Lou Brown, greatest manager in Indians history, dead at 70

In the early spring of 1989, I was 9 years old. A nine-year-old who loved baseball. My team, the Cleveland Indians, had never won a pennant in my lifetime; somewhat incredibly, the last time they'd sniffed the World Series my father was 9. During the '88-'89 offseason, the longtime owner of the Indians, Donald Phelps, died of an apparent heart attack, leaving majority stake in the hands of his 40-years-junior wife Rachel. She was lampooned in the press for her career choices prior to her marriage to Donald, having been a Vegas showgirl (and who knows what else) before marrying into her good fortune. These were things that, while aware of them, I was unable to process wholly in my ten-year old mind. To me, March just meant Spring Training, the weather turning, school's end on the distant horizon, and Hope. Hope that this might be our year.

Most of the city of Cleveland did not share my optimism. On paper, this looked to be the most anonymous collection of has-beens and never-weres ever to populate a "major league" squad. Our most proven starting pitcher, 41-year-old Eddie Harris, was coming off a subpar season and looked to be playing out the string of his long, up-and-down junkballing career. Our third baseman, Roger Dorn, while still a very good hitter, was nothing short of a complete liability fielding his position. And our catcher, former All-Star Jake Taylor, around for his second stint with the Tribe, had spent the past two years playing in the Mexican league. The rest of the roster was filled with non-prospect rookies and similarly unspectacular veterans.

"Do you think we might be good this year?" I remember asking my Dad.

"We don't look too good," was his unenthusiastic response.

"I think we'll be good," I retorted. "I think so."

The roster and coaching staff itself were topics of great debate in the Cleveland media and between barstools across the region. Rumors swirled that Rachel Phelps was trying to lose on purpose so as to exercise an "out" clause in her lease with the City of Cleveland for Municipal Stadium. Such rumors were not entirely unfounded, as Miami (among other cities) looked to be an attractive, willing destination for an owner looking to relocate. In hindsight, however, her moves look to have been acts of brilliance- and none moreso than her choice to manage this hodgepodge of unripened or expired talent, one Louis Brown of Sandusky, Ohio.

I only met Lou once, and to say I "met" him is a bit of an overstatement. In May of 1989 on my 10th birthday, I asked my father to take me and some of my young friends to a ballgame. This was not then the exorbitant expense that it is today, as right field general admission tickets cost only $4.25 apiece and hot dogs cost 2 bucks. The Indians were not drawing well at the time, either, as befit their uninspiring 10-18 record. As such, we had the run of the place. I liked to get to the ballgame early for batting practice, in the ever-optimistic hope that I might be able to shag a ball that reached the stands.

As we were walking towards our seats and the small throng of hopefuls in right field, Willie Mays Hayes was taking some swings. Through the first few weeks of the season, Hayes had been underwhelming, as the only suspense during his at-bats was whether he'd pop up to the catcher or give himself a chance to beat out the inevitably weak grounder to the shortstop. As I noted as I watched him, his batting practice display hardly inspired confidence in projected improvement. Which is why, when first base coach Pepper Leach lobbed in a batting-practice fastball as we passed the Indians dugout, I was in perfect position to field the foul pop off of Willie's bat.

I'd brought my glove with me to the ballpark, as kids do. I only had to back up two steps to get right under it. I was about to catch my first baseball at the ballpark- on my 10th birthday, no less.

Until some grown-up jerk reached over my head and caught it himself.

I was crushed. My Dad yelled at the guy, who slinked off into the concourse as the few onlookers who had seen the atrocity launched epithets in his direction. I sat down in a seat and felt tears beginning to well up in my eyes. That ball was mine. It was mine.

Suddenly, as I was about to suffer greater indignity by crying in front of my friends at my birthday party, a gravelly voice shouted from the direction of the field.

"Hey kid!"

It was Lou Brown. He was holding a baseball.

"Catch!"

He underhanded the ball to me, smiled, and turned back towards the field to berate Hayes on yet another popup. I'm not sure if he knew that he'd just made me the happiest kid in Cleveland, but he'd just gained his biggest fan.

