i Am In

On my bulletin board at work is one of my favorite New Yorker cartoons. It’s a crude drawing of a middle-aged man sitting alone in his living room. He’s on the phone. The caption reads, “Just sitting here waiting for Facebook to go away.”

I’d say that guy is me, except that the caption is too short. Were I in a New Yorker cartoon, my caption would read, “Just sitting here waiting for Facebook, Twitter, and a world in which everyone is interacting with his or her phone every damn second to go away. And frankly, I’d rather not be on the phone right now, even to convey this cartoon punch line.”

Such a caption would be way too long for the New Yorker’s taste, of course, and far too cranky. Rather than simply critiquing, in a succinct and amusing way, one discrete aspect of our self-absorbed culture, my caption would pointedly indict the vast majority of the New Yorker’s readers. Who, like most everyone else today, might rather lose their food supply than their phone service. Still, my caption, wordy and dyspeptic as it might be, accurately summarizes my views.

But I recognize that Facebook, Twitter and society’s demand to be connected by technology all the time aren’t going away. As I had noted in my May 24 post, “Glass Too Full,” I know that I haven’t seen the half of it yet, or even the sixteenth. The “augmented reality” of Google Glass spectacles is just down the pike, on the road to embedded computer chips in our noggins and God knows what else. The ship headed at breakneck speed away from the quiet shores of my youth hasn’t just sailed. It has capsized, and been replaced by a virtual luxury liner that serves up a 24-hour buffet of instant gratification and dazzling cacophony. There’s no going back.  And resistance—total resistance, at least—is futile, and even counterproductive in some ways. Unless, that is, you’re already in your 80s, like my steadfastly Luddite parents, and keeping the damn kids off your lawn for just a few more years is do-able.

But I only just turned 55. Which feels plenty old to me, especially in view of last week’s optical check-up, the print summary of which reads like a catalog of decrepitude: “Today’s visit diagnoses: incipient cataract, myopia, astigmatism, presbyopia (age-related vision difficulty).” The thirty-something optometrist assured me that it’s all perfectly normal, to be expected. As if that was good news. Anyway, while 55 clearly ain’t young (and yes, I still can see clearly—with glasses, of course), it’s more likely than not that I’ve got at least a couple more decades on this planet. So, as I outlined in that May blog post, I had determined by that time—for reasons of practicality and of peace of mind, given my technophobia—that I needed finally to enter the 21st century, and get a smartphone.

Lynn did the research, in her role as the consumer reporter of our union, and last Sunday found us at our neighborhood Verizon Wireless store, where an extremely patient young man spent the first hour and 45 minutes of his work day setting up our iPhones and showing us some basics (most of which we’d forgotten by the end of our five-minute walk back to the house). We were a bit shell-shocked by the expense—both upfront and in perpetuity—of our passports to 24/7 interconnectivity. I asked Lynn, rhetorically, how people less financially secure than we can possibly afford monthly cell phone bills on top of their mortgage or rent, utility costs, food bills, and all the other expenses of modern life. She answered—resignedly but not inaccurately—“They can’t. That’s why everyone’s in debt.”

The reason cost loomed so large in my mind was because I knew Lynn had consented to the iPhones, which she gladly could have done without (unlike me, she already had a “dumb” cell phone), because this was a place I felt I needed to go. And I immediately wondered if I’d ever use my iPhone enough to justify the expense. I really do hate talking on the phone, after all. I don’t feature downloading a ton of apps. Given my deep antipathy for people constantly texting in public, how likely am I to do much of that?

Now, as I type these words—on my home computer, to be sure, and certainly not on my phone, if one even can even type a Word document on a phone—it’s five days later. What have I learned, and how am I feeling about the whole thing at this point? It’s a bit complicated.

