The song you're about to read was written seven years ago. I wrote it as a response to Natalie Merchant's magnificent song Wonder (which is her anthem on the joys of raising a daughter). My playful reasoning was that it wasn't fair that young girls alone should have an anthem like Wonder. Why can't young boys have their anthem too? Out of that playful rationale came My Son.
For those of you who don't know me. I don't have a son; in fact, no children at all (sadly, regrettably, I certainly didn't want it that way). Considering the misfortunes of my life thus far I've given up the idea of ever fathering a child. Still, I have had fleeting moments when I felt the vicarious thrill of parental joy and emotional involvement but those moments were few and far between.
I've always wanted to share this song with people but have never found the right moment or situation to do it until now.
My cousin Mark-Erik and his wife Sue gave birth to a lovely baby boy (Dante) last week. I would like to dedicate the song to him...and his parents...and to all sons everywhere. This song s for you!
My Son
Some sons are born to build bridges
And some are meant to rule kingdoms
Some sons are raised to invade countries
And some are meant to lose their freedoms
But my son will follow his vision and his wisdom
And he will be what he wants
But not what someone else wants him to be
He'll find his niche and store up riches
He'll find his wish and savor them like kisses
Some sons are raised to be broken
And some are meant to be God's chosen
Some sons are taught to commit slaughter
And some are meant to raise daughters
But my son will follow his vision and his wisdom
And he will be what he wants
But not what someone else wants him to be
He'll find his niche and store up riches
He'll find his wish and savor them like kisses
It's patience that heals
It's promise that leads
It's progress that builds
Its portents that predict
With a little faith my son will go a long way
He'll go all the way!
Some sons are born to be beaten
And some are meant to be forgotten
Some sons are taught to be healers
And some are meant to be Steelers
But my son will follow his vision and his wisdom
And he will be what he wants
But not what someone else wants him to be
He'll find his niche and store up riches
Hell find his wish and savor them like kisses
It's patience that heals
It's promise that leads
It's progress that builds
Its portens that predict
With a little faith my son will go a long way
He'll go all the way!
(c) 01/19/2000 by Matthew DiBiase
Thursday, May 10, 2007
Monday, April 30, 2007
Contemplating the NHL's Original Six Era...and the anniversary of its end
Forty years ago, tomorrow, the Toronto Maple Leafs beat the Montreal Canadiens to win the 1967 Stanley Cup. It was a triumph which shocked hockey fans and experts alike since the Canadiens (defending two-time Stanley Cup champions) were highly favored to win. Yet, Toronto’s victory proved to be an augury for seismic changes which would alter the structure of the National Hockey League and how the game was played itself. In the months that followed, the NHL would expand; it’s players would form the present-day National Hockey League Players Association (which still exists today); and the game would become more wide open offensively with new stars who once had to rusticate in the minors simply because there weren’t enough roster spots on the six original teams at the time.
For me, the anniversary of the final end of the Original Six era marked an important milestone for me as a historian. Since October 2005 I have been interviewing former hockey players who played from 1942 to 1967 with variedly interesting results. My efforts until now had been sporadic (squeezing in one or two interviews while occupying myself with other pursuits) but during this past week I threw down a gauntlet to myself in terms of the effort I was putting in at chronicling what was the NHL’s first Golden Age. This past week I was in the Greater Montreal area conducting interviews with the following former players: Dollard St. Laurent, Bobby Rousseau, Gilles Tremblay, Gerry Plamondon, Fleming Mackell, and Henri Richard. Weeks before I was honored to interview Canadiens living legend Jean Beliveau over the telephone. I also was able to interview former hockey author and broadcaster and Canadiens historian and Dick Irvin, Jr. (Irvin’s father, Dick Irvin Sr. coached the Canadiens from 1940 to 1955) and Michel Vigneault, a university professor and hockey historian who contributed to a well acclaimed Canadian documentary on the history of hockey in Canada. The results of my interviews were astounding and there were times when I was thoroughly surprised by the information I was learning. Sometimes the memories weren’t there for certain topics like the 1965 Stanley Cup Finals but there were other memories that burst forth like Bobby Orr leading a line-rush and or came suddenly like a Bobby Hull slap-shot.