The rest of that season is well documented in Indians lore. Brown coached through a slow start, taking a zero-tolerance stance on any overblown egos in the clubhouse, and somehow fashioned a team that could compete with the best. Attendance began to pick up as the Erie Warriors found themselves hanging around in mid-August. After a crushing loss to the hated Yankees to drop the Indians to 60-61, eight games back of the Eastern division-leaders, Brown led the Tribe and the city of Cleveland on a comeback run for the ages. They finished they year 32-9, placing themselves in position for a one-game playoff with those same Yankees for the Eastern Division crown.

Or, as it's known in Cleveland, The Greatest Game Ever Managed.

Brown began his masterpiece by switching up the rotation, starting the rejuvenated Eddie Harris instead of young fireballer Ricky Vaughn based upon Harris' superior track record against the team from New York. Harris justified his move with 8 2/3 innings of 2-run ball, an excellent start by any standard. Then, rather than bringing in one of his regular relievers with 2 men on and two out in the ninth with the AL Triple Crown winner Clue Haywood at the plate, he went with Wild Thing Vaughn, the man who had given up four home runs to Haywood in only eight PAA's in the past year. The result: a strikeout. On three pitches.

I remember jumping out of my seat in right field as Ricky fist-pumped after the third pitch.

The Tribe still had to win the game, of course, and Brown was the manager for that time and place. After a two-out infield single for Willie Mays Hayes, Brown gave him the green light to steal during Jake Taylor's ensuing at-bat. Everyone in the stadium knew Willie was going, including Duke Temple, the Yankee closer. After a close play at first on his first pickoff attempt, Hayes got out to an even bigger lead. Inexplicably, Temple threw a pitch.

3.1 seconds later, Willie was on second base. The stadium was louder than anyplace I'd ever been, then and now.

And then, Taylor did something entirely unexpected. He pointed to the center field fence. He was calling his shot. Temple, unimpressed, threw at his head. Spinning out of the way and hitting the dirt, Taylor pulled himself from the ground and stepped back in.

And he pointed to the center field fences. Again.

The lunacy of the situation was entirely lost upon me, as I'm sure it was to everyone else watching in Cleveland that night. The season had been something unlike anything we'd ever seen already; this sequence of events was just par for the course. We were on this bandwagon, however disorienting the ride. We knew a base hit would win us the division. And we believed old Jake Taylor, the heart and soul of the team, bad knees and all, would find a way.

In years since, barroom pundits have debated whether the call for the bunt came from the dugout or whether Taylor acted on his own. No doubt, the pointing theatrics were all Taylor. In either case, Brown deserves credit for approving the tactic if not spawning the idea. It was unconventional in every sense of the word. With two outs, Taylor, the personification of slow-footed, would have to leg out the bunt for a hit if the play were to be successful. Even with the third baseman playing deep, this was an iffy proposition. However, Taylor's lack of footspeed also proved integral to the play's success, as the third baseman had to realistically believe he had a chance to nab Taylor at first in order for Hayes to score from second on the throw. And so, as we all know, Jake beat the throw before tumbling over first base, and Willie kept running, and Haywood's throw was in time but a bit up the line...

Safe. I could hear the umpire from my seat, the entire stadium was so breathless.

Delirium.

All things considered, it was the most logical magic I've seen in person. And the head magician was Lou effing Brown, a guy who had managed the Triple-A Toledo Mud Hens for thirty years prior, who worked the phones at Tire World in the offseason, who took a team of nobodies in an underdog city and turned them all into winners.

The guy who tossed a kid a baseball on a lazy Sunday in May.

We'll miss you, Lou.*


*James Gammon, an actor whose notable roles include Lou Brown in the movie Major League, died July 16, 2010 at the age of 70.

Thanks everybody!

So concludes MAM2k8INGNYCMTB. The final real post is below. I'd like to thank everyone who's been reading this and following my little story. It's been a lot of fun to write, and so I hope it's been fun to read. Expect more obscure references, wild tangents, and non sequiturs via a new forum in the near future.

Stay tuned for my next project. Until then...

Don't Stop Believin'-

-Mark

Epilogue

I sat amongst my friends at The Mad Hatter, the most depressing bar Tim and I could find, and also the dive in closest proximity to his apartment, and marvelled at the attendance level. I say it's depressing in the most positive fashion: we knew it would be empty, as it nearly always is, and as such we knew our friends could come in and take over. I was pleased to discover when I hobbled in that they were, in fact, dominating the place. My parents had found a table up front and were munching on appetizers while my local gang gathered in the back. I stopped briefly to greet the adults, invited them to join us in the back once they'd finished, and waddled onwards to greet my public.