I have exchanged texts with several people—unexpectedly popping up on their phones, joking that, as unlikely as it might seem given this week’s horrid heat and humidity up and down the Atlantic Seaboard, hell has in fact frozen over. Their responses have been along the lines of “WTF?!”—underlining, clearly, the must-(not)-read status of this blog—with my friend Elaine memorably demanding to know, in her reply, “What is this sorcery?!” I must concede that it’s been pretty fun, and also good for my self-esteem. When, yesterday, after a lunchtime tutorial from my tech-whiz friend Jason, I succeeded not only in taking a photo of the cheesy battle that every day is waged atop my office bookcase between Godzilla and Gammera the Flying Turtle, but also in embedding that photo within a text message that I then sent, I felt as if I’d just graduated from MIT.

On the other hand, though, there’s this: One thing that I’ve sort of liked, personally, about texting in these early days is concurrently what I greatly dislike about it in a global sense. In a number of cases, when I first texted someone, I heard back from that person immediately. Take my friend Lara, for example, who by her own admission seldom checks her e-mail, and who always lets incoming phone calls go to voicemail. I’d last heard from her sometime during the first Obama administration, or so it seemed, yet she had responded to my text message almost before I was sure it had been sent. So, I quickly witnessed texting’s potential to reach the otherwise unreachable. And beyond that, sure, when you have an urgent question for someone, or when you just want quick confirmation that he or she was charmed by your idiotic Godzillla photo, it’s great to get an immediate response.

Getting a split-second response also, though, confirms my worst fear. Which is that pretty much everyone in the world anymore is all but surgically attached to his or her phone, and might feel actual physical withdrawal were it to be out of his or her sight for a solitary second. Which, to me, is incredibly depressing. Checking for messages fairly regularly is one thing, having a Pavlovian response to each and every ring, chime or vibration quite another.

Per my preexisting aversion, I’ve thus far initiated no calls on my phone and have received only one—from Jason, and it echoed, because he was sitting a couple of feet away from me in my office at the time. But I can see where having a mobile phone will come in handy from time to time. Like, for instance, if I’m standing at the side of the road and I see a driver distractedly yakking away on his or her hand-held device, which is illegal in all local jurisdictions. In that event, I may well wish to alert the authorities.

I guess phones are good for emergencies, too.

I haven’t done any e-mailing by phone yet, but that will be advantageous on occasion. In a major breakthrough this morning, at Starbucks after my run, I successfully accessed my office e-mail on my iPhone. Someone I plan to interview for an article had proposed a few possible times, and I could have confirmed one of them via my phone. In that instance, however, it was easier to just wait until I got home, and to type out a leisurely reply on a full-sized computer keyboard, as opposed to laboriously composing a clipped response on my small phone screen.

I have read a few newspaper stories and headlines on my phone, though I find it a constricted and largely unpleasant viewing experience. But there will be times, I’m sure, when I’ll appreciate the convenience of overhearing people talking about the latest overnight scandal or calamity or international contretemps and being able to immediately get the journalistic details. Let’s face it, too: Given my aforementioned age and the surety of diminishing memory, there will be times when I simply must Google the dreadfully important name of that sitcom actor or song title that lies just outside my cerebral cortex.

What else do people do with their phones? Oh, right—they download and use all manner of apps. I haven’t done any of that yet. I already can think of many apps in which I have no interest, such as paying for coffee with my phone, or mapping my runs. I prefer to keep track of my expenses by using cash whenever it’s practical. And the way I map my runs is by deciding if I like the scenery on that street, or if I’m really in the mood to climb yonder hill. I can, however, think of at least one app I probably will want to download: the Major League Baseball scoreboard app. At least if my historically woebegone team, the Pittsburgh Pirates, continues its improbable run of success. (Apps can easily be deleted, right?)

