Jack’s Blog

Yesterday, I posted a story about how I “scheduled” the birth of our second son on my appointments calendar (I knew the actual date & time because it was going to be a C-section), and followed that up with a tale of a groggy yoga instructor answering her phone hours after she delivered her first child.

Those anecdotes, illustrating people taking organizational skills and a strong work ethic (two traits that are becoming more and more uncommon) up a level, pale in comparison to today’s entry. 

Ever since SportsCenter, followed by the Internet - especially YouTube - it seems as though no event, whether phenomenal, historical, embarrassing or otherwise can exist without millions of people seeing it.  And seeing it, and seeing it, and seeing it.

The one to which I’m referring is the recent basketball game between UNC and Nevada in Chapel Hill.  Roy Williams, the “aw shucks,” but intensely competitive coach of the Tarheels had out-patient surgery on his left shoulder (torn labrum).  The Wolfpack made the game a little tighter than anticipated and Ol’ Roy, coaching with his left arm in a sling, really got into it, after his guys rallied from behind a small deficit.  The ‘Heels were in transition from the offensive to the defensive end of the floor when Roy, exhorting them on, momentarily “took a knee.”  It was evident that incredible pain had just shot up in his arm.  Carolina eventually pulled away and Williams was seen laughing on the bench.

During Wednesday’s live Jerry Tarkanian Show (ESPN 1430AM in Fresno) that I co-host, I recounted the story and then asked Tark if he’d ever coached a game in which he was less than 100% physically.  Considering I’ve known Jerry for 35 years and worked for him during his seven-year tenure at Fresno State (not to mention doing the radio show with him for the past five years), he told me a story I’d never heard before.

“We were playing Nevada in Reno” began one of only two Division I coaches to reach 600 wins faster than Roy Williams (the quickest to get to 600 was UK’s Adolph Rupp).  “I  stood up just before the end of the first half and nearly fell over.  The trainer came over to check on me.  He said he thought I had a heart attack. 

“They did some tests in the locker room at halftime and I was told by the medical staff they thought I had gone into cardiac arrest.  A plane was flown up to Reno from Vegas to take me back.  I spent the night in Sunrise Hospital in Las Vegas.”

Lucky it was radio because I was sitting there with my mouth open.  That, in itself, wouldn’t surprise anyone who knows me, but I found myself in shock - (nearly) speechless (which would surprise everyone who knows me). I stammered something inane like, “So they flew you back to Vegas?”

“Yeah,” continued the coaching legend, “right after the game.”

WHOA!  “You coached the second half?” I asked him incredulously.

He gave me that look, like, “What’s wrong with you?  You know there are two halves in a game?”  Tark said, “Yeah, and right after the game, I flew back to Vegas.  I spent the night in Sunrise Hospital.“  Like that inconvenience alone was proof of how serious this situation was.

By now, I had regained my composure - and humor - realizing I was talking to one of the most dedicated coaching junkies who ever put a whistle around his neck.  Knowing Tark, this really didn’t surprise me.  “So I guess if you had a bigger lead, you would have left at halftime?” I deadpanned.

“Oh no, we were up by quite a bit,” Jerry said matter-of-factly.

Since the author Charlotte Perkins Gilman died in 1935 (when Jerry Tarkanian was five years old), she couldn’t have had him in mind when she made the following statement, but it doesn’t fit anyone any better than it does JT:

“The first duty of a human being is to assume the right functional relationship to society - more briefly, to find your real job, and do it.”

A story from my book, Life’s A Joke, tells of our secretary admonishing me after looking at my calendar.  What bothered her was what she saw I had written for that day’s events, the day our younger son, Alex, was born.  At USC, we practiced from 5:45-8:00 in the morning.  When I walked into the office later in the day, she pounced on me.  “I can’t believe you,” she said.

What do you mean, Gere?”  I replied, truly surprised by her remark.

I said, “I looked at your calendar and it said: 5:45 - practice, 8:30 - pick up Jane & Andy, 8:45 - Andy to day care, 9:00 - Jane to hospital, 1:00 - have baby, 4:00 - walk-on tryouts, 6:00 - pick up Andy.  Do you have to be so organized the day you have a baby?” 

Well, yesterday I found my match.  After last week and my well-documented (in this blogosphere, anyway) medical issues, I decided that, one thing that might put me on the road to “normalcy” is to return to my yoga practice.  I sent a text to my instructor (who also happens to be the owner of the yoga studio), but my question went unanswered - which was very uncharacteristic.