They started clapping. I smiled and bowed my head sheepishly in embarrassment. I'm not very good at accepting congratulations. I need more practice, I guess.

Frisbie offered me a beer from the bucket. Yes please.

Blair and Cassie wanted to meet my parents. Hoo boy. This is how it starts.

Over the next several hours, more people began to filter in and I smiled and chatted with all of them (I hope- I had another pang that evening thinking that somehow I hadn't sufficiently made the rounds and that someone had come to my marathon afterparty that I'd inadvertently ignored. Such a thing, of course, would not have been my fault, but I worry about these things sometimes.) I learned a number of fine statistics and fun facts:

• My dear friend Liz accomplished her goal of qualifying for the Boston Marathon with her time of 3:35:14. This made me happy. I knew she would do it, of course, but I'm not sure she shared my confidence. Perhaps her prior experiences explained her anxiousness; as I had discovered, anything can happen over 26 miles.

• Tim clocked in at 3:49:13, good for 9414th place, roughly 20,000 places ahead of me. This result was not totally unexpected- I figured he'd break 4 hours. (I thought I might, too, but we'll get to that in a bit.) I think he's reasonably pleased. That time doesn't qualify him for anything other than a pat on the back, though. We discussed possible follow-ups to this spectacle, focusing on a running-boxing Biathlon (not unlike the Winter Olympic Biathlon involving cross country skiing and riflery) in which we'd run 5 miles and then fight each other for a round before running again. As far as extreme sports go, this might be our best idea yet.

• More people had been following this blog than I'd thought. I can track visitors, but generally speaking I can't tell how interested they are in the articles. For example, through the magic of web statistics, I've discovered that by typing the words "Matuska sex" into Google, the the first page of results includes a link to this blog. I can't help but think that websurfer was looking for something else. Nevertheless, the positive feedback I received was overwhelming, and as I fielded inquiries over beers that day, I started to feel like a writer.

• I realized the bathroom in this place was downstairs. This made me sad. Seriously, this was a major miscalculation on my part. I had a desperate moment, sitting on the toilet, thinking that I may have to spend the rest of my life in the basement of this crappy bar. Somehow, though, as all of us do at one time or another, I found the will to wipe my ass and stand up again.
  

My friends seemed fascinated by the prospect of entertaining my mother and father, as they rarely sat alone at the back room table, as my mother gushed deeply personal secrets of my childhood to the peanut gallery (or so I imagined.) Normally, such a gathering would horrify me, but I was concentrating on trying to drink my beer. Never before have I experienced such difficulty in downing a magic frothwagon like I did in those hours after the 2008 NYC Marathon, as if my body somehow wasn't ready to go back to being Mark Matuska.

I don't want to frighten anyone, but it still isn't.

I'm going to channel Rocky IV for you one last time as I wax philosophical: over the course of those 26 miles, I's seen alot a-changin'. It's become a pinnacle of politicized corporatespeak lately, like "synergy" and "paradigm shifts", as if "change" is a thing in and of itself. The underlying theme that I fear has been lost in it, though, is that we can do better. That doing better means individual efforts on a daily basis, not a single heroic act to save the world from the terrorists or global warming or whatever you're afraid of. One guy's not gonna do it. But it might not be a bad place to start.

Old habits die hard, or so my platitude cheat-sheet says. I'm trying to kill mine. Not just in an effort to do better. But to be better.

"Cause if I can change... And yous can change... EVERYBODY CAN CHANGE!!!!"

And that's why this probably won't be my last marathon. My knee's still a bit annoyed, nearly three months removed, but it won't stay that way (I hope.) I've decided I kind of like running. Maybe those sixteen weeks of training, which I considered at the time to be the toughest four months of my life since freshman college football, ought to be the norm instead of the exception.

There is also the question of goals. A friend of mine suggested to me months before that when I finished this Marathon, that the feeling of accomplishment would fill me like a glowing ball of warm fuzzies. I waited for that feeling at the end, and it didn't come. I was disappointed. But not like I'd been when I ended my football career, or graduated from the fourth grade. It felt more like a lost game, amidst a season of many. If I want to, I can keep playing.

