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Memorial Day Shenanigans

The bing! of cash registers opening and the crackle of shopping bags being handled are just a few decibels louder than “Taps". And the Memorial Day parade just happened to be at the same time as the early bird sale at Macy’s. Like most American holidays, corporate America overshadows Memorial Day with its advertisement and sales ploys.

I visited my parents over the long weekend, Memorial Day being one of the special holidays observed by my university, rewarding the students with a day free of classes. My extended family organized a brief get-together on Monday afternoon, complete with the All-American fixin’s of hamburgers, hot dogs, potato salad, potato chips and ice cold beers. As soon as the get-together dwindled a bit, my mom and I headed straight to the mall. My mom told me we’d have to rush over because the stores probably closed early. A slave to the world of retail myself, I chuckled at her blatant and obvious sarcasm. To my surprise, she was serious. “Mom, there are no holidays in the world of retail,” I corrected. And much to my mother’s surprise, the only store that was closed on our quest for last-minute holiday sales was the Christian book store. The rest of the retail heaven greeted us with an extra 4 hours of open doors.

Fifty dollar off deals at Best Buy, an extra ten percent off at Macy’s and a $10 off coupon at Kohls were just a few of the deals my mom and I ran into on our endeavor. Many other shoppers decided to take advantage of the wonderful sales on their day off from work or school. Many of the stores were crowded and the traffic down the main road was a little unbearable to say the least. After gobbling up our new merchandise at some of our favorite retailers, mom and I headed back to our humble abode to flaunt our new purchases to my dad, who really could care less.

Although my new purchases excited me more than anything did, I got to thinking on my long drive back to school. I find myself so irked at Christmastime because of the hustle and bustle and commercialization of a holiday celebrated because of our Lord, Jesus Christ’s birth. I find that at a time when people are supposed to be loving, considerate and giving, they’re the most selfish and sinful. Although gifts are not exchanged for Memorial Day, many Americans find their celebrations not at the foot of a gravesite of a fallen soldier but at the mercy of corporate America, myself included.

Perhaps corporate America has tightened its reins just a bit much. Come on, America, let’s stop being so American and celebrate America.

Another round of Cleveland sports shenanigans

The next few posts will be a series of columns written for my Column writing class this past quarter. I hope you enjoy them. - klm

I have been a Cleveland sports fan since I was in the womb. I had a Cleveland Browns onesie for every stage in my infant life, a Cleveland Indians signature glove for tee-ball and Cleveland Cavaliers footy pajamas. Much of my childhood is rekindled when I hear certain names or voices during games.

I hear the voice of Rick Manning broadcasting the Indians’ games and I’m immediately taken back to the 1995 season when the Indians made their first appearance in the World Series since 1954. I can remember staying up late on those mid-October nights watching the games with my dad. The Indians finished first place in the American League Central division with a record of 100 wins and 44 losses. They defeated the Boston Red Sox in three games and the Seattle Mariners in six games in the American League playoffs. The Indians met the Atlanta Braves in the World Series and took the Braves six games before losing in game six 0-1.

The Cleveland Cavaliers have a rough history, but LeBron James and company finally repaid fans with the franchise’s first ever NBA Finals appearance in the 2006-07 season. The Cavs kept fans on the edge of their seats during the Semifinals before clinching the Eastern Conference with a 4-2 series win over the Detroit Pistons. Cleveland was alive with victory and sent the Cavs away to San Antonio for the first two games of the Finals with the San Antonio Spurs. After losing the two games in San Antonio, the Cavs came back to Cleveland a little down, but ready for a fight. Unfortunately, fans didn’t see a win in Cleveland when the Spurs finished a 4-0 sweep over the Cavs.

Don’t even get me started on the Cleveland Browns. With a move to Baltimore in 1996 and a return from ‘inactivity’ to Cleveland in 1999, the Browns continued to disappoint their fans, just as they had for 50 years, never making it to the Super Bowl – not even once.

So why do we do it? Why do we call ourselves Cleveland fans? We have had our share of disappointments with all three major professional teams over many years. However, the sense of pride and victory that fans get when the Browns defeat the Steelers, the Cavs beat the Pistons or the Indians win the series against the Tigers is absolutely worth the disappointment fans suffer the other 98 percent of the season. Cleveland teams seem to take it all the way when they don’t need to. Absolutely stomping opponents when it doesn’t really matter either way or winning games when the series is already decided is pretty typical – but it’s what keeps fans going – that adrenaline rush when the 15^th run is scored or the 8^th touchdown is made.