They stand out like snap-shots which capture a moment in time:
Jean Beliveau telling me over the telephone that the happiest memory of his NHL career was when the Canadiens voted him to be the team captain, replacing Rocket Richard in that capacity after Richard’s retirement.
Gilles Tremblay telling me how, before a game, teammate John Ferguson used to cruise by the bench of the opposing team, giving them a silent challenge to take him on the ice—and more often than not there would be no takers because John Ferguson was the toughest, meanest man in the NHL during the 1960s.
Bobby Rousseau telling me about how his head coach at Montreal Toe Blake excused him from team practice and from playing in a game because his two sons were hospitalized with serious internal ailments. (Toe Blake had a rule that if a player had problems at home then he was supposed to keep them at home—but there were exceptions to that rule and Rousseau’s problem was one of them). Rousseau’s story reaffirmed the enormous respect the team had for Blake’s authority but also emphasizing Blake’s humanity as well.
Henri Richard (brother of Maurice “Rocket” Richard” and a member of eleven Stanley Cup winners—no other player has more) surprising me with his answer that head coach Toe Blake was the unsung hero of the 1956-1960 Montreal Canadiens dynasty when they won five Cups in a row—a feat never to be equaled in the NHL, after I had asked him which player fit the bill.
Dick Irvin, Jr. telling me about how the late Danny Gallivan, the Canadiens English-speaking TV broadcaster with a penchant for coining new words in the English language to describe the Canadiens play was rather remote off-camera, never really socializing with Irvin his partner during game telecasts. Irvin told me, “Everyone used to call Danny ‘room service’ because he never ate out while he was on the road.”
Fleming Mackell, a member of the Toronto Maple Leafs and, later, the Boston Bruins, telling me how he despised Gordie Howe and Ted Lindsay because the two of them played a very mean game of hockey and were not averse to illegally hitting players in the face with the butt end of their hockey sticks.
Gerry Plamondon, a member of the Canadiens in the late 1940s telling me how Ted Lindsay used to insult Rocket Richard’s French-Canadian heritage by calling him an “f-ing frog”.
Dollard St. Laurent telling me a hilarious story about the efforts he and the late Doug Harvey made to stop a young Chicago Black Hawks rookie named Bobby Hull from penetrating the Montreal Canadiens zone in a Habs-Hawks game backfired badly against them.
Michel Vigneault relating to me the events which led to the Richard Riot of March 17, 1955 and the socio-political undercurrents that swirled in the hearts and minds of the rioters that night.
Naturally they told me more and what they told me will somehow find its way into the book I hope and pray will come out of this personal journey in recording, preserving, and disseminating the memories of these great players. These are men who have endured the losses of loved ones (Plamondon and Dick Irvin, Jr. both have lost their wives recently) or are enduring health troubles of their own. (I was asked by Henri Richard and Dick Irvin as to the status of Gilles Tremblay’s health. I couldn’t answer them because Gilles Tremblay never discussed his personal health with me. Apparently he must be ill but I can’t help but be surprised by that because my interview with Gilles Tremblay was the longest one of them all. I got 2.5 hours of him on tape, an incredible interview.
My trip to Montreal marks a milestone for my own quest. In the months and years to come I will make many more trips to further locales in America and Canada seeking the slowly dwindling number of survivors who saw hockey grow from a small regional sport to a continental and, now, international sport. Their stories must be told and I will do my utmost to preserve them and share them with the world.
For me, the anniversary of the final end of the Original Six era marked an important milestone for me as a historian. Since October 2005 I have been interviewing former hockey players who played from 1942 to 1967 with variedly interesting results. My efforts until now had been sporadic (squeezing in one or two interviews while occupying myself with other pursuits) but during this past week I threw down a gauntlet to myself in terms of the effort I was putting in at chronicling what was the NHL’s first Golden Age. This past week I was in the Greater Montreal area conducting interviews with the following former players: Dollard St. Laurent, Bobby Rousseau, Gilles Tremblay, Gerry Plamondon, Fleming Mackell, and Henri Richard. Weeks before I was honored to interview Canadiens living legend Jean Beliveau over the telephone. I also was able to interview former hockey author and broadcaster and Canadiens historian and Dick Irvin, Jr. (Irvin’s father, Dick Irvin Sr. coached the Canadiens from 1940 to 1955) and Michel Vigneault, a university professor and hockey historian who contributed to a well acclaimed Canadian documentary on the history of hockey in Canada. The results of my interviews were astounding and there were times when I was thoroughly surprised by the information I was learning. Sometimes the memories weren’t there for certain topics like the 1965 Stanley Cup Finals but there were other memories that burst forth like Bobby Orr leading a line-rush and or came suddenly like a Bobby Hull slap-shot.