4:55:13 feels like unfinished business. It was the best I could do on November 2nd, 2008. But it's not the best I can do.

As hard as I try to color this picture in negative fields, however, it wasn't all disappointment and cynicism. After speaking with my parents at the afterparty, my friend Cassie came over to me and said, "Matuska, your parents are so proud of you." I chewed on that for awhile, wondering what my mother could have possibly told her. Probably something like "We're so proud of him," I decided. Not so bad, I guess. Not to mention that it seemed a whole lot of other people seemed to be pretty psyched for me, too.

I peeled my broken body out of bed the next day and strolled gingerly over to a local bodega in search of a newspaper. I slapped down a couple bucks on the countertop and carried it back to my apartment, being careful not to damage it. Drained from the four-block walk, I collapsed into my desk chair and started leafing through. As I read the New York Times on Monday evening and found my name in the Marathon finishers section, I found a way to be proud, too.

But, as I've written before: I'm not done yet.

Finish

I stepped over the finish line. I waited.

Some cameramen flashed in front of me. I mugged for them. Still I waited.

A woman's voice urging just-finished Marathoners to keep moving droned in the background. I realized that her instructions were directed, if not precisely at me, then at a group in my general vicinity that included me. I looked around in an effort to extend my middle finger in her direction, but I could not zero her location. My phone beckoned, so I texted the letters "DUN" to Jamie.

With nothing better to do, I stepped onwards.

A number of lines awaited us ahead. Waves, even, like one might imagine waves of riot police, draping and taping aluminu-heatshields and finisher medals ("Everyone's a winner!") instead of Billy-clubs to the nosebone or tasers to the torso. I accepted my SWAG and examined my shiny new mystery metal medal: a brass-cast figure (we'll call him/her Androgyna, the god(dess) of nonspecific gender efficiency) stands on the front, arms raised, presumably running through a finishing tape, "2008" above its head, and "ING NEW YORK CITY MARATHON" over its torso and groin, clearly in an effort to conceal the fact that Androgyna has both boobs AND junk. The back of the medal provides two blank plates for the runner to have his/her name engraved and his/her time stamped, as Pheidippides must have done to his messenger-service timecard at the Parthenon before he keeled over in 490 B.C. It probably went something like this:

Pheidippides: Whew! Hey Everybody! We won! The Persians are defeated! (walks over to the timeclock clutching his card)

Messenger service dispatcher: Hi Dippy! That's super! And wow! You did that in 3:05! Nice job.

Pheidippides: Thanks. Can't wait to go home and take a nap. I'm exhausted!

Dispatcher: Hold on a sec there, Chief. You're not off for another hour. I got another run for you.

Pheidippides: (dies)

3:05 is my best guess for that first Marathon. Take into account that our buddy Dippy was most likely not on performance-enhancers, didn't really practice running long distances, and was in such lousy shape that he killed himself running, I figure he couldn't have broken 3 hours. On the other hand, he was running as fast as his body would allow the entire time; we'll say that I didn't exactly do the same. Wondering what that original time was in the marathon could drive one crazy, though- I mean, we could guesstimate Roy Hobbs' stats from his one season in "The Natural" (I'd say a .362 batting average with 45 homers and 97 RBI in 110 games) or Jimmy Chitwood's averages in "Hoosiers" (41.2 ppg, 0.0 assists, 2.1 rebounds), but we don't really know anything about Athenian distance runners in 490 B.C. We simply don't have any data. How fast would I have had to run in order to kill myself doing it? I suppose I don't really know, but my guess is those lazy bastards eating olives and grapes within the Athens city-state limits could have waited another half hour or so so Dippy wouldn't have had to die.

Where was I? Oh right. The medal. An elderly volunteer-lady handed me my medal, smiled, and said "Congratulations." I smiled weakly and tiptoe-limped past as if I were trying to walk with my legs encased in a burlap sack full of knives. As I inspected my medal, of which there are many like, but this one is mine, l started to think about the frontrunners- does the 10th-place guy who thought he had a chance to win this thing in the beginning, for whom this 10th-place finish is a monumental disappointment, take a finisher medal? Does he clutch his heat shield gratefully and mill about with other "we're all winners!" losers? Does he grin broadly in defeat and head to a UPS truck to pick up his pre-race belongings?