However, my instructor was pregnant and due to have her baby in the middle of the month.  When I didn’t hear back, I had relapsed a little.  At least to the point where I didn’t feel like doing yoga, so I forgot about it. 

While I was in the doctor’s waiting room yesterday afternoon, I decided to call to see about resuming yoga, since I was getting back to where I felt I could handle it and, even thought it might be what I needed to turn the corner.  After a few rings, I was prepared to leave a message - a common occurrence because she seldom answered the phone, preferring to deal with the people in the studio - or actually teaching a class.  She was always prompt about returning calls, so this didn’t bother me a bit.

After what seemed like the tenth ring, I heard what I thought was the beginning of the voice mail, requesting the caller to leave a message.  An extremely faint, barely audible voice came on and said, “COIL Yoga, this is Katie.”  Katie is the owner and instructor supreme.  But she sounded like she’d been in a car wreck or something.

“Katie, are you alright?  You sound awful.”

“Oh, I’m fine.  I just had my baby today.”

“WHAT?!?  Why did you answer the phone?”

“It’s OK, I had him at 6:00 this morning.”

After inquiring about how he was doing and finding out she’s just like every other mom, bragging about how beautiful he is, etc. etc., I told her I thought there might have been a problem because she didn’t return my text from earlier in the week.  That’s when she told me that her water broke on Tuesday, so she hadn’t been feeling like texting.  How unprofessional!

Before we got off the phone, she did assure me that her associates were covering all her classes and the studio was going on without a hitch.  She also told me to make sure to continue my yoga practice and that she’d be back in “a few weeks.”

Knowing her, I’m betting the “under.”  Katie is the antithesis of the line:

“Too many people take themselves too seriously and their jobs too lightly.”

For the second time in as many years, I’ll be checking into Stanford Hospital on the Monday of Thanksgiving week (luckily, our school district gives us the whole week of Thanksgiving off).  As anyone who’s read this blog more than a few times is aware, I’ve undergone numerous back surgeries and still have to deal with back pain on a daily basis.

With as many advances as are being made in the medical world - and with the people at Stanford being some of the leaders in research - I know that one of these days, I’ll be leaving there as close to pain-free as someone my age (who’s in generally good health) can be.

I’ll be in the hospital until probably Wednesday, at which time I hope to get released early enough so I can make it back to co-host The Jerry Tarkanian Show which is on ESPN 1430 AM at 6:00 from the Red Zone Sports Grill in Fresno.  Last year I rushed home, was lucky to hit no traffic and made it just before “tipoff.”  Hoping not to have to cut it so close this year. 

So, . . . if all goes well, this blog will return Wednesday night - at the latest Thanksgiving night.  In the meantime, I plan on listening to (the unabridged version of) Larry Bird & Magic Johnson’s book on CD (so far, it’s nearly as good as they were) in the car on the way up and back I’m sure there will be some future blogs come otu of that book), correcting over 100 math tests I gave last Thursday & Friday and taking baby gift orders (the newly designed website should be up and running by December and it will be Awesome! - the capital A for Dick Vitale).  By the way, it will still have the same address: www.CuteBabyNameGifts.com.  Our artists have just completed one (SHANE) for a newborn in LaJolla, a baby (SARAI) born to an NBA starter and his wife, two of them for seven-year old BFF’s (MINDY & LOLA) and are preparing for the Xmas onslaught.

Other than that, it’s catch-up time for typing the book notes that I mail to friends and (mostly former) colleagues, reading (although with the meds I’m on, it makes it difficult to focus as long as I used to - like reading for the entire six-hour flight to Hawaii during my tenure at Fresno State) and my new form of exercise, yoga, which I wish I’d picked up a lot earlier in life.

A friend in town, who reads these posts daily, asked me what I was blogging for today. When I told him, he said it was more of a tweet than a blog.  If someone had made that statement when I was growing up, a fight would have surely followed.  

It seems like a great many of the really good quotes are by “Author Unknown” and this one, regarding the message at this time of year, is certainly on that list:   

“If you haven’t all the things you want, be grateful for the things you don’t have that you wouldn’t want.”

In my 2/20/09 blog, I wrote that the number one most important aspect of yoga is breathing.  Most people do not breathe properly.  Their method is similar to that of a panting dog.  The proper method of breathing is to begin from your diaphragm, i.e. if you placed your hands on your stomach and began to breathe, your belly would be the first part of you to move.  The breath then travels north until the lungs are filled.

