Through a Screen, Darkly

This column originally appeared on Sunday, Aug. 23, 2009

The other day, someone I was speaking with said they were “privileged” to grow up in Chester County in the 1980s, when the county was coming into its own, culture-wise. Local art became noticed, local cuisine started developing, and local entertainment exploded.

And I scoffed.

Privately, of course. You have to keep the scoffing to yourself when you are a professional newspaper reporter and you occasionally deal with people who say scoff-worthy things. You never are quite certain that the person you are scoffing at will at some point be on your “People to Call For Important Quotes” list and who may remember all too clearly the time you scoffed at something he or she said. Because let me tell you, professional newspaper editors are not wholly sympathetic with the “Scoff Defense.” It dos not tend to go over well on deadline. Editors given the “Scoff Defense” tend to look at the reporters who have offered it up with the expression of someone who has found gum on the sole of their shoe and who wonders, “How soon can I get rid of this?”

But scoff I did. “Privileged?” I chortled, softly, in my head. “Cultural opportunities in Chester County, circa 1980?” I clucked, privately, without expression. “Mister, you must be thinking of a whole ‘nother Chester County than I’m thinking of,” I retorted, with no outward display whatsoever.

It’s the movie theater situation, you see. When I moved to Chester County in 1982, the area lacked two things: decent Chinese restaurants, and movie screens. If you wanted either of those, you were likely to end up in Delaware County and what’s the point of that, anyway. If I had the urge to go to Delaware County for a plate of good Chinese food and a nice action flick, I would have shot myself immediately, thank you very much.

If you want to talk privilege, culture-wise, then you have to take a look at my childhood in Cincinnati so as not to scoff too loudly. Where I grew up, we could walk to a movie theater, the Esquire, where you could see a decent first-or-second run movie for $1. Or you and your friends could see a good first-or-second run movie at the same theater for the same $1, provided the usher was not looking too closely when you opened the back door and let your friends in.

I saw, “Dirty Harry” there. I saw, “Let It Be” there. I saw “M*A*S*H” there, and “Straw Dogs” and “Shaft” and even “Chitty-Chitty Bang Bang.” Pretty much every movie I saw from 1965 to 1980 I saw at the Esquire.

The Esquire was there when I came into the world in the mid-1950s, and is still there as I type this. Except that now, it’s even better. You may have to pay closer to $10 to see a good first-or-second run film, but you have your choice of four or five movies as the theater now has three separate screening rooms. That is privilege. And if the usher is not looking too closely, you can skip from room to room and squeeze in all four or five movies on the same $10 ticket. That is, you might do so; I wouldn’t think of it.

Chester County, by the time I arrived, on the other hand had depopulated itself of just about al the decent movie theaters within its borders, perhaps not realizing that people were just as interested in seeing a good first-or-second run movie as they were in visiting the Herr’s Snack Factory or the Mushroom Museum. Gone were the Palace and Silver in Coatesville; the Met and the Oxford in Oxford; the Garden and the Harrison in West Chester; and even the Roselyn in West Grove. The Warner Theatre in West Chester, grand as is was, was open sporadically, as I remember, but even that was eventually relegated to the misty-eyed past. We were pretty much stuck with the Eric in West Goshen, which is now a K-Mart and which tells you about something about the cultural landscape of the county, circa 2009.

Folks I know who grew up in West Chester in the 1960s and 1970s have pleasant memories of seeing their fist movies at the Exton drive-in, which I remember mostly as the spot where some depressed fellow set himself on fire around Christmastime one year, then walked across the street to the Howard Johnson’s and bummed a cigarette from someone at the counter. I suppose that seeing a movie at an outdoor arena while inhaling the all-too-fresh aroma of the result of your little sister’s car-sickness episode is the definition of privilege to some, but for me, it’s just one more reason to scoff.

To myself, of course.

Rounding Second, Heading for Home

This column originally appeared on Aug. 16, 2009

One of my favorite books to read and re-read is by a former Sports Illustrated writer, Leigh Montville, called “Ted Williams: The Biography of an American Hero.” Although the portrait that Montville paints of Williams as a great but flawed man is vivid and electrifying for a baseball fan such as I, there are an number of smaller descriptions of the people in Williams’ life that Montville uses to fill in the background and brighten the color that make the book that much more enjoyable.

People like Johnny Orlando, the clubhouse man for the Boston Red Sox when Williams was a rookie and not yet the famous “Teddy Ballgame, “and who gave Williams $2.50 when The Kid was sent down to the minors his first year. Or Dave “The Colonel” Egan, the Boston sportswriter who vilified Williams in print worse than anything ever said or written about Donovan McNabb. Or Maurice “Mickey” McDermott, the young pitcher who Williams took a shine to, but whose life off the field was one loud foul after another, including the time he and Frankie Fontaine, of the old Jackie Gleason Show, went drinking and McDermott left some lobsters in his car. For three days. “Smells so bad I have to sell it,” remembered the late McDermott.