I looked back across the line of volunteers. Some of those chicks were hot! How come I got the old lady?

Does he swat the medal away in disgust from the well-meaning elderly volunteer and scream at the sky from his bowels?

I considered this for a moment. I had waited at the finish line for something. Androgyna wasn't it. I was still waiting. I was beginning to fear it wouldn't come.

The reckless-despair-panic attack remained an option for longer than I cared to think about it. The conditions in the post-marathon protoplasm pool made Auschwitz Staten seem like a finely catered brunch. Hundreds, probably thousands of runners stood packed onto a 25-foot-wide road, each having just completed his or her marathon within the prior 45 minutes. All suddenly were obliged to hurry past the finish line and wait, again. We moved at roughly 1 foot per second, or, in terms of Marathons, 1 Marathon per 96 days or so.

After a while of standing amongst others past the finish, many of whom were clearly in greater distress than I, Alex Trebek suggested I try "Famous Death Marches" for $400. At the time, the Trail of Tears came to mind; I began to contemplate exactly what "exposure" meant medically, and how forced marches bred history book epitaphs such as "death from exposure." After the fact, Tim related to me that his mind was on similar subjects, although his historical atrocity of choice turned out to be the Bata'an Death March. To paraphrase,"Until that line to exit the Park, I couldn't imagine falling out of line during a forced military march knowing that doing so meant being shot or stabbed repeatedly with a bayonet. Now, though... Let's just say that for a few minutes there, I might have taken the bullet to the base of the skull."

Well, then.

So I had a lot of fun walking (crawling, piddling) to the UPS truck after the race. No, the specters of shivering, blue-lipped girls huddled on the curb didn't disturb me. Much. I made it to the 28K group (which, in retrospect, was exactly where I should have been- congrats to the organizers for realistic expectations!) and picked up my way-too-large bag from the (sadly) different UPS guys than I had at in Staten. I wanted to chat them up. Ask them how the trip was. Were they having fun too. Et cetera. Oh well.

I called my parents as I made my way to the exit. Slowly. They were in the mid-sixties, I was in the mid-eighties. I suggested the meet me in the M corral, a suggestion I thought was not completely unreasonable, given my last name, and theirs. So I made my way over to CP West and waited. For something.

Eventually, I saw my mother and my father, he waddling as best he could up the sidewalk, his body failing him in the most basic of tasks I've become so accustomed to, walking ten blocks here in the metropolis that best defines these United States. I've made many allusions to why I've made this effort to complete this race, at the age of 29. My father, at the age of 65, as the best example I can extract, is the most visually descriptive reason I can cite. They met me, hugged me, congratulated me. Somehow, physically drained, I didn't feel much different than I had five hours earlier.

I could barely walk. Thinking critically, it seemed most likely that the best way downtown (where I'd planned a small gathering of friends to meet me) would be the subway. Cabs were few and far between. I directed them over to the BC line at 81st and hobbled down the steps, I could have struggled up and down four times before my father made it once.

We waited for the subway. I waited for something else.

Central Park

I've tried to avoid quoting Sly Stallone throughout the course of this blog-narrative, for fairly obvious reasons- his excessively sentimental cheesiness, coupled with his unabashed exultation of the cliche, demands resistance. It's a difficult task, though- the Rocky movies, I think, with the semi-triumphant return to semi-respectability that came with the only semi-cheesy Rocky Balboa in 2006, do a nice job of identifying athletic struggle and the athlete's will to succeed, even if it's all hackneyed and hyperbolized. Sly takes a lot of crap from Hollywood circles these days, I think mostly because he's not pretty enough to fit in to that crowd, having recently mutated into a grotesque caricature of the little guy fighting Apollo Creed in 1976. Maybe his time is past, but when you recap the life and career of the man who created and starred in two signature American film franchises- the Rocky series and the Rambo series (not to mention Stop or My Mom Will Shoot)- I think you start with a guy coming to Hollywood with a script and a dream. That, more than any invented storyline in the Rocky films, is an inspirational script.

Without further ado: The last three-plus miles of my 2008 NYC Marathon, as narrated by the pen of Sylvester Stallone.