They stand out like snap-shots which capture a moment in time:
Jean Beliveau telling me over the telephone that the happiest memory of his NHL career was when the Canadiens voted him to be the team captain, replacing Rocket Richard in that capacity after Richard’s retirement.
Gilles Tremblay telling me how, before a game, teammate John Ferguson used to cruise by the bench of the opposing team, giving them a silent challenge to take him on the ice—and more often than not there would be no takers because John Ferguson was the toughest, meanest man in the NHL during the 1960s.
Bobby Rousseau telling me about how his head coach at Montreal Toe Blake excused him from team practice and from playing in a game because his two sons were hospitalized with serious internal ailments. (Toe Blake had a rule that if a player had problems at home then he was supposed to keep them at home—but there were exceptions to that rule and Rousseau’s problem was one of them). Rousseau’s story reaffirmed the enormous respect the team had for Blake’s authority but also emphasizing Blake’s humanity as well.
Henri Richard (brother of Maurice “Rocket” Richard” and a member of eleven Stanley Cup winners—no other player has more) surprising me with his answer that head coach Toe Blake was the unsung hero of the 1956-1960 Montreal Canadiens dynasty when they won five Cups in a row—a feat never to be equaled in the NHL, after I had asked him which player fit the bill.
Dick Irvin, Jr. telling me about how the late Danny Gallivan, the Canadiens English-speaking TV broadcaster with a penchant for coining new words in the English language to describe the Canadiens play was rather remote off-camera, never really socializing with Irvin his partner during game telecasts. Irvin told me, “Everyone used to call Danny ‘room service’ because he never ate out while he was on the road.”
Fleming Mackell, a member of the Toronto Maple Leafs and, later, the Boston Bruins, telling me how he despised Gordie Howe and Ted Lindsay because the two of them played a very mean game of hockey and were not averse to illegally hitting players in the face with the butt end of their hockey sticks.
Gerry Plamondon, a member of the Canadiens in the late 1940s telling me how Ted Lindsay used to insult Rocket Richard’s French-Canadian heritage by calling him an “f-ing frog”.
Dollard St. Laurent telling me a hilarious story about the efforts he and the late Doug Harvey made to stop a young Chicago Black Hawks rookie named Bobby Hull from penetrating the Montreal Canadiens zone in a Habs-Hawks game backfired badly against them.
Michel Vigneault relating to me the events which led to the Richard Riot of March 17, 1955 and the socio-political undercurrents that swirled in the hearts and minds of the rioters that night.
Naturally they told me more and what they told me will somehow find its way into the book I hope and pray will come out of this personal journey in recording, preserving, and disseminating the memories of these great players. These are men who have endured the losses of loved ones (Plamondon and Dick Irvin, Jr. both have lost their wives recently) or are enduring health troubles of their own. (I was asked by Henri Richard and Dick Irvin as to the status of Gilles Tremblay’s health. I couldn’t answer them because Gilles Tremblay never discussed his personal health with me. Apparently he must be ill but I can’t help but be surprised by that because my interview with Gilles Tremblay was the longest one of them all. I got 2.5 hours of him on tape, an incredible interview.
My trip to Montreal marks a milestone for my own quest. In the months and years to come I will make many more trips to further locales in America and Canada seeking the slowly dwindling number of survivors who saw hockey grow from a small regional sport to a continental and, now, international sport. Their stories must be told and I will do my utmost to preserve them and share them with the world.
Friday, April 20, 2007
Virginia Tech: Contemplating the Violence within the Heartland
“…I am only what lives inside each and every one of you.”
--Charles Manson, 1970
When contemplating the massacre at Virginia Tech University, I am struck by the surprise and shock people expressed that something so terrible could happen in their community. It happened before in Columbine and needless to say it will happen again in the years to come.