And most striking of all, for me, Joe Villarino, who was interviewed by Montville in San Diego, where he and Williams grew up together in the 1920s and 1930s. Villarino loved to play baseball with Williams as a kid, but knew he was no match for Ted’s talent and never made it above Class D ball in Kilgore, Texas. But what he accomplished that Williams never would was an act of longevity. As Montville pointed out to my delight, Villarino played some form of ball for all of his life; Williams, except for some old timers’ games in the 1980s, hung them up when he hit his last home run in 1960. At the time the two spoke about Williams’ life s a young man, Villarino was holding down first base for a team in the LaMesa, Calif., Senior Slow-Pitch Softball League. He was 85.

“We have guys who drop dead playing,” Villarino told Montville. “There was a guy just last year. He was on second base and someone hit a ball into the outfield, and he tried to get from second to third. Never made it.”

I have not heard of that happening locally, but I have discovered that there are a bunch of people like Villarino who have apparently not been told that you are too past it to quit playing ball after you get your AARP application. They belong to a league called the Chester County Senior Modified Softball League, and have games from April to August in field in Coatesville, Downingtown and West Chester. In fact, they just finished their season on Aug. 10, when Proudfoot Roofing defeated Fence Sense for the championship, the 14^th straight time Proudfoot has won the league title. (Break up the Roofers!)

I bring this up because I recently came across a story written 15 years ago about one of the league’s players who exemplifies something about longevity the way Ted Williams’ friend Joe Villarino did. His name is Ben Catalano and he spent the season managing and playing for the Coffee Cup squad in the senior league. He was 73 when the article was written about him in 1994, which makes him, by my calculations, 88 years old and a marvel of life. Someone told me he’s still the oldest player in the league.

The story profiled not only Catalano but the league itself, which had then only recently come into existence. Catalano was known then as a feisty catcher who on occasion would get tossed from games for arguing a call. Must be a leftover from his boyhood in Brookyln, where he played ball and umpired in leagues that included players like Phil Rizzuto of the Yankees.

“I like to catch because you’re involved in almost every play,” Catalano told the writer. “Ever year, the league gets a little more competitive.”

The Coffee Cup squad didn’t make any headlines this year, going 7-11 and finishing in the middle of the pack. And Ben Catalano has been feeling a bit under the weather lately, although there is hope that he’ll be able to watch the World Series from home again this year. But playing ball at 88? That’s a hell of a thing.

I like to think about people playing ball into their retirement years because it allows me to imagine that life will go one as long as you want it to. I like to think about people playing ball when they are close to 90 because it proves that the best things in life are timeless. I like to think about playing baseball when you’re old because if you had to choose a place to die, wouldn’t it be wonderful to close your eyes one last time when you’re running between second and third?

No Potter, No Problem

This column originally appeared on Aug. 9, 2009

I have a lawyer acquaintance who jumped out of an airplane last week. Voluntarily. At 14,000 feet. In the air. Understandably, he had a parachute attached to his body, as well as a sky-diving instructor, so the chances that he would end up on the ground in a deceased state of mind were lessened, and he had a good time, especially when the 'chute opened at 5,000 feet (in the air) and he drifted downwards to once again set foot on terra firma.

And I am glad for him that he jumped out of that airplane and got the ride down. He is at an age when the things you always wanted to do before the bucket got kicked are more than just a list in your mind as you drift off to sleep. They actually become goals to achieve and enjoy. He was ecstatic and said so, and I wish him the best.

But frankly, no way.

Jumping out of an airplane is something that I have no intention, desire or hope of doing either now, or as the Grim Reaper is approaching. Jumping out of an airplane to me is like joining in a "tea bag demonstration" is to President Barack Obama. If other people want to do it, go ahead. I'll be in the snack bar.

My acquaintance's achievement, however, did set me to thinking. Not about what I would want to do as the bucket started to quiver and shake and tip a bit to the left, but rather what items are on my personal list of things not to do. Jumping out of an airplane is, somewhat obviously, near the top of the list. But there are other elements to the list that I would like to now state for the record.

First, however, a disclaimer: These are things I don't want to do, but am making no judgment about for others. That is, I am not pointing these non-goals out to cast aspersions on those who would engage in them and find them fun and worthwhile. Live and let live, I say.

No. 1: Visit the Reptile House at the Philadelphia Zoo. Why? Two words, to quote the actor Samuel L. Jackson. "(Expletive) snakes." I understand that there are other reptiles in the Reptile House that are less of a threat to my personal well-being, and I appreciate them. My car insurance is, after all, provided by a company which uses a lizard as its national spokesperson. But when it comes to snakes, I draw the line. Indiana Jones has got nothing on me in the snake department. I once stayed in bed for an entire day because I was convinced that there were snakes underneath it waiting for me to arise. If you want to see something slither, go ahead. I'll be in the Elephant House.