Rocky IV

Adrian (speaking to Rocky from the top of the staircase after he scheduled a Christmas Day fight in Moscow against an invincible opponent who had just a few days prior killed his best friend in an exhibition bout without really mentioning the idea to her first): You can't win!

As I passed the Mile 23 marker a bit before we entered the Park, I guesstimated that I had 35 minutes to run the final 3.2 miles in order to come in under my new, five-hour, last-ditch, better make-it-or-else goal. Given that I'd been running 12 minute miles for the prior ten or so (which in itself is mind-numbing, considering I can walk a mile in sixteen minutes at a brisk pace) I began to feel a sense of urgency. If there was anything left in those legs, Mile 23 was the moment I decided I had to try and pull it out.

Dammit, Adrian. I can win. (Figuratively, anyway.) Take your wet blanket someplace else. 'Cause I'm a fighter. That's how I roll.

Rocky I

Mick (As the Rock has just been floored by a barrage of Apollo Creed shots to his terminally-undefended skull and is crawling about on the mat, grasping for the ropes, bleeding out of his face in the 14th Round): Down! Down! Stay Down!

My legs revolted one last time, as I mentioned in my prior entry, just as we entered the park. This one felt like it might be the last one. The burning sensation in my hamstring that had surfaced on Fifth now shifted to my groin muscle (there's a burning-sensation-groin-joke in here, but I'll leave it to the reader) and I again contemplated my race future (or lack thereof). There were no inspirational signs, or people, or landmarks to push me forward. Just the thought that I wasn't done yet.

One more round, Mick. You stop this fight, I'll kill you.

Rocky Balboa

Rocky (after he takes a massive knee-buckling hook from Mason " The Line" Dixon and drops to a knee, running through a 30-second inner monologue as an effort to regain his bearings during the longest ten-count in the history of fictional boxing): Whadidjoo tell de kid... It ain't about how hard you can hit. It's about how hard you can get hit, and keep moving forward. How much you can take... (breathes) and keep... (breathes) moving... (breathes)... forward.

I would walk twice more in the park- at Miles 24 and 25, the fluid stations. But only for a few steps. I was making good time. Better time, anyway.

Rocky I

Mick (as he holds the heavy bag for Rocky, telling him how he's going to eat lightnin' and crap thunda, and become a vewy dangewous poirson): Lay off the pet shop dame! Women weaken the legs!

I saw some friends of mine on the south side of the park, just for a moment, as I ran past. Blair and Cassie and Aileen and probably others shouted in unison "Matuska!" as I smiled and waved back.

I put my head down and started digging for the finish.

Right, Mick. Women weaken the legs.

Rocky IV

Rocky (after getting pummelled mercilessly by the towering Russian Ivan Drago in the first round of their zero-payday Christmas Day 1985 bout to ostensibly determine a victor of the Cold War): I see three of him out there!

Paulie (as the most useless corner man in the history of real or fictional boxing): Hit the one in the middle!

Ah, Paulie. He's my favorite. If I could, I'd reprint every line from every movie attributed to Adrian's surly meat-packing brother-turned trainer. I fear that would be an exercise that would only be entertaining to the writer, unfortunately.

Why do I recite this only moderately-amusing exchange? Well, mostly because I think I went blind briefly during Mile 26. It's my only explanation for not really remembering much. We turned north on Central Park West and I could sense the finish. I was running faster than I had in 13 miles. As in Brooklyn, I was again looking down at myself from above, detached, disembodied. The crowd lining the left side of the road seemed awfully quiet, so I took a cue from some Italian Stallions I saw earlier in the race and shouted "Make some noise!" as I high-fived some people for the first time since First Ave.

Duke (after Rocky has taken 11 rounds of punishment, been knocked down roughly 74 times, and won over the hostile Russian crowd and perhaps some members of the Soviet politburo): All your strength, all your power, all your love. Everything you've got. Right now!

We turned back into the Park off of CPW. I began to see signs in the distance- 300 yards to go.

Paulie (as he inexplicably rubs Duke's bald head as Rocky inexplicably turns the tide of the fight in the 12th Round) : Rocco, knock his head off!

200 yards...