I suppose what I’m trying to say is that I’m glad, by and large, that I’ve taken this step. And it seems likely I’ll feel even better about it once I know how to do a few more things. I already feel less stupid and less obstinately self-segregated from the mainstream of American life, which is all to the good. But it’s very much an open question whether the true believers who have exclaimed, “You’ll love it! You’ll get to the point where you can’t imagine you ever lived without it!” will be proven right. I frankly can’t see ever shaking the conviction that much has been lost in our light-speed rush away from a pace of life and degree of contentedness that seemed to serve the human race quite well for a very long time—until, that is, we bought into the idea that faster, without fail, is better.

I not only can imagine that I—that we—ever lived without what communication technology has wrought, but I happily, wistfully, daydream about those days.

Jackpot

I was thrilled recently to discover that Bertha plays the lottery.

Bertha is the woman who empties my trash can at around 5:15 every weekday afternoon. That’s not all she is, of course. She may be a poet, a painter, an inventor on the side. She might have been an office worker like me in her native country, for all I know, not that there’s any shame in being a member of a cleaning crew. She could well be a wife and mother, and/or the glue that holds together an extended family that spans continents. But Bertha and I have a circumscribed context and a limited vocabulary. Her English is slow and uncertain, but it still trumps my Spanish.

Bertha is tall and sturdy, with frizzy hair that usually is tied back. Her predecessor was short and squat, and scared me. I never knew that other woman’s name, but I sensed her visceral loathing of me. I might have been making it up, because I tend to project onto cleaning-crew staff the distaste I imagine I would have for the likes of me, were I an immigrant working in a similarly crappy-paying job. Were I forced daily to empty the trash can of a monolingual dweeb whose windowsill is lined with an assortment of dust-catching tchotchkes—a ballplayer bobblehead, a Charlie Brown Pez dispenser, two hockey pucks, assorted seashells, etc—that bespeak a life of undeserved privilege and suggest the owner is deeply smitten with his own quirkiness.

But I really do think that woman hated me. I always imagined her rolling her eyes with disgust, like Grammy Hall did at Woody Allen’s character in Annie Hall—seeing me not as a dreadlocked Orthodox rabbi, but as some sort of Brahmin who no doubt stirred his tea with a silver spoon that was stashed in one of his desk drawers. Her English was the equal of my Spanish. I would say “Gracias” as she returned my emptied trash can to its place against the wall, but the word always sounded pandering to me. She’d answer “De nada” in a tone that suggested she’d think de nada of stuffing my lanky ass into that receptacle and hurling me into a compactor.

It got to where I transparently fled the scene whenever I heard her cart working its way up the hall. Or else, sometimes I’d close my office door, as if to suggest I was busily teleconferencing in there, or perhaps putting the finishing touches on that troublesome Anderson Account. I doubt she was fooled. And so my trash would accumulate for another day. But that was better than getting the stink eye.

Then, one day, this taller, frizzy-haired woman appeared in the frightening woman’s stead. She wasn’t exactly whistling while she worked, but neither did I sense any animus. Just weariness, as if this new person might be on the third job of a 16-hour workday. She had some grasp of English, and no discernible opinion about my guts. I felt great relief. This moved me to make an effort to get on her good side, or at least to cement my standing on her noncommittal side. If I didn’t act fast, I feared, she soon would take note of the Godzilla and Gamera action figures waging war atop my bookcase and bitterly conclude, “So, this is how the juvenile gringo spends his money while I am killing myself to support a family of 10.”

I made it a point not only to say hello to her when she reached my door each day, and to thank her once she’d emptied my trash can, but to reference things like the weather, the weekend, an upcoming holiday. One afternoon she was wearing her hair down, and I told her it looked pretty. (It did.) She seemed to accept my sincerity, and smiled.

Then, one day, I introduced myself. This was when she told me her name was Bertha. I’m terrible at remembering names, so I repeated it aloud. I pronounced the “h,” but then I doubted myself. “Wait,” I said. “Bertha or Berta? How do you spell it?” As it happened, I was asking two different questions. Yes, B-E-R-T-H-A. But the “h” is silent—“the Spanish way,” she explained.

