the entire process begins again.

Hey, that's life.

THE SHOWBIZ BUG

If it bites you, resistance is of no avail. You are hooked.

Such was my inheritance, as I grappled with the challenge of choosing my life's course. My family was steeped in the undeniable lure of showbiz.

My cousin was a self-ordained vocalist. It was tough getting work, so fierce was the competition which necessitated coming up with something new, something that would distinguish him from the mob of talentless wannabees. And he found it. The road to uniqueness. He discovered a vocal modulation progression which few, if any, before him had even dreamed about, let alone attempt to sing it. He would begin a ballad and surge higher and higher with each chord, until he had perfected the highest pitched vocalization known to man. Although musically groundbreaking, it followed the trajectory of a rocket, so that by the song's dramatic finale, he was singing notes which only dogs could hear.

My uncle was a vaudeville contortionist who, constantly striving for greatness, and always trying to make himself more limber, had his backbone removed, and replaced with mercury. And it relaxed him. At room temperature, he stood about five-nine. On hot days, he'd shoot up to six-six. He was doing just fine until that last cold snap. Shriveled to an inch and a half. Dragged away by the cat.

As for me, my work as a stand-up comic was short lived. You see, I was in deep denial of a memory problem. I would begin a joke soundly and with confidence, but then I'd forget the ending.

"Good evening tables and chairs, I was walking down the street one day when a guy comes up to me and asks if I'm looking for trouble. I stared him straight in the eye, flexed every muscle in my body, and said,"-------------(NOTHING, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING)----------." I just stood there, praying that the ground would open beneath me, allowing a plummet to China.

Desperate to resuscitate my career, I turned to dancing, forgetting or didmissing the fact that, since birth, I had been plagued with plantar fasciitis. The band would play the opening bars: dud-da-da-da-da-DA!, at which point I would extend my right leg out and DOWN (!) on the floor, scream out in pain and collapse, emotionally and physically. That's when I decided to try my hand at Brain Surgery.

"There's no people like show people, they smile when they are low
Even with a turkey that you know will fold, you may be stranded out in the cold
Still you wouldn't change it for a sack of gold, let's go on with the show."