Rocky III

Rocky (as he willingly accepts Clubber Lang's onslaught in their rematch after Rocky predictably lost the first fight while his lifelong trainer Mick died offscreen due to (in my opinion) zero medical attention): You ain't so bad, you ain't so bad, you ain't nothin'. C'mon, champ, hit me in the face! My mom hits harder than you!

100 yards...

Rocky IV

Adrian (as Rocky is about to knock out the Russian, she chooses to shed her prior doomgloom wet-blanket character and expose herself as the frontrunning golddigger she really is): You're gonna do it!

Hey, you're right. Yo Adrian...

I did it.

(Note: I actually DID do it. The time of 5:16:41 in this photograph indicates official race time from the first Staten Island departures. I didn't cross the start line until (apparently) 21 minutes later than the privileged elite at the front of the line. For those keeping score, my race time was 4:55:13, giving me nearly 5 more minutes I could have wasted and still made the NY Times. Next time, I'll try and cut it a little closer.)

Wait... Next time?

Rocky

Apollo: Ain't gonna be no rematch.

Rocky: Don't want one.

Of course, there was a rematch. And five more movies. Tell you what- stop by one more time next week, and I'll lay down some final thoughts for you to chew on. Until then- I hope you had a lovely Christmas, and have a splendid New Year.

Harlem and the Upper East

Harlem is where I live. But it's not mine.

Familiar territory does not mean home. Home, to me, would be jogging down the valley path past the Babooters's house and the old fire-ravaged barn into The Valley, down the massive straightwaway between the Christmas tree farm aisles and to the shore of the mighty Chagrin. I've always considered the Chagrin River to be the most aptly named body of water in all the planet; should I attach a descriptive noun to the city of Cleveland, that noun would be adversity, and the resulting effect upon the populace would be chagrin. An overarching sadness, I think, follows the waters of the Chagrin, which sometimes flows like a real river, and other times barely resembles a creek. Small pools would form along the shoreline, breeding tadpoles, crayfish, and all manner of minnow, a perfect place for a young boy to learn how to kill waterborne creatures by removing them from their habitat.

I once fed some tadpoles I'd gathered to a pet turtle I'd purchased from a local pet store during the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle rage; it died, as did the tadpoles, in different fashions. Its name was Botticelli. I didn't name the tadpoles.

At a particular spot accessible from the shoreline ridge was an unusually large rock in the middle of the river, splitting the current. My father speculated that there was a fishing hole behind it, and that the perfect cast would yield excellent results. I believed him. We called this rock Popeye Rock. It, of course, had grown so big and strong because it had eaten its spinach as a child-rock.

I used to fish those waters, never catching anything worth discussing. Chagrin river fishermen claimed trout and bass from other adjacent locales, but most of what I gathered were suckers. I will continue to fish them, as often as I can, despite it all.

Harlem is where I live. But it's not mine. This minor revelation occurred to me as I muscled my way down the Fifth Avenue corridor through the lower hundred streets of the neighborhood commonly referred to as Harlem. The spectators on the Manhattan side of the Third Avenue Bridge gathered on the streetsides, oblivious of the sidewalks and curbs, bottlenecking the runners into a tighly-packed mid-roadway vein that reminded me of the initial stages in Brooklyn in which I'd been running strong and loose amongst runners, not watchers. My phone buzzed at me once from my armband, alerting me to an incoming call, and I realized that it was likely that Liz and Tim and whomever else had probably finished by then while I struggled at Mile 22. I declined to remove the phone from its holster. I was busy.

Roughly ten minutes later, I wasn't so busy. I had been walking, briefly, I hope, struggling with another series of muscle-locks, trying desperately to push forward. My buddy Jamie was calling and this time I decided to answer. I couldn't hear him, but I shouted my coordinates into the phone, trying to alert my friends that yes, I was still running, and yes, I will finish sometime this year. I clicked off the phone, re-holstered it into my armband, and began plodding forward again.

Suddenly, hindsightedly instantaneously, the most interminable memory moment I can recall, we were at the park. Not in the park- just 110th Street, the north end, with the 4:45 crew. Clocks were stationed at every mile marker, alerting us to elapsed time, and I knew that 5 hours was going to be more of a struggle than I'd hoped. Fifth Avenue at this stage is a long gradual upward incline and a thoroughly demoralizing experience. I tried to find a stride and failed- my legs were nearly useless. At Mile 23 I tried stretching again, outside the Met, and felt the familiar(from ten years prior, as a football player) burn of a muscle about to tear as I attempted to loosen the threadbare structures of my wearied frame.