She said she has a brother named Eric, except with a “k.” My parents, I noted, had considered that spelling for me. That afternoon, Bertha and I wished each other a good evening by name.

I really should’ve taken advantage of that slight momentum and asked her, in the ensuing days, more about her family. I could’ve introduced the subject, after all, by pointing to the photos on my bookshelf of my wife, cat and dog. But somehow I didn’t do that. Some days Bertha seemed to be in a hurry. Other days I was feeling distracted by e-mails or other work that I wanted to finish before heading home. Also, I frankly worried about being a bother. I tried to put myself in her place, and could imagine her thinking, “Really? Must we make conversation in a language that’s a struggle for me? I don’t even know you.  ‘Hello’ would suffice. And anyway, my family is none of your business.’”

Sure, I was reading a lot into the situation, but the class/cultural gulf inherent in the cleaner-cleanee relationship makes me sufficiently uncomfortable that I’ve always filled in my own blanks with worst-case projections. (Per the stink-eye woman.)  The upshot was that even though Bertha and I now knew each other’s names, I felt that our relationship had reached an impasse. It wasn’t growing. Our minute or two together each afternoon seemed increasingly awkward to me, sometimes even painful. I started wondering if Bertha dreaded my opening my mouth. I sometimes dreaded opening it. Occasionally I hid in the bathroom, just as I’d done with the scary cleaning lady.

But then, one day a couple of weeks ago, something utterly unexpected and wonderful happened.

I’d walked down the street to buy lottery tickets at this weird Filipino-run package-shipping store that also sells everything from Washington Redskins paraphernalia to old movie posters and foam “We’re Number One” fingers. I like the guys who work there because they’re super-patient with senior citizens, always wish me luck after my millionth consecutive losing week, and bring their little kids to work (who often can be heard breaking things in the back room). On this particular day I’d exchanged waves with one of the guys when I walked in. Then he’d resumed entering into his lottery machine the numbers that the woman in front of me had given him.

Suddenly I realized that the other lottery hopeful was Bertha. I called her name and waved my own filled-in entry cards for Powerball and MegaMillions. “My retirement plan,” I explained, wondering if she’d get the joke. She laughed and said, “Me, too!”

When I saw her back at the office a few hours later we commiserated, as best we linguistically could, about our maddening lack of success at Getting Rich Quick despite both of us clearly playing the best numbers week after week.

 

On subsequent days, we’ve discussed how often we buy  tickets (weekend drawings for me, weekends and midweek for her), and our desire for a life-changing score—none of this penny-ante $100 scratch-off nonsense for us.

That single chance encounter (no pun intended) has invigorated our micro-relationship. Even if our shared goal of one day residing on Easy Street isn’t explicitly mentioned every day at 5:15, it’s there in the background—suggesting that she and I aren’t so different after all, that Lady Luck truly is the great equalizer, and that, if there really is a silver spoon in my desk drawer, the silver ain’t real.

So, OK, that’s my take. Bertha may not be blogging about a life lesson we learned at the lottery outlet. What I do know, though, is that I feel less self-conscious around her now, that I’m no longer fleeing to the bathroom, and that I’m enthusiastically stockpiling conversational fodder: Our favorite lottery game. Why the winners always are from, like, Iowa. Annual annuity or lump payment? What we’ll do with the loot the day our ship—make that luxury liner—finally comes in.

The timing seems right, too, to tell Bertha about my family and to ask her about hers. I mean, this won’t just be our retirement nest egg when he hit the big money, right? The day the lottery gods smile on us, we’ll surely be spreading our MegaMillions around.

Glass Too Full

Do you remember when only crazy people talked to themselves on public streets?

I always was torn between the desire to give them a wide berth because they might be dangerously unstable and the temptation to draw closer to them because the conversation figured to be interesting, if bizarre. God or Jesus often was invoked (or channeled). But also oft-times represented, somewhat counterintuitively, were motherfuckers. The latter might well be emissaries of the government, or of quasi-governmental cabals who were conspiring to command our minds through radio-controlled squirrels, or perhaps to kill us all by mixing lead into the fluoride in our water.