So as the Cleveland teams work toward a winning season and a winning close, the fans wait patiently for the day that will hopefully come, sooner than later, when a Cleveland team prevails over all others.

It's the kind of thing you never really think about. You read through your social networking site (the infamous Facebook) looking at the messages your friends have sent you in the past few hours...days...weeks...months...years. It's the kind of thing where you see one that says 'Hey, you should come visit! I really miss you!' and you're like, 'Yeah, in a perfect world.' And then you see the one's with the most random words that at one point in time meant so much and could keep you laughing for hours and now, all they are is a steam of memories that you will never get back.

A former teammate of mine passed away this weekend in a tragic snowmobiling accident. She graduated last year and moved back to her home state of Jersey. We weren't close friends, by all means, but we have a connection that she didn't share with many others - we were fellow rowers.

I've often thought about what it would be like to lose someone close to me. I consider myself an extremely compassionate person partially because I've never really lost anyone that close to me. Sure, I've known friends' relatives that have died. I've been to a couple of funerals for people who went to my high school. But thankfully, I have never lost anyone in my inner circle. I can't even imagine what it would be like to lose a friend like some of my teammates lost in her. Becca was a great girl - such love for life and a sense of passion that not many people possess. She was 22.

I think in times like these, it is best to tell those who you love that you love them - plan a trip to see a friend who really matters but is farther than a day trip. And embrace every second - because you never know what can happen.

RIP Becca - you are and will continue to be missed.

Two Years

One February afternoon of my junior year in high school, I came home to an empty house from my fabulous life as a new upperclassman. I was the Captain and MVP of the swim team. I had a new boyfriend and great friends. I had a fantastic job and a solo in the winter choir concert. I followed my just home from school routine and began to go through the mail lying on the dining room table. Off to the side, there was an already opened letter from a doctor’s office. The letter mentioned a finding in a bone scan my dad had the week before. The words “multiple myeloma” meant absolutely nothing to me so I quickly Google’d them.

All I remember from that day was a frantic phone call to my mom, a lot of crying and a lot of attempted reassurance. My dad had been diagnosed with Stage 2 multiple myeloma - cancer of the bone marrow.

I didn’t have much of a relationship with my dad. I was a daddy’s girl, but it was because my mom was always around. She disciplined me and made me work for what I wanted. When dad was home, all I had to do was ask and he’d give me anything. He let me stay out late when mom was out of town and he’d order pizza if she wasn’t going to be home to make dinner. He loved sports and insisted that I have an entire wardrobe of Cleveland Indians apparel. He coached my tennis team in high school and we went to baseball games together sometimes. He also had a job that forced him to work over 60 hours a week. He was in a Monday night bowling league and he’d get in late at night smelling like cigars and beer. He always watched the big games at his friends’ places and he usually passed out on the couch after dinner. I don’t remember a time when I saw him in the audience at my choir concerts or poolside during a swim meet. I can’t even remember a time when he drove me to a practice or a rehearsal.

I had seen many things happen to my dad. He had his first heart attack when I was five leading up to an eventual quadruple bypass surgery when I was thirteen. No matter what happened, we always knew the things he did to correct his health would make him better. This was different.
Although he had options of chemotherapy, radiation therapy and transplants, this was still a death sentence. They gave him two years to live.

Over the next few months, his bones became so weak that he had to quit his job. He lost his hair and several pounds – he weighed less than I did. He threw up a lot and we had to wear masks around him. My friends weren’t allowed to come over because he was petrified of contacting any kind of sickness. He was so weak that a common cold could have killed him. The only thing he could do was lie on the couch and watch TV. Sitting hurt too much because he didn’t have anything to cushion his weak tailbone since he had lost so much weight. It was the worst few months of my life. I had never seen anything like this before and I couldn’t understand why fate had chosen my father.

November rolled around and the doctor announced that dad’s myeloma cell counts had gone down enough for them to stop chemo and start moving forward with the stem cell transplant procedure. It was to take place in December but, because it is still such a new procedure, they weren’t sure how long the effects would last. He didn’t care – he wanted to go through with it.
Dad left for the hospital on my eighteenth birthday. They put him on some heavy narcotics as a machine slowly sucked out his cells. He was completely under for a week. Visiting him was a joke. He was permanently hallucinating. My personal favorite was his warning about “the Palestinian doctor that was peaking through the window” at him. He would have conversations with the dial tone thinking it was someone calling. It was so hard not to laugh, but it hurt so badly to see him like that.