Not now. Goddammit, not now.

There would be no more stretching.

I ran on the left side of Fifth for awhile. A spectator held out a homemade-magic-markered sign that read, "There is BEER at the end!" I acknowledged him. Repeatedly. Actually, I stopped and shook his hand. Yes, sir. Yes, I hope so. Yes.

With that magical motivator, I turned into Central Park along with the rest of my fellow runners and nearly crumpled to the ground as my body mustered one last protest against the final two-and-a-half miles of the race. I paused, but not long- stillness would be death- and began long, exaggerated walk-strides along the designated path.

This was my route. I'd run the park no fewer than twenty-five times over the course of training. I knew we weren't really close yet.

I also knew that close is a relative term. Glass... half full?

Home was not so far away.

The Bronx

I have some advice for Marathon spectators that wish to be helpful by handing our water, towels, candy bars, or whatnot as runners stumble past: forget bananas. Some guy decided to purchase the entire GNP of Costa Rica and hand it out in the Bronx just past the (whatchootalkinbout) Willis Avenue Bridge, and I innocently decided to grab one. Unfortunately, I failed to recall my Cartoon Boobytraps 101 class from second grade as I maintained my line down the edge of the road. A couple of near-disastersteps later amidst a massive pile of trampled banana peels, I found myself at a dead stop on the sidewalk, cursing the concept of such a dangerous high-potassium fruit. That guy couldn't have more effectively tried to sabotage my race had he painted a hole in the street.

At least I had the banana. I started running again, peeling it as I trotted along, thinking that now, free of manufactured road hazards, I might at least enjoy me some sweet tropicality. Presciently, I recalled Sister Carmen's fourth-grade alternate nightmare across the hall from Miss Meehan's happy homeroom and how she'd check student lunchbags before they were discarded to confirm that all food had been eaten. Recess lore held that poor Nicky Snider had been forced to eat a brown, potentially rotting banana absentmindedly packed by his mother, while the rest of the terror-stricken class watched, in the name of starving children in Uzbekistan, or wherever.

Sergeant Carmen was one sadistic bitch.

I looked at my shiny new banana again.

OK.

Worst. Banana. Ever.

I pulled to a corner at some intersection and yakked out the half-chewed vileness, as some kid in my periphery reacted with a preadolecent "Ewwww!" and buried his head in his mother's coat. You have no idea, kid. I can only hope that he learned the lesson that he should never EVER take anything from strangers, especially strangers that seem friendly. The nice ones are the most dangerous.

And leaving that unsavory incident on the sidewalk (and in a garbage can- no one would be slipping on MY banana peel), I found we were nearly headed back into Manhattan. The race only runs through The Bronx for a brief mile or so. The route reminds me of oldsters in a mobile home that are trying to visit all 50 states, and as such get out of the RV long enough to say, "Ok, we've been to North Dakota." Maybe they stop at a diner and have a cup of coffee. Then they find another place that feels more like someplace. Not that I disliked The Bronx- I'd run this route before, and haven't had to dodge a single bullet. I like the bridges- they're frequent and short. Mostly I like the name, though. The use of definite articles in reference to place- The Ohio State University, The Netherlands (The Noplace?), The Fire Swamp, etc- announces that this is THE Bronx, and all other Bronxes out there (if they have the audacity to call themselves Bronx) merely share the same name and are inherently subordinate. The implication, I think, is that you will remember this place when you're gone.

I will remember the Third Avenue Bridge. Crowd noise dropped to a whisper as we climbed the approach, roughly six miles from the finish. Suddenly, we were a mass of a thousand people running through North Dakota, with only the sounds of our feet on the grated metal bridge surface. I looked up through the silence to see Midtown's skyscrapers resolving in the distance, the jagged horizon buried behind a low-rise sea in the foreground. I shouted:

"Why's everyone so quiet!?"

A halfhearted cheer arose from runners adjacent. My foot planted on the downward arc of the bridge curvature on the Manhattan side and noise from the Harlem crowd began to seep into the air. This is not a wall, I thought. This is a gateway.

My strides grew more regular.

I remembered how to smile.

I would be finishing this race.