Nowadays, of course, it’s impossible to get that sort of heads-up on the mentally unbalanced because everyone is talking to him- or herself on public streets. Well, not technically, but it can seem so to the ears of the overhearing listener. This is because everyone is on their damn phone, all the time—often via a headphone device, such that there isn’t even the visual giveaway of a cell phone cupped to the speaker’s ear.

These conversations never are interesting. They are to mundane banality as the deinstitutionalized motor-mouths’ monologues of old were to disturbing calliope. Let’s face it: “What’s up?” or “I’m at Safeway,” or “Jen’s boyfriend was so, like, drunk!” pales in comparison with shouted, profanity-laced biblical verses. I find myself wanting to give the cell-talkers a wide berth not because I worry about being jabbed with a sharp object or pummeled by a concealed hammer, but because I find their end of the conversation so boring and annoying and intrusive. I long for the days of phone booths, when people quite literally took it inside. But there simply is no giving the cell-talkers a wide berth, because they are everywhere. Skirt one of them and you just pull within range of another.

Actually, it’s not true that everyone is talking on the phone all the time. What is true, though, is that everyone is doing something on the phone all the time—texting, or Googling, or deploying one of their million apps to route their next run, or rate a restaurant, or see if there’s a CVS in the next block. To most people, this is progress. This is convenience. This is saving time that later can be spent doing these exact same things on their wired TV set inside their house or apartment. But this hyper-connectivity drives me crazy. Yes, crazy enough even to sometimes talk aloud to myself in public—although I’m neither up on my biblical verses nor sufficiently paranoid to spin an elaborate conspiracy theory. Crazy enough, though, to mutter under my breath things like “Shut up!” or “What’s so fucking important?” or “Dear God, can’t you just read the newspaper!”

I know, I know. It’s been the 21st century for many years now, and as disorienting and cacophonous as I find the death of my old world of turntables (or even CDs), road atlases, film cameras and wistful reminiscence, and its replacement by a new world in which nearly every moment is written about, remarked on, and photographed—and in which mystery, accordingly, seems all but lost—I need, to some extent, to get with the program. I do acknowledge this. I’ve been defiantly cell phone-less—let alone smartphone equipped—to this point, but I confess that being completely outside the technological loop hasn’t been fun. It’s made me extremely cranky (can you maybe tell?) and has deepened my innate fear that I’m at root stupid and incapable of understanding, let alone adapting to, modern technology. Never mind that every day I see little kids flipping among all those icons with their chubby fingers, tapping out texts, and downloading songs from some site called iTunes. The fact is, until I start trying to do some of those things myself, I will worry that I’m intellectually incapable of doing so. That’s part of my pathology, which predates this century and manifested itself in other ways before it ever had supercharged phones on which to fixate.

So, I give up. I give in. Rather, I concede to the need. Not the need to telephonically communicate from wherever I might be, just because I can—as I don’t expect my distaste for talking on the phone to change. Not the need to text constantly—as I don’t have that much to say, frankly, and one-finger typing will be considerably more laborious on a small screen. And not the need, either, to take a zillion photographs of unremarkable images that needn’t be shared. But, rather, the need to discontinue a self-segregation that in many ways ill-serves me. I can’t imagine I’ll ever embrace the smartphone with anything approaching the zeal of most people, but it will be convenient to be able to call Lynn if I’m running late. It will be nice to be able to text or e-mail a friend if something I see reminds me of him or her in a fun and affirming way. And, who knows, I might even, someday, want to start building a musical library I can carry in my pocket.

That’s why, sometime in the coming months, Lynn and I—after she’s done the research and pricing and other due diligence for which she’s famous—each will get smartphones. It will be a good thing, I think. It’s a necessary thing for me, I know.