The transplant process isn’t too exciting – a lot of painful waiting. They extract the cells in his bone marrow, freeze them in hopes of killing the myeloma cells and finally inject the “healthy” cells back into his bones. He was recovering over Christmas and got back home on New Years Day.

The next few weeks were tough. He was sick a lot and irritable. Finally, just around his birthday on February 1st, he started to feel better. When spring hit, he started golfing again and even came out to help coach the boys’ tennis team. He couldn’t move much, but he tried his best.
Although this was one of the worst things that ever happened to my dad and our family, it was also one of the best. My dad was selfish and didn’t care about anyone but himself during my childhood. My mom resented him for never being around but hated herself even more for dealing with it. They fought all the time about the serious and the stupid stuff. They were ready to call it quits.

My family is closer than ever now. We have so many wonderful family friends and have learned to genuinely appreciate one another. We hang out together, talk about intellectual and worldly issues and my dad even talks about one day walking me down the aisle. He told me once that he is more afraid to give me away than anything. I get excited to go home on the weekends and I call him during big games to talk about the plays and get his expert reaction. We’ve learned to appreciate time, which is something that so many take for granted. I never realized how realistic the end is until it was put in complete perspective.

It could be much worse, but just a few months ago, dad’s cancer resurfaced. He has chemo treatments twice a week and he still gets sick from time to time. He denied the offer to have another stem cell transplant. I don’t blame him.

It’ll be four years this February. So much for two years.

Waking up in the City that never sleeps

I first traveled to New York City fresh out of high school, way after the 9/11 terrorist attacks and just over a year after Friends called it quits. I didn’t have any real reason to go there, I just wanted to be a tourist for a couple of days and see all of the things I'd already seen on the television in person. I went from the Financial District to the Fashion District, Second Street to 102nd Street, Queens to Brooklyn, Chinatown to Times Square and all that's in between. I saw homeless people, ate dirty water hotdogs, swiped my MetroCard, hailed a taxi and even bought a "designer" purse from a street vendor. I was annoyed with the sound of car horns beeping every second and I was offended by the smell of trash day on a hot summer afternoon. I went to Tiffany's and Bloomingdale's, Ground Zero and Central Park, the Statue of Liberty and the Empire State Building. I saw what I thought to be the entire city in just two days.

The city was just a tourist trap for me. I loved the action and the lights but I hated the lack of reality. It was just a giant fantasy – something I’d seen in movies and read about in magazines. I was obsessed with the city and the lifestyle I would one day lead if I lived there. However, rather than taking a glimpse into my future home, I felt as though I were at giant amusement park, walking around with a bunch of other people who had no idea what taking the F train to West Fourth Street and then hopping the A train to get downtown meant. I was fascinated with the City, but didn’t quite understand how the women in Sex and the City and the cast of Seinfeld lived such wonderful, exotic lives with all these tourists around.

I went back to New York just a few weeks ago as a brand new 21 year old. I intended to experience New York City in a new way by exploring what the nightlife had to offer. I went to a few bars and pubs, but none of them really tickled my fancy. I didn’t understand where all of the fanatical night life existed because all I saw were a bunch of amateurs going to happy hour and then heading home to watch the 11 o’clock news.

Nearly losing hope, I stumbled upon a wonderful little place that has karaoke on the weekends. I’m an old choir hero, so I was ecstatic to get a few drinks and sing a few tunes on stage. I had a great time that night and ended up going back the next night for another round of ridiculous karaoke. Much to my surprise, I wasn’t carded at the door. The doorman, Doc, said, “Don’t worry, I remember you from last night.” I couldn’t believe it. Here I was, in New York City, one of the largest cities in the world, and the bouncer remembered me. The bartender called me by name and I nearly choked on my whiskey sour, which he made for me free of charge. I felt as though I were about to be a this-could-happen-to-you story about what not to do at a bar in New York.

Because I was too busy being freaked out at the recognition, I didn’t pay attention to the fact that, after another night at the place, most of the people in the bar had been there the night before and the night before that. They recognized me and I recognized them. I saw so many familiar faces those next few nights and had conversations with people I’d known for a few hours that I’d never had and probably never will have with people I’d known for years. The little pub reminded me so much of places at home. It wasn’t something you’d picture when you think of New York City bars. It was homey, cozy even. The candied smell of mixed drinks and wines and the faint smell of cigarettes from before the pub banned smoking trumped the smell of spilled beer on the shabby wooden floors. The bar stools were leather with the foam padding on the inside. I know this because some of them had the foam peaking through the seams. Sitting at the bar seemed like an old routine - kind of like plopping down on your parent’s comfy, worn-in sofa. There were thousands of liquor bottles, pretty much anything you could think of, piled behind the bar like an elite army. The bartender flipped and tipped the bottles and glasses concocting drinks and brews the best way he knew how. He put it on your tab without asking for a name – somehow just knowing. “Shaken, not stirred,” a man joked while ordering his dry martini with two olives that he quickly swallowed before ordering another. The taste of alcohol and fried food lingered on my breath after inhaling my fried cod and chips and pint of Guinness in my tipsy stupor.