Truth is why shouldn’t it have happened in Blacksburg, Virginia or Columbine, Colorado or any other community that considers itself immune from the violence that plagues American cities? Where does one get the idea that if you live in a certain place then you are safe from the evils of the world?
In many ways it is hubris to consider such a possibility. Time and time again, we see on the evening news twisted individuals venting their nihilistic rage on innocent people in the most isolated and rural of settings. In my eyes, it’s woefully obvious: there is no sanctuary from evil.
As long as people remain fallible then evil can erupt from anyone, anywhere, and anytime. As long as certain people continue to contemplate revenge by murdering the innocent and live in a society where there are ample outlets to stoke, gratify, and express that rage then acts of mass murder such as Blacksburg, Columbine, and other places will re-enact themselves until the end of time itself.
Personally, I am convinced that you can find a lot of hate, anger, and violent rage in the most innocuous of places. I can speak from personal experience. When I lived in Delran, New Jersey from 1967 to 1992, I experienced innumerable instances of senseless violence, hatred, and expressions of rage from total strangers and people that I attended school with every day; acts that, in retrospect, were quite scary to contemplate. That’s one of the reasons why I moved to my present location (not that I consider myself immune where I live now but it’s certainly better than living in Delran).
Truth is you never know when evil will rear its ugly head. The best anyone can do is being aware of your surroundings and the people that inhabit them; Try to steer clear of danger and, most important of all, pray…a lot.
--Charles Manson, 1970
When contemplating the massacre at Virginia Tech University, I am struck by the surprise and shock people expressed that something so terrible could happen in their community. It happened before in Columbine and needless to say it will happen again in the years to come.
Truth is why shouldn’t it have happened in Blacksburg, Virginia or Columbine, Colorado or any other community that considers itself immune from the violence that plagues American cities? Where does one get the idea that if you live in a certain place then you are safe from the evils of the world?
In many ways it is hubris to consider such a possibility. Time and time again, we see on the evening news twisted individuals venting their nihilistic rage on innocent people in the most isolated and rural of settings. In my eyes, it’s woefully obvious: there is no sanctuary from evil.
As long as people remain fallible then evil can erupt from anyone, anywhere, and anytime. As long as certain people continue to contemplate revenge by murdering the innocent and live in a society where there are ample outlets to stoke, gratify, and express that rage then acts of mass murder such as Blacksburg, Columbine, and other places will re-enact themselves until the end of time itself.
Personally, I am convinced that you can find a lot of hate, anger, and violent rage in the most innocuous of places. I can speak from personal experience. When I lived in Delran, New Jersey from 1967 to 1992, I experienced innumerable instances of senseless violence, hatred, and expressions of rage from total strangers and people that I attended school with every day; acts that, in retrospect, were quite scary to contemplate. That’s one of the reasons why I moved to my present location (not that I consider myself immune where I live now but it’s certainly better than living in Delran).
Truth is you never know when evil will rear its ugly head. The best anyone can do is being aware of your surroundings and the people that inhabit them; Try to steer clear of danger and, most important of all, pray…a lot.
Tuesday, April 10, 2007
Travels with Matt: A Healing Place
Sometimes visiting a beautiful place can be a healing experience for someone who is struggling with the Furies of one’s past and the attendant fears for one’s future. That happened to me once when I was vacationing in France in May 2005. I had wanted to visit the palace at Fontainebleau as well as the great cathedral at Chartres. It was a slightly gray Tuesday morning when I boarded a train for Fontainebleau at the Gare D’Lyon station in Paris. It’s a forty-five minute train ride to Fontainebleau and the ride passed uneventfully. I anticipated a lovely day’s visit to the great palace. When I got to the train station I took a bus to get to the palace and when I got there I found out to my great chagrin that the palace is closed to the public on Tuesdays!
I couldn’t believe it. I was stunned speechless. How did I make this mistake? I broke open my guide book and saw it written in black and white that the palace is closed on Tuesdays. That was probably the lowest moment I’ve ever had in all the vacation trips I had taken so far. I was disgusted with myself at making such a stupid bloody mistake. The only reason why I made that mistake was because I was allowing my personal problems with my family to cloud my focus and reason. I was distracted and out of focus and as George Clooney once said so eloquently in the movie Ocean’s Eleven, “you lose focus for one second and somebody gets hurt.” That’s right and that somebody was me.