Early in my training, Katie Flinn-Gardner, yoga instructor extraordinaire, gave me the analogy of being in a fine restaurant.  She claimed, correctly, that you would slowly inhale the wonderful aromas - as opposed to aggressively snorting and trying to “consume” as much air as quickly as you possibly could.  That story reminded me of my childhood.  About a 1/2 mile from our house there was a bakery that smelled so good, there were days we’d walk in just for the aromatic experience.

It has taken a good deal of focused practice, but after eight months of yoga training, although my flexibility is only marginally better, I’ve become an expert breather.  Recently, however, I’ve been having breathing problems - which have elevated to the point of minor anxiety attacks.  Yesterday, I went to what’s become a second home for me - the Stanford Pain Management Clinic.  My trip was two-fold.

Naturally, one reason was to inform my doctor of these new, unwanted anxiety issues.  As always, she listened intently and then, diagnosed the problem and set up a strategy to eliminate it.  One thing about Stanford, just walking around there, you can feel the answers on campus and in the buildings.  It gives a patient confidence and hope - a pretty good duo for someone who lives with pain on a regular basis.

The other reason for the visit was to get a refill for the morphine pump I’ve had implanted in my abdomen since 2004.  As the physician’s assistant began the procedure, she first needed to aspirate the medicine that remained in the pump. weigh it (to insure it was functioning properly) and then, fill it with a new batch.  This has never been a particularly easy procedure (mainly because of where the port is located), but the last few trips have gone as smoothly as I could possibly had hoped.

This time, though, when she stuck the needle into the port, in addition to a sharp, little stick, I began to feel a little anxious and immediately reminded myself to concentrate on my breathing techniques so I would relax.  The PA then foiled my plan when she said, “Please don’t distend your stomach.  It makes it impossible to perform what I need to do.”

Uh oh, major problem.  I used to get reprimanded for my shallow, doggie-panting breathing and now, having to use that style (of not breathing properly) only served to increase my anxiety.  I started squirming, another unpopular idea when getting a morphine pump refilled.

Trying not to use my diaphragm breathing techniques made me a great deal more uncomfortable.  Being a math guy, I always revert to numbers to solve my problems.  I asked, “If I were to lie still, how much longer would this procedure take - a minute, two minutes, five?”

The physician’s assistant looked at me (this ordeal wasn’t exactly a day at the coast for her either) and said, “If you’ll keep still and not distend your stomach, I’ll be finished in 2-3 minutes.”

That was all I needed.  I closed my eyes and started to count backward - in as close to one second intervals as I could - from 150 (about 2 1/2 minutes).  This would keep my mind occupied and off of whatever evil thoughts that were making me freak.  When I heard her say she was done, I was still in the 60’s.

The best line I ever heard regarding breathing came by way of my long time mentor, the late, brilliant John Savage, who off-handedly told me one day (after seeing one of our Toledo basketball players get the wind knocked out of him at an open gym session - by the way, the name on the arena happens to be John F. Savage Hall):

“Breathing is something you never think about - until you can’t do it.  Then, it’s the ONLY thing you think about.”

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It’s now more years than I like to admit that a (slightly older) friend told me, after I explained that I’d walked into a room in my house, only to stop and wonder, “What did I come in here for, anyway?” that I had experienced my first “senior moment.”  Like many others who encounter a similar event, I’m told, my initial reaction was total denial.

It’s only after another episode, and another, and another, did I realize this phenomenon was for real.  Unfortuneately, this trait is difficult to overcome because you don’t think about it until after it has already taken place.  Often, I’ve made myself a promise I would “beat” this act - that only gets worse as we age.  Yet because there’s no advance warning that an onset of it is about to occur, your senior moment takes place and it’s almost like a practical joke - kind of like punking yourself!

My latest happened last night.  School started this week after more than a two month hiatus.  Ever since my college summer job, working the graveyard shift at the New Brunswick (NJ) Post Office, I’ve been a “night person.”  While I need - and love - my sleep, if I have no meeting or other commitment scheduled for the next morning, I tend to stay up well past midnight and wake up later (sometimes, much later) in the morning.  Since my last act before retiring for the night is blogging, I sit at the computer, located just on the other side of a small partition in our master bedroom (which, by the way, is bad feng-shui, according the Central Valley’s best - and my personal - yoga instructor, the now quite pregnant, Katie Flinn-Gardner, owner of COIL yoga) and type the following day’s blog.  In order for it to post the next day, I have to hit the “Publish” button after 11:00 pm, never a problem during the summer months.  Now that school has started, however, I try to write the blog and edit it much earlier in the evening, and then leave it ready to publish, so that when I wake up 1 1/2 hours after going to bed (like clockwork, another age-related experience), I simply hit the “Publish” key and turn off the computer.  Then, it’s back to sleep.