No. 2: Read "Harry Potter." I know, I know. You love him, it's the best literature since Dickens and you'd love to play Quiddich and J.K. Rowlings has brought back reading as a cool thing for young people to do. I just have no desire to find out what a "Half Blood Prince" is. If you want to study the world of wizards at Hogwarts, go ahead. I'll be in the non-fiction section.

No. 3: Attend an Ultimate Fighting Challenge event. It's not that I don't enjoy blood sport every now and again. After all, in my youth I watched Roller Derby games endlessly on UHF television, and even once attended a match featuring the Bay City Bombers at Cincinnati Gardens. (Shout out to Ronnie "Psycho" Rains!) If you want to pay good money to see grown men gnaw each other like so much steak, go ahead. I'll be in the line for Wilco tickets.

No. 4: Drive cross country with state Sen. Andy Dinniman. Not that I don't enjoy the landscape of this beautiful country of ours and would love to share it with a statesman/legislator/politician. But, really. If you want to listen to a four-day dissertation on SB 2742, go ahead. I'll be at the rest area.

Oops! Wrong Bar

This column originally appeared on July 26, 2009

Judge Howard F. Riley of the Court of Common Pleas of Chester County is not given to muttering.

No, Riley is a straightforward sort. Open and direct, straightforward and clear in vocal expression. He may not be as verbose as some on the bench or in the Bar, but what he does say comes across as clear and concise. A grumbler he is not. Maybe it is his upbringing on a farm outside West Chester, but he had not truly mastered the art of the whispered verbal aside. When he wants to tell a defense attorney from Philadelphia to keep the editorial comments to himself during cross-examination, he pretty much says just that.

So it came as a surprise to at least one longtime court observer the other day when Riley suddenly entered mutter mode. "I think we ought to bring a PBT to the courtroom at the rate we're going," Riley said, to no one in particular, and everyone who was in hearing distance, in a low, but distinct, frustrated comment.

Three things should be known by the reader to grasp the significance of Riley's mutter. First, Riley was not referring to Proton Beam Therapy (PBT), or a Pit Bull Terrier (PBT, also), of Polybutylene Terephthalate (PBT, ditto). No, he was muttering to the Gods of the courthouse that his courtroom equipment just might need to include a Portable Breath Tester (PBT, as well.)

You know what a Portable Breath Tester is, don't you? Well, you would know if you had been watching "Cops" lately, or else had the misfortune to come in contact with the "home version" of the "Cops" studio game, so to speak, on a late night ride home from the eight-month anniversary of the Phillies World Championship Celebration and Drunken Riot. It's that small device that allows a quick read on whether someone has alcohol in their system.

The second thing you need to know about Riley's mutterance is that when he said it, a young man from Staten Island who was pleading guilty to a minor drug possession charge had just informed him that, yes, indeed, as a matter of fact, he had consumed some drugs, alcohol or medication within the last 24 hours. To wit, six or seven beers the night before.

It's a standard question that judges ask of defendants when they are pleading guilty — "Have you consumed any drugs, alcohol or medication within the past 24 hours?" It comes right after how far the defendant went in school and if they understand, read and write the English language. The question is sort of the judicial equivalent of, "So, do you live around here?" that might be asked by a member of one gender to a member of the opposite at any one of a number of local watering establishments. It's an ice-breaker, something said to open up the dialogue. Usually, the defendant answers by saying "No," just as how usually the aforesaid one gender member responds to the other by saying, "Stick a cork in it, pal."

On Thursday, however, the young man from Staten Island surprised everyone, including his attorney, Assistant Public Defender James McMullen, by allowing that yep, he'd consumed what Beldar Conehead on "Saturday Night Live" used to refer to as "mass quantities" of beer. And not only that, but he'd smoked marijuana not three nights before, too boot.

The third and last thing you need to know to fully understand Riley's muttering is that it is not the first time someone has shown up in his courtroom under the possible influence of alcohol in the past few months. It's not the second time, either, or the third. Showing up under the possible influence of alcohol in Judge Riley's courtroom is getting to be a somewhat regular occurrence. Things have gotten to the point that Ken Webb, one of Riley's tipstaffs, treats walking the defendant down to the Adult Probation Office, where they view PBTs as just so much office equipment, as part of the job description, like showing defense lawyers from Philadelphia how to fill out continuance requests.

The young man from Staten Island followed Webb out the door of the courtroom and came back a little while later with a report that he wasn't currently under the influence, and his sentencing was able to proceed without any further ado. He got probation, a lecture from Riley about why drinking six or seven beers before coming to court might not have been the best option to consider, and a handshake and best-of-luck wishes from McMullen.

And although he may not have been serious about actually bringing a PBT (Portable Breath Tester) to court for future emergencies, Riley may want to think again about the whole PBT (Proton Beam Therapy) thing. Might come in useful for those defense lawyers from Philadelphia.