And this concession will come none too soon, frankly, because the Next Big Thing, much in the news of late, is Google Glass—technology-enhanced spectacles that are being described as “augmented reality,” because God knows reality isn’t quite real enough by itself. The other day, I Googled—appropriately enough—this soon-to-be marketed product, and I found it described on the website techradar.com as “an attempt to free data from desktop computers and portable devices like phones and tablets, and place it right in front of your eyes.”

My feeling about this is, it’s about time that data was freed from the shackles of our fingertips and brought to eye level, saving humankind literally seconds that people now are wasting looking down at their phones. And won’t it be great when folks can look you directly in the eye without actually engaging you, because they’re reading data on their specs or taking a picture of something behind you? Surely, too, this will be a great boon to public safety—hardly distracting for drivers at all. And in no way does it figure to be a privacy or civil liberties concern. Ain’t technology grand!

In other words, it’s best that I conquer smartphone loathing before I even have the chance to get started on Google Glass contempt. Elsewise, I’m liable to lose it and become one of those old-school ranters, asking and answering my own crazy questions in the middle of the public square.

Making the Cut

The bowling trophy on my office windowsill hints at the mileage I’ve gotten in my life from just showing up. But the recent death of Coach Lowe recalled what I’ll call my Zenith of Presence.   

I may have mentioned the trophy in a past blog post. It’s one of the cooler things I own, because a) it visually belies my lifelong mediocrity at sports and because b), at the time I received it, it literally dwarfed the achievement of my older brother—with whom I’ve always competed on some level, albeit one-sidedly and to my mind unsuccessfully.

Ken and I were members of a youth bowling league during the 1967-68 season. That would have made me 9 years old at its start and Ken 12. The Summer of Love had just happened in San Francisco, but at 10-lane Berkeley Lanes in Berkeley Heights. New Jersey, fall 1967 began my Year of Showing Up. When league play ended in late spring 1968, Ken received a squat, standard-issue participant’s trophy for having averaged a solid but not league-leading 140 or so pins per game. I, however, was honored with the towering piece of hardware I still display—depicting a golden bowler in mid-roll, placed literally on a pedestal. I was rewarded not for my barely triple-digit average, but for—per the inscribed abbreviation—“Perf Att.” Which is to say, perfect attendance.

I think my brother, decades later, still suffers trophy envy. Not only was he a much better bowler than I, but he was on his way to becoming an Eagle Scout in those years and probably missed a Saturday or two at the bowling alley only because he was busy shoring up a creek bed or perhaps serially helping old ladies across the street. Also, on one memorable day sometime in the late 1960s, Ken lost the tip of his thumb to a lawnmower. I can’t remember if that happened during the 1967-68 bowling season, but if so, bloody disfigurement certainly might put a guy on the bowling league disabled list for a while. (What I remember most vividly about that particular day, of course, was that Mrs Johnson next door made me a delicious lunch, with ice cream for dessert, while my parents were rushing what’s-his-name to the hospital.)

While I’m tempted to ascribe many of my bigger successes in life to simply having Been There, that would be a stretch in most cases. Take, for instance, my marriage and my unbroken streak of gainful employment. Both things owe more to my having been in the right place at the right time—respectively, at DC parties that my future wife attended, and at a newspaper that gave me an assignment I’d parlay into a job in Washington—than to my just having been present, period

When it comes to sports, though, simply showing up has brought me huge rewards. It resulted not only in that bowling trophy in adolescence, but also in a GPA boost in high school, and, in between those two instances of good fortune, what I to this day consider my crowning athletic achievement.