There I was at the palace gates with egg on my face. The question remained what was I going to do? I scanned my guide book and checked out the info on how to get to Chartres. I had to get back to Paris quickly. I had to make my way from the Gare D’Lyon station in the southeast part of the city to the Montparnasse station in the southwest part of the city to take the train to Chartres. There was a train for Chartres leaving Montparnasse at a little past noon. I had to make that train because the next train would get me to Chartres way to late to properly visit the cathedral. It wouldn’t be easy. I would have to navigate the Paris metro system and make two changes in subway lines to get to Montparnasse. No matter how I figured it would be very thin shaving with regards to time.
I had no choice. I got back to the Fontainebleau station and caught the first train back to Paris. It was already past mid-morning and it was forty-five minutes back to Paris. During the train ride back I felt like Bruce Willis in Die Hard with a Vengeance. For me to succeed in making it on time to Chartres everything had to fall into place and in terms of confidence my self-esteem had suffered a mighty blow.
But I had to try.
I kept checking my Metro line maps, figuring out which stations to change lines. When I finally reached Gare D’Lyon, I exited the train and began the great race against the clock. If any of you could have seen me you would have seen someone not running for their life (because I knew if I ran I would fail to make the train and would have worked up an enormous sweat for nothing) but someone walking rather briskly, navigating the warrens and connecting tunnels to the Metro line. I found the subway and began making my way west by southwest to Montparnasse. The stations were crowded and everyone was out and about. Also I had never taken these subway lines before therefore I was walking through terra incognita. I made the first subway line change neatly but it was at the second subway line that I had my worst moment during this great race. To get to the subway line I had to use a ticket to go through an automatic gate. I was walking behind this African woman and she went through the gate before me. The doors closed. I put my ticket into the machine and the door opened but before I could go through the gate the African woman with a malicious grin on her face tried to go back through the gate. When she did the door closed automatically before I could get through. She saw me and started laughing hysterically at my misfortune. I had just lost a precious subway ticket (they’re not cheap) and obviously (in my eyes) she had done it on purpose. Also she looked like someone I had once worked with in America and who had caused me professional harm at my job I had a millisecond meltdown and in that millisecond I practically screamed at her at the top of my lungs causing everyone in the subway station to stop and look at me. I was that enraged. (I won’t repeat what I said. It was pretty loathsome and disgusting. I never said words like that before and I pray to God I never will again).
Meltdown complete, I fumbled for another subway ticket and made it through the gate convinced that the delay had destroyed my chances of making it to the Montparnasse train. The subway ride was long, hot, and crowded. The seconds ticked away and I was convinced that all my efforts would be in vain.
Finally the subway reached the Montparnasse station. I had two or three minutes to make my way into the station concourse, find the right platform the train was leaving from, and then find a seat on the train itself. Again, I didn’t run. I walked rapidly like an Olympic walker. I scanned the tote board and found out which platform the train was leaving and, as I expected, it was at the farthest end of the station. It was the longest walk of my life and the seconds kept ticking. I kept thinking that the train wouldn’t be there at all. I was preparing myself for the worst. I told myself this was the darkest day of my life.
I reached the platform and the train was there. I had to find a car with an empty seat. I saw a car with the side door open. I stepped in. There was empty seat. I sat down, the door closed, and the train left Montparnasse for Chartres.
It was like a scene from a bloody spy movie. For the first time all day I smiled to myself and gave way to my emotions.
It was noon and I was hungry but I decided to eat lunch at Chartres. I don’t recall how long the train was. It may have been an hour or less but it seemed long enough to take stock and figure out things. I had never been to Chartres before so this was all a new experience for me. The train ride allowed me to settle down and collect myself. The French countryside rolled by in green spring splendor, punctuated with local stops in small villages.
When the train finally pulled into Chartres, you exit the train and are confronted by the Gothic needlepoint splendor of the cathedral tower dominating the skyline of the village. My stomach was speaking loudly and I didn’t want to contemplate the wonderment of the cathedral on an empty tummy. I made my way towards to the cathedral but I was also looking for a bistro to grab a bite to eat.