Karaoke performances, beginning at 9pm Thursday through Saturday, turn the pub into a miniature concert hall for those who have consumed enough alcohol to appreciate a rousing performance of the B-52’s ‘Love Shack’ by Miss Cassandra, the girl who has knocked back enough Cosmos for all of the ladies in the bar. She stumbles through the verses but nails the ‘Bang Bang’s’ before the last chorus. The bar-goers shout the “TIIIIIIIIIIINNNNNN ROOF….rusted,” because Cassandra doesn’t seem to remember where she is. I take the stage to rap a played out 90’s rap song that everyone, despite their age, seems to know. The microphone, as Billy Joel once said, smelled like a beer, but that was the last of my worries. Watching those quick words fly across the screen kept my heart pounding. I nailed every word and exited the stage hugging and slapping high-fives with people who seemed to realize the song I just performed was the song I’d be remembered by.

It was strange to find a place in such a large, melting pot of a city where there were locals. Real locals. Not those people who are in town for business or visiting friends. The people who stop by for a drink after work and then continue down to 51st and 3rd to call it a night at their own apartment. What was even stranger was to find people like this who accepted us outsiders and invited us back for a couple more crazy nights. It was the kind of place I’ll go back to for the rest of my life, every time I visit the city, just to see if the barstools still look the same and the bartender still remembers the time we performed a duet the second night of karaoke and that my name is spelled with a ‘d’ rather than a ‘t’. It was the kind of place I hope to be a real regular at someday. Maybe even the exact place.

The Cleveland Curse - May it never live again.

Cleveland sports have hit another milestone - the Indians are heading into game 4 of the ALCS with the Boston Red Sox. The crazy part, you may wonder? They're ahead 2-1. And they still have two more games in Cleveland.

I don't want to start tooting the horn quite yet, but Cleveland sports have a reputation of getting pretty serious in the semi-finals. Take the Cavs, for example. They dominated the semi-finals and choked in the finals. It's the Cleveland Curse. We do a great job in the semis, making everyone think it's all over. We're finally going to get our long awaited championship. Sadly, the outcome is usually this: a series of close losses to be excused by a "bad call" or "monkey business."

I attended Game 3 of the NBA finals held at the Quicken Loans Arena in Cleveland this past June. It was the first ever NBA finals game to be held in Cleveland - and I was there. After battling a fellow bidder on eBay and dropping almost $200 for my ticket, I was there - nosebleed and all. I gave a dollar to a guy holding a cardboard sign that said, "Why lie? I need beer," and I took a cliche picture with the NBA Finals photo backdrop.

The game was intense. There was a Spurs fan sitting just behind me who would cheer every so often when he didn't think any of us Cleveland fans were listening. Little did he know, we Cleveland fans live for the moment when we can talk crap or tell a fan of an opposing team to "shut up and go back home." We jumped on him before he could even finish his sentence.

Sadly, the Cleveland Curse reared its ugly head when LeBron James went for the game-tying three pointer at the buzzer. He was fouled, naturally, but it wasn't called. We all just stared in disbelief - like another quarter was about to be played.

The Cavs were swept in the Finals when the Spurs clinched game 4 and the Cleveland Curse had taken its toll again.

Let's move on to the Indians now, shall we?

This season has been nothing but beautiful. Despite the after the All-Star break slump, the Indians have been powering it out for the majority of the season. They battled the Detroit Tigers for the winning spot in the Central conference.

All analysts aside, the Indians went on to defeat the Yankees 3-1 in the series. They have played steadily against the Red Sox and I have no doubts this will continue.

I will continue my obsession with Cleveland post-season play on Thursday, when I'm getting a real live nosebleed at Jacob's Field. I like to think I'll see the Indians pass on to the World Series for the first time in 10 years. And then, I'll work toward a nosebleed at the World Series - maybe to see them win the series for the first time since 1948.

No matter how many times you blow it, Cleveland, I'll always be there to hope this year is different.

So long, Cleveland Curse - you're not welcome anymore.