When I got home from school at 4:00 pm yesterday (Wednesday), I was surprised to see the computer light was on.  I moved the mouse (since the screen was black) and was shocked to see appear before my very eyes what was supposed to be Wednesday’s blog.  Although I had gotten up to go to the bathroom (twice) last night, on each occasion, not only did I forget to click and turn the computer off, nothing about it ever even crossed my mind - throughout the entire day! 

Over the years, I’ve been told on innumerable occasions by my friends, “I’m never going to tell you anything I want you to forget.  Your memory is incredible!”  Nowadays, I tell people,

“I have a great memory.  It’s just short.” Â

My (well-known, for readers of this space) back problems flared up recently and my seven-year run of working at the Michael Jordan Flight School (summer basketball camp) came to an end.  The days were too long and there was too much walking and standing around.  

Earlier in the summer (June 11-14 in St. Louis at the Nike Hoops Jamboree to be exact), I had seen several of my coaching friends from MJ’s Camp and we talked about getting together in Santa Barbara in August.  There were several reasons (just catching up with what was going on in each other’s lives being one of the most important) we were looking forward to visiting.  Then my back went out and, well, . . . the best laid plans - you know how it goes.

So, . . . after treatment and a great deal of yoga instruction and practice, I decided to make the four-hour one way jaunt to catch up on some old times - as well as learn from the masters.  My good friend, Peter Sharkey (he, another East Coast transplant to Fresno) - on last minute notice, agreed to make the trip with me (thus making the ride seem a whole lot shorter and infinitely more enjoyable) and we left at 8:00 am, pulling into the Tropicana Dorm on the UCSB campus sometime after noon.

Camp had just concluded and as expected, a slew of coaches were just finishing up lunch.  It gave me a chance to reminesce a little bit before going to lunch with one of my favorite people, George Raveling.  His best friend, Glenn Wilkes, Sr. (a highly successful coach in his own right at Stetson University for nearly 40 years - check the books now and see how many coaches are remaining that loyal to their employer these days - or vica versa) gave me a lesson in internet marketing and some of the latest ideas in using technology.

I also got to see his son, Glenn, Jr. - the guy who does the real work running the day-to-day camp operations (his real job is the women’s basketball coach at Rolins College, where his teams perenially win 25 games and make deep runs into the NCAA Tournament).  He’d been threatening to bring his wife and two boys out to camp and this year, he finally did it.  He also seemed the happiest he’s ever been there, so that “family togetherness thing” must have some merit to it.

Peter spent most of the day at the beach, not exactly a daily menu choice in Fresno - and we hopped back into the car at about 4:30, drove up to Peter’s friend barbeque joint for a leisurely dinner and got home about 10:30.  The back’s not exactly as good as new (my personal yoga instructor, Katie Flinn-Gardner and her soon-to-be-born-in-four-months son, Noah, will work on curing what ails me later today) but whatever I feel is more than offset by the acquaintances I rekindled. 

I even bumped into one of our family’s best friends from our days in Pasadena (1991-95), Evan Jurgensen,  a youngster who used to attend day care with our older son, Andy, when each was about two!  He’s now on the tennis team at UCSB and was working their camp.  Our families used to, for many years, vacation together! 

The whole trip was proof positive of the fact I’ve heard, but deep down, always knew:

“One old friend is better than two new ones.”Â

We’re back - and getting home from St. Louis was a heckuva lot easier than going there was.  Read on about our trip to St. Louis. 

Our (my wife, Jane and son, Alex, and I) journey to St. Louis (Alex had been invited to the NIKE Hoop Jamboree, a 4-day competition for the Top 100 freshmen and sophomore high school basketball players in the country) began without incident.  The check-in for the flight from Fresno to Las Vegas was smooth and the flight was on time and uneventful.  The remainder of the trip could have been a great deal easier than it was, but at the time, who was to know?

Our plane arrived at the Sin City airport and we immediately went to our departing gate for the Denver portion of the trip (Fresno isn’t one of the easiest places to get in and out of), where we were then to catch a plane to St. Louis.  As we were about to sit down, we heard an announcement that there was ground fog in Denver which was causing delays for all planes going in and out of the Mile High City (no wonder there was ground fog -normally, fog a mile high doesn’t affect travel). 

We inquired about our flight in particular, and was told it would be 45 minutes late.  Since our connection was only an hour, that left us only 15 minutes to make our next flight (and, the gate agent informed us, we needed to keep in mind that the doors closed 10 minutes prior to departure).  In addition, our plane arrived at Gate 33 and the St. Louis plane departed from Gate 71.  Armed with this bit of pleasant news, Jane asked the agent if, perhaps, the plane coming into Denver that would be taking us to St. Louis would also be late, giving us a little more wiggle room (than the five minutes we were currently staring at).

“No, I’m sorry,” the gate agent said.  “That aircraft is originating out of Denver.”  Lucky us.  I asked the agent, who, at that time, wasn’t in the running for the most popular person in the airport (even though he had no control over the weather in Denver) if there was a plane from Las Vegas to St. Louis, even if it meant taking a red-eye, or if there was another flight to Denver.  No direct St. Lou flight and, naturally, our flight was the last one out of Vegas to Denver. 

“I can get you on a flight to St. Louis tomorrow morning that gets in at 11:20 am,” he told me.  That meant we’d have to wait for our luggage, get a rental car and drive directly to the registration site on the campus of St. Louis U.  Since the camp wasn’t going to be a breeze for Alex to begin with, I was trying to find a way to give him the best chance to perform well, knowing that stepping off of a plane and onto the court wasn’t it.  Participants had to be checked in by 12 Noon CST on Thursday (which is why we had to leave on Wednesday) and activities started promptly at 3:00 pm.  So, we were going to be late for check-in and he’d have to rush to get his dorm room, gear, get dressed and back to the rec center - not to mention that we’d have to either get a hotel room and get up really early to make it back to the airport, or sleep at the gate, neither option sounding too good to me.  It turned out it didn’t matter as that flight was way overbooked.  This was just the beginning.

“There’s a flight to Chicago (from Denver) that leaves a little later than your original flight to St. Louis, which would then connect to a flight to St. Louis, . . . oh, but it’s oversold, too.” That situation sounded as good to me as we could hope for at this time so I asked if there was any possible way he could put us on standby and let us take our chances.  “I’m sorry, but since you have baggage checked and it’s too late to take it off the plane it’s on, that would be impossible. 

“Don’t worry about the baggage” (Alex had carried his bag on so, technically, we had all the bags we absolutely needed; Jane and I could handle the inconvenience of a day with the same clothes and we could always get toiletries at the hotel).

“Well, sir, you’re not allowed to fly on one plane and have your baggage on another.” 

“Why not?” I asked him.  “Look, we got on our original flight with the luggage, and there’s no way we would have known that ground fog in Denver would ruin our plans to get to St. Louis for a basketball event, so” (here’s where you have to be really careful with what you say, because with airport security having been ratcheted up since 9/11/01 - when terrorists who’d been known to have taken flying lessons, but weren’t interested in how to land a plane, and all the other obvious oversights that occurred before that fateful and horrific day - they never know when an overweight, nearly bald, 60-year-old Jewish guy, who’s had eight back surgeries and is with his wife and 15-year-old son, . . . never mind), “what else ya got?”

Ignoring my frustration, he continued, “The next best thing I can get you is a flight from  Denver that leaves at 9 and gets to Chicago at about one in the morning, then a flight at 8 am that gets into St. Louis at 9:20 am.”  As completely absurd as it sounds, I was actually considering this.  I mean, what other choice did I have?  I told him to reserve three seats on the Las Vegas-Denver, Denver-Chicago and Chicago-St. Louis flights.  Then, I called my buddy, Dave Severns (the assistant coach for player development for the Chicago Bulls and the guy who worked out Alex numerous times when he still lived in Fresno) to tell him of this SNAFU. 

He had mentioned, depending on his schedule, he might be coming down to watch a day of camp.  “How long a drive is it from Chicago to St. Louis?” I asked.

“About five hours.  Why, is that what you’re thinking of doing?  Driving?”

The more I thought about it, the more sense it made - which I now realize that, even thinking for a moment it made sense (flying from Fresno-Las Vegas, Las Vegas-Denver, Denver-Chicago and then, on whatever sleep I got on the plane, renting a car and driving five hours to St. Louis) showed how screwed up my reasoning was.  Yet, I called the St. Louis Courtyard Marriott (one of the hotels Nike had recommended because of its proximity to SLU) and told them we’d not be coming in that night, but would be there as early as 6-7 am the following morning and we’d need a room, so please do not cancel it, we’d pay for the night but would need immediate check-in that next morning. 

I next made my way to the counter to tell the gate agent my plans and that I needed to have my ticket terminated in Chicago so I could retrieve my bags.  He told me that wouldn’t be a problem, to tell them in Denver.  He was getting less helpful by the request.

 My next call was to Alamo Rent-a-Car to cancel the car in St. Louis (4 days with AAA discount was to cost $109.50) and reserve a car in Chicago that I’d need for the same time, but dropping at the same place (St. Louis airport).  Did they have a car that possibly had been driven from St. Louis and dropped in Chicago?

“Let’s see,” the Alamo salesperson (speaking to me from India or some place “overseas,” which he told me when I asked what his location was), “I can get you one for $185″ (I’m thinking, “OK, that’s not too bad”) per day, for a total of …” and then all I remember is a number that started with eight hundred.  This whole trip was beginning to have a major impact on my blood pressure.  My yoga instructor would be so thrilled at how much practice I was getting using my breathing techniques. 

We decided to get something to eat and when we got back to the gate, our new flight to Denver had been delayed so we were going to miss our connection to Chicago anyway.  Of course, the gate agent who had “helped” me with this new flight itinerary had gone home (by car, bus, bike or longboard) and I went to a new face and tried a different tactic.

“Do you have any kids?”  I asked the gentleman, who I was certain, did.

“Yes, I do,” he replied.

“My son over there” (by this time, Alex was sprawled out on the floor, against the wall) “was selected as one of the Top 100 freshmen and sophomore basketball players in the country.”

“Wow, that’s quite an honor.”

“Yeah, it sure is, thanks.  Let me ask you, if he were your son, wouldn’t you try your best to get him there and give him the best possible opportunity to succeed?”  By now, I was close to, if not actually, begging.

“Look,” he said.  “We’re trying to get everybody on your flight” (the first one to Denver) “on the flight over there” (he pointed a couple gates away where a line of about 100 people were standing).  “I’ll get you three tickets on that one.”

“What about these boarding passes to Denver, Chicago and St. Louis?”  I asked, not sure why, since this guy was doing us the biggest favor we’d asked for in Vegas (including, “no bacon” on my turkey sandwich).  He told us that we might need them in Denver.

So, we got on the Denver flight and made it there about an hour later (9:35) than we were supposed to originally arrive (8:31).  We checked the “Departures” and saw the flight for Chicago was delayed until 10:36.  Wait!!!  The flight to St. Louis was scheduled to leave at 10:04.  Next to the departure time were the words “delayed - weather.”  Uh-oh.  Major problem!  We didn’t have tickets on that flight anymore.  I remembered how the Vegas gate agent had assured me there was no way we could make the connection because the plane originated out of Denver.  It turned out the plane did originate in Denver but the pilot and crew were delayed on their way to Denver.

The Chicago flight was to depart from Gate 27 (sure enough, we had arrived at Gate 33) and I used the “Do you have any kids?” routine again.  The gate agent did (aren’t children wonderful?) and said, although he couldn’t call Gate 71, that Jane and Alex ought to start heading that way - pronto! because they were boarding - while he printed out new tickets.  I did the best I could to “run” (something I haven’t done since I had a morphine pump implanted in my abdomen) - with my over-the-shoulder brief case, James Patterson novel and purse (man bag, for those who don’t like to use the term “purse” for something a male carries). 

Out of breath and experiencing a pain level of, on a scale from 1-10 (which nurses and doctors are fond of asking people who are hurting) - infinity, I made it to Gate 71.  No one, other than Jane, Alex and a solitary agent, were there.  Turns out they boarded downstairs and they were holding the door for us.  Hallelujah! 

We got on the plane and got into St. Louis at 1:30 am (exactly one hour later than the itinerary said).  All that angst, worry and stress for - an hour!  It’s like Mark Twain said:

“I’ve had many problems in my life - most of which never happened.”

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The number one sports question of all time, in any sport, that is argued the most (by far) is the universal, “Who is the greatest ever?”  Team, player, player at a certain position, coach, sportscaster/writer, play-by-play man, color guy, what or whoever? 

Invariably, someone tries to enter statistics into the discussion.  This is always touchy because statistics in different eras tell different stories.  Whether it’s field, court or track surfaces, equipment, training and coaching methods, diet, outside influences, the list seems to be endless and it’s mainly due to something Tony Sparano, coach of the Miami Dolphins, said in an article in Sports Illustrated (9/15/08).

“It’s the competition,” Sparano said, but his response was toward the question regarding “the motivation that drives NFL players to squeeze every snap out of their bodies, and why teams are eager to open their doors to anyone who can help them win.”  He was referring to Brett Favre and why he was having such a hard time retiring, to guys getting multiple chances after various social blunders (many of them resulting in arrests, e.g. Adam “Don’t Call Me PacMan Anymore” Jones).

That same quote, though, could also apply to 1 - steroid use (talk about squeezing every last …) 2 - one of the ultimate second chance stories (should it ever materialize) in Michael Vick and 3 - more benign, yet still considered radical (at least by the “old timers”) moves made by teams (in all sports) such as bringing in the latest gadgets (underwater treadmills and the University of Oregon’s Bod Pod, which measures fat-to-muscle ratio), improving facilites and equipment (include golf, tennis and swimming into this discussion), hiring nuitritionists, chefs, flexibility and player development coaches, and “feel good” guys (motivational, inspirational, team builders, psychologists, yoga instructors, even hypnotists). 

Some will argue technology has inflated statistics, while the N-Geners claim specializtion and strategies have improved to a level that they have had an adverse effect on today’s stats.  Changes such as the relief pitcher (back in the day, players were batting against the tired arm of a starter who had nothing left late in the game, thereby padding their stats) or, the short reliever (even moreso,  teams carrying a lefty, whose sole job is to get out - possibly - one left-handed batter per game).  Or, the defensive specialist in basketball or the nickel defense in football (not to mention that going both ways has gone the way of the buffalo).

Rule changes have rendered comparison of statistics virtually useless.  How many more points would great shooters, e.g. Pete Maravich, have scored if the three-point line had been in place when he played at LSU?  How about the goal posts being ten yards closer!  Changing yards to meters in races?  The new configuration of baseball stadiums - or, simply playing in Denver?

In an unrelated article in the 8/4/08 edition of SI, Phil Taylor wrote a column about Tim Forneris, the Busch Stadium groundskeeper who retrieved Mark McGwuire’s 70th home run ball and, rather than trying to sell it for the fortune it would have commanded back then, he gave it to McGwire.  Fast forward to the present day and, as Taylor wrote, “who would have thought that 10 years (later), the hero of the story would be Tim Forneris?”

When it comes to arguing the “who’s the greatest” question, let’s hope that, at the very least, for the integrity of each sport and athlete, each individual involved would, as Phil Taylor describes the action of Forneris:

“Do right when so much around them is wrong.”

Readers of this blog, even casual ones, most likely know that I have had chronic back pain for several years (since 1987) and have tried about as many cures as there are cures that exist.  If you know of any, please send them my way.  Yours might be the one which works, upgrading my life a great many steps.

Yesterday, my wife, Jane, and I went to the new Stanford Pain Management Clinic in Redwood City, just a few minutes from the old one by Stanford’s main campus.  Due to the additional drug which was added to my previously 100% morphine solution, I now have to make the trek to Stanford every 44 days!  Prior to the new drug being introduced into the pump, i.e. when it was full of only morphine, I had that “commute” but twice a year.  My physician is a wonderful, extremely bright, patient, and confident doctor.  Yesterday was the first time in about a year that, in addition to the refill, I also got to speak with her. Yeah, a her doctor - and as competent and positive as any patient would want his or her doc to be.  

Earlier, when I had seen our family doctor, he gave me a routine test for clonus in my feet and it had returned, which gave him cause for concern because that was the first sign before my emergency surgery in 2002.  That surgery is the one that precipitated all the pain I’ve been experiencing ever since.  He ordered a CT scan and, sure enough, there are additional problems in both the thoracic and lumbar areas.  

My Stanford doctor had not seen this latest CT scan, nor had she read the radiologist’s report.  I handed over both and because we were in a room that had a television without CD capabilities, she simply read the report.  Her prognosis?  “Your back is a mess!“  

Her conclusion was that I needed to stay away from surgery (an opinon shared 100% by Jane and me).  She also thought my core (a person’s lower back, hamstrings, quads, abs & gluets) needed to be strengthened.  This point was being addressed by my once/week yoga class, once/week private one-on-one yoga instruction and the sessions I try to get done everyday at home. 

Then, she gave me the awful news all patients in my condition dread.  “The one thing that would really help is for you to lose weight.”  And she wasn’t just talking about a couple pounds here and there.  Oh no - more like 12-13% of my body weight!  Although I’m far from obese, the stress the extra pounds were putting on my back and pelvis were as much a cause of my discomfort as the disks!

This news, which, honestly I had known all along and had been bracing myself to hear, still hit me hard, but I’m now determined to lose it.  What she told me comes under the title of:

“The best strategy is not to tell someone what they want to hear, but what they ought to hear.” Â

I had resolved to starting and ending my blogs a little earlier in the day because bedtimes have been stretching into the wee hours, where even I realize it’s a tad foolish to push it to such an ungodly hour.  That is why I’m so appreciative of the people who faithfully read this space and why I feel I let you down (although I’m not of such an ego that I think your day is totally ruined if you miss a post every now and again).

So much for my intentions of writing earlier, trying to improve the quality of the work and publishing for the following day.  My schedule yesterday looked as follows: 10:45 am doctor’s appointment, followed by lunch with former media member (discussing some new ideas for programming - since it seems like everyone in that business is in the “every man, woman and child for him or herself” attitude at this moment of national panic), an afternoon meeting with the incomparable artist who composes every personalized, individual baby gift (check out www.CuteBabyNameGifts.com to further educate yourself on selecting the Cutist, Unique, Thoughtful and Educational baby gift ever invented) we design (in an effort to improve the speed to market since, from the feedback we get from parents of the babies and the people who give the gifts, that the quality far surpasses the cost), followed by a late afternoon private yoga instruction session.

When I got to see our family doc, we chatted about a few issues, all of which seemed normal, until I complained that I was experiencing more pain in my back than I had for several months.  He performed what’s called the clone-ness test on each foot and, lo and behold, he observed a similar result to what he had seen just prior to my emergency surgery in 2005.  The remainder of the day was reshuffled, as getting an MRI vaulted to the number one spot on the “to do” list. 

I was admited as an out patient and after a very brief wait, I was escorted into the room where the CT scan was to take place.  “I thought I was to have an MRI?” I queried.  This has been a constant source of debate ever since I got the Spinal Cord Stimulator implanted in 2005.  The fact that it never worked as it was advertised and, subsequently, hasn’t worked at all the last four+ years, has brought up the question of, “Why not take it out?”

Indeed - my feelings, precisely.  It’s just that, if it were taken out, it would require surgery, i.e. cutting me open and removing it.  My question was, “Since the stimulator is connected to wires, or leads, that go around and, due to the length of time the machine has been in my body, are more or less fused to my spine” (all of this I’d been told previously), “what’s going to happen to the leads when the stimulator is removed?”

“They’ll just hang there,” was the reply I received, although wasn’t exactly the one I’d hoped for.  I couldn’t envision my body with two leads just “hanging there.”  Because the leads had been, for lack of a better medical, yet perfectly descriptive word, soldered to my spinal cord, the rehabilitation would go from 4-6 weeks (if just the stimulator was removed) to 10-12 weeks if both the stimulator and the leads were both taken out.  It was for this reason I left the entire contraption in there.

The procedure, done with and without contrast, only took about a half an hour to forty-five minutes to complete, at which time I was instructed to return home to rest (which meant not even light yoga stretches).  And I’ve been sitting in a minor drug induced stupor, trying to think of a topic to blog.  This is what I’ve come up with.  I guess the moral of the story is work out often when you’re young - including stretching to maintain flexibility - and pay as much attention to your body as your do your job - especially if you love your job.

When that case arises, just as you would be loathe to neglect your job, have the identical feeling regarding your body.  While I’m on the soap box, let me add another time consuming aspect to the equation, one which is more important than the others, although the rapidly climbing employee seldom recognizes, nor has time for it: your family.  Naturally, if you’re single, this isn’t as vital a factor, although you might end up someday, having been so singleminded, your family was put on hold so often, once you get to the top, you find two potential problems.  One is you’re successful, but quite lonely, while the other is, as Stephen Covey has said over and over, you’ll discover you’re at the top of that proverbial ladder - but it’s leaning against the wrong wall.  This falls in line with the quote from Phillips Brooks:

“Bad will be the day for every man when he becomes absolutely content with the life he’s living, when there is not forever beating at the doors of his soul some great desire to do something larger.” 

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