As far as that bump in grade-point average goes, I’m defining “sports” broadly. At Grimsley High School in Greensboro, North Carolina, in the mid-1970s, the halt and the lame—figuratively if not quite literally—among male students, at least, could sign up either for physical education (PE) or what was called “PEI.”I no longer remember what the “I” stood for—the Google search term “physical education PEI” unhelpfully yields data on school fitness in a Canadian province—but the gist of that “I” in the Grimsley context was “Invalids” or “the Inconceivably unathletic.” If you were a jock at GHS, you definitely took PE. If you played the occasional game of sandlot baseball or even just tossed a Frisbee every once in a while, you signed up for PE. But if you were too fat, too ungainly, too genuinely disabled, or simply too averse to physical activity to exercise with the other boys, you took PEI.

You know how college-level Geology sometimes is called “rocks for jocks”—good for an easy C, at least, for guys who are as dumb as boulders but must meet a science requirement to remain academically eligible for the football or basketball team? PEI was sort of the high school equivalent of that, but for nerds and social misfits who were fearful—for their lives, their academic standing, or both—to compete alongside the “normal” kids, and to be judged for their ability to do pushups or to circle the track in a prescribed time.

It wasn’t like PEI participants didn’t have to do anything, but they didn’t have to do much. I saw them in “action.” They’d do a fraction of the pushups. Half the laps, with walking optional. Those kinds of things. Being in PEI did carry a bit of a social stigma, but if you signed up for it you probably already were stigmatized. My friend Downs Brown, for example, already had the strikes against him of being named Downs Brown, looking weird, dressing oddly, and being exactly the kind of pasty, zitty guy who’d be most comfortable hunched over a computer, except that computers didn’t yet commercially exist. Downs gleefully went the PEI route, and he probably got an A on his report card. Unless he had tried to engage his redneck gym teacher in a conversation about the merits of Yes versus Jethro Tull. Which is quite possible. In which case, maybe drop that A by a letter grade or two.

Anyway. With my one hand, pudgy body, and transplanted-Yankee ways, I already felt like enough of an outsider without seeking further self-segregation. So, I signed up for regular PE. I wasn’t good at any of the activities. I certainly didn’t exhibit any ability to stay alive at dodge ball, let alone to run fast or climb a rope. But what I had done, irrefutably, was Shown Up. This greatly endeared me to my gym teacher, Mr Sawyer, who clearly had expected me to go the PEI route, and who probably felt, looking at my empty sleeve, that I had more justification than most students to do so.

Mr Sawyer—known (not to his face) as “Buzz” due to the existence at that time of a comic book character with that name—saw in me a guy who’d been offered the easy way out but had declined. It didn’t matter that I saw myself in no such way. He’d tell other kids to do things. He’d tell me to “try.” He’d tell the jocks to wake up out there, and the laggards to get the lead out, but he’d say nothing to me as I brought up the rear in all given activities and exercises. Later, when Buzz Sawyer became my driver’s ed instructor, I met his one-handed wife. That connection certainly didn’t hurt me. But one never should underestimate the power of low expectations. If you think Just Showing Up holds potential riches in and of itself, combine that with the allure of being the Cripple Who Nevertheless Can Do Something, Anything, and you’re suddenly grasping the gold ring with your one and only hand.

This brings me to Coach Lowe, who was my gym teacher at Kiser Junior High School when I first arrived in Greensboro in the ninth grade, and who also managed the baseball team. Then in his mid-30s, he lacked the mania of The Andy Griffith Show’s Lt Barney Fife but shared the sad face and drawling manner. So, naturally, that was what the kids called him behind his back: "Barney." It didn’t help, Barneyness-wise, that the school system required him to teach sex education—a subject toward which his complete and utter embarrassment was clear, and about which his lack of experiential knowledge was widely assumed. There was, however, a basic decency about Coach Lowe that showed through, and a seeming discomfort in his own skin to which I could abundantly relate.

Maybe that was why, in spring 1973, I decided to try out for the baseball team. God knows why else I did, except that, being the only kid at school who wore a hook, and having few friends as a newcomer, I may have figured I had nothing to lose. Surely my baseball “career” to that point had been anything but stellar. I’d spent one year in Police Athletic League ball in New Jersey, where I generally struck out at the plate and bungled throws at first base. I did knock in six runs, but all by walking with the bases loaded. Given my propensity for whiffing when I did swing, I was somewhat loath to take the bat off my shoulder. And control was not the forte of many pitchers in that league.