I found one occupying the same square as the cathedral. It was crowded with a late lunch crowd of several Japanese tourists on a bus tour visiting the cathedral. They had just finished their tour and were eating lunch. I was about to start mine but first a meal. I indulged myself with a croque monsieur and pomme frite and washed it down with a bottle of water (the race against the clock had made me thirsty as hell). Once my belly was sated, then it was time to visit the cathedral.
Those who go to Chartres with the thought of just seeing a building will find themselves in for a great surprise. The cathedral at Chartres is not just a building: it is also an emotion, a devotion, and the doorway to a spiritual experience if you enter it in the right frame of mind and are perceptive to the forces of the universe that envelop all of us. I came to that realization the instant I stepped through its majestic gates. Although the day was warm outside the interior of the cathedral was cool and soothing. The darkness that envelopes the nave and chapels of the cathedral provide the visitor a sense of sanctuary and space for contemplation, reflection, prayer, and purgation of the maniacal bilge that suffocates the soul.
I achieved refuge in that cool darkness. I found solace in the silence. I found peace in the history of the chapel (Henry IV of France, founder of the Bourbon dynasty, was crowned king in this cathedral). I did take the guided English-speaking tour of the place but it was after the tour when I was wandering by myself that I experienced the true wonders of Chartres. I felt God’s presence strongly and I knew God was working through me as I wandered through the cathedral as a humble penitent seeking to be healed by whatever means God willed.
And I was being healed. I knew it instinctively. The rage, self-pity, and depression I felt earlier in the day were gone. I felt renewed, boundless, and infinite. If there is a purgatory, would this be what the experience is like when you reach it?
I covered every inch of space in the cathedral and even dared to ascend the narrow circular medieval stairways towards the top of the great tower. Once you’re on top the balconies the views of the village skyline and the cathedral roof itself are stunning. (A word of warning: if you suffer vertigo going to the top of the tower will make your heart flutter wildly).
If you think I’m being melodramatic about visiting a Gothic cathedral let me say this. I’m not the only person who experienced a spiritual healing while visiting the cathedral. The late Joseph Campbell (famed author on mythology) in his seven part series of conversations with Bill Moyers (which aired on PBS in 1987) talked about how he had had a similar experience like mine when visiting Chartres as a college student. (In fact it was his mentioning his spiritual experience while visiting Chartres that inspired my decision to visit the cathedral in the first place!)
Even a spiritual high must come to and end sometimes. My comedown was quiet and smooth as I made my way back to the train station. It was late afternoon. By the time I returned to Paris it would be dinner time. I remember the sense of peace and reverie as I wove my way through the narrow streets and alley ways. A few people were out and about but mostly the village was peaceful and silent—it was as it should have been.
The train ride back was uneventful and once I got back to Paris I found a lovely Italian restaurant close to the train station and had dinner there along with a bunch of American exchange students from Harvard.
It was quite a day!
(The next day I returned to Fontainebleau and the palace was open to visitors and I had what British people like to call, a smashing good time!)
I couldn’t believe it. I was stunned speechless. How did I make this mistake? I broke open my guide book and saw it written in black and white that the palace is closed on Tuesdays. That was probably the lowest moment I’ve ever had in all the vacation trips I had taken so far. I was disgusted with myself at making such a stupid bloody mistake. The only reason why I made that mistake was because I was allowing my personal problems with my family to cloud my focus and reason. I was distracted and out of focus and as George Clooney once said so eloquently in the movie Ocean’s Eleven, “you lose focus for one second and somebody gets hurt.” That’s right and that somebody was me.
There I was at the palace gates with egg on my face. The question remained what was I going to do? I scanned my guide book and checked out the info on how to get to Chartres. I had to get back to Paris quickly. I had to make my way from the Gare D’Lyon station in the southeast part of the city to the Montparnasse station in the southwest part of the city to take the train to Chartres. There was a train for Chartres leaving Montparnasse at a little past noon. I had to make that train because the next train would get me to Chartres way to late to properly visit the cathedral. It wouldn’t be easy. I would have to navigate the Paris metro system and make two changes in subway lines to get to Montparnasse. No matter how I figured it would be very thin shaving with regards to time.
I had no choice. I got back to the Fontainebleau station and caught the first train back to Paris. It was already past mid-morning and it was forty-five minutes back to Paris. During the train ride back I felt like Bruce Willis in Die Hard with a Vengeance. For me to succeed in making it on time to Chartres everything had to fall into place and in terms of confidence my self-esteem had suffered a mighty blow.
But I had to try.
I kept checking my Metro line maps, figuring out which stations to change lines. When I finally reached Gare D’Lyon, I exited the train and began the great race against the clock. If any of you could have seen me you would have seen someone not running for their life (because I knew if I ran I would fail to make the train and would have worked up an enormous sweat for nothing) but someone walking rather briskly, navigating the warrens and connecting tunnels to the Metro line. I found the subway and began making my way west by southwest to Montparnasse. The stations were crowded and everyone was out and about. Also I had never taken these subway lines before therefore I was walking through terra incognita. I made the first subway line change neatly but it was at the second subway line that I had my worst moment during this great race. To get to the subway line I had to use a ticket to go through an automatic gate. I was walking behind this African woman and she went through the gate before me. The doors closed. I put my ticket into the machine and the door opened but before I could go through the gate the African woman with a malicious grin on her face tried to go back through the gate. When she did the door closed automatically before I could get through. She saw me and started laughing hysterically at my misfortune. I had just lost a precious subway ticket (they’re not cheap) and obviously (in my eyes) she had done it on purpose. Also she looked like someone I had once worked with in America and who had caused me professional harm at my job I had a millisecond meltdown and in that millisecond I practically screamed at her at the top of my lungs causing everyone in the subway station to stop and look at me. I was that enraged. (I won’t repeat what I said. It was pretty loathsome and disgusting. I never said words like that before and I pray to God I never will again).
Meltdown complete, I fumbled for another subway ticket and made it through the gate convinced that the delay had destroyed my chances of making it to the Montparnasse train. The subway ride was long, hot, and crowded. The seconds ticked away and I was convinced that all my efforts would be in vain.
Finally the subway reached the Montparnasse station. I had two or three minutes to make my way into the station concourse, find the right platform the train was leaving from, and then find a seat on the train itself. Again, I didn’t run. I walked rapidly like an Olympic walker. I scanned the tote board and found out which platform the train was leaving and, as I expected, it was at the farthest end of the station. It was the longest walk of my life and the seconds kept ticking. I kept thinking that the train wouldn’t be there at all. I was preparing myself for the worst. I told myself this was the darkest day of my life.
I reached the platform and the train was there. I had to find a car with an empty seat. I saw a car with the side door open. I stepped in. There was empty seat. I sat down, the door closed, and the train left Montparnasse for Chartres.
It was like a scene from a bloody spy movie. For the first time all day I smiled to myself and gave way to my emotions.
It was noon and I was hungry but I decided to eat lunch at Chartres. I don’t recall how long the train was. It may have been an hour or less but it seemed long enough to take stock and figure out things. I had never been to Chartres before so this was all a new experience for me. The train ride allowed me to settle down and collect myself. The French countryside rolled by in green spring splendor, punctuated with local stops in small villages.
When the train finally pulled into Chartres, you exit the train and are confronted by the Gothic needlepoint splendor of the cathedral tower dominating the skyline of the village. My stomach was speaking loudly and I didn’t want to contemplate the wonderment of the cathedral on an empty tummy. I made my way towards to the cathedral but I was also looking for a bistro to grab a bite to eat.
I found one occupying the same square as the cathedral. It was crowded with a late lunch crowd of several Japanese tourists on a bus tour visiting the cathedral. They had just finished their tour and were eating lunch. I was about to start mine but first a meal. I indulged myself with a croque monsieur and pomme frite and washed it down with a bottle of water (the race against the clock had made me thirsty as hell). Once my belly was sated, then it was time to visit the cathedral.
Those who go to Chartres with the thought of just seeing a building will find themselves in for a great surprise. The cathedral at Chartres is not just a building: it is also an emotion, a devotion, and the doorway to a spiritual experience if you enter it in the right frame of mind and are perceptive to the forces of the universe that envelop all