By the way, I probably needn’t make clear what you already assume, but the PAL was not a league for which one had to try out. Every kid was guaranteed playing time. And the coaches all were cops, so they were used to dealing with worse things than juvenile butchery of the National Pastime.

Anyway, on tryout day for the Kiser team, I was one of 40 guys seeking 25 roster spots. I felt intimidated from the get-go, especially as I awaited my turn at bat and saw several of my competitors loft deep flies and scorch line drives. But when I got to the plate I surprised myself by somehow hitting a few balls fairly hard. They all were foul balls, but at least I’d made contact. My fielding wasn’t so hot that day, as I recall, and my stamina for running laps was no better than it would be at Grimsley under Buzz Sawyer’s watchful eyes. Coach Lowe and an assistant wielded clipboards and wore blank expressions. I went home that day thinking I’d given it my best shot, but certain that when the first cuts were announced, my name would be among them.

The next day, a list was posted in the school gym. On it were the names of eight boys who needn’t report for the second tryout. Amazingly, “Eric Ries” was not among them. I had beaten out—charitably or not—eight two-handed peers for the opportunity to make the team. I was ecstatic. I wanted to hug Coach Lowe, but wisely thought the better of it. I was certain he was rewarding me for my mere presence at the tryout, and for the fact that I hadn’t sucked quite as badly as he’d assumed I would. I had no expectation that I’d similarly made the second and final cut. And I didn’t. But Coach Lowe had given me a moment of athletic triumph I knew I’d always remember and cherish.

And I have. Years later, having lost the teenage fat and taken up running as a weight-maintenance pursuit, I finished a five-mile race at a pace of slightly under seven minutes per mile—Olympian by my standards. It was a hard-earned effort, as I pretty nearly blacked out from exhaustion at the finish line. I knew at that moment I’d achieved something I’d likely never repeat. And I never did. Still, that athletic memory remains only my second fondest, after the moment I didn't read my name on a sheet of notebook paper in the Kiser Junior High School gymnasium.

I’d long forgotten Coach Lowe’s first name when a friend forwarded me his obituary a couple of weeks ago. David. David Allen Lowe. He’d died of kidney cancer at age 77 at a retirement home in Greensboro. Everything I read reinforced my memories and feelings about him. The very first sentence noted that he was “better known as Coach Lowe.” He’d been a coach and teacher at Kiser and Grimsley for 30 years. He’d continued to coach baseball for ”various traveling teams” in retirement, and had tutored children at a Baptist Church. He’d evidently never married—certainly no proof that his sex ed students were right, but not a refutation, either. The accompanying photograph showed exactly the Coach Lowe I knew—a young-ish man with little hair, sad eyes and a tentative smile.

There weren’t many comments on the funeral home’s “guest book” page, but two of my favorites were, “You touched a lot of lives and really made a difference in this world” and “There will be some home runs hit for Dave today.” I never came close to hitting a home run for him, but he did touch my life in a way that, in retrospect, I wish I’d have told him. The best I could do was post this remembrance in the guest book:

“The proudest moment of my sports “career” was making the first cut when trying out for the Kiser baseball team in the ninth grade. I was born without a right hand and was pudgy and slow, to boot, in those days, but Coach Lowe appreciated my hustle, spirit and a few long fouls I somehow managed to hit. He was a wonderful coach and a fine man. I’ll always remember him fondly.”

One other guest book signer wrote, “Our loss is Heaven’s gain.” If there is an afterlife, I hope it’s not all angel wings and halos. Maybe eternity needs sports leagues to fill the time, and maybe everybody gets rewarded for having made the heavenly cut and having hopped a few clouds to get to the ball field. If so, I know just the guy to coach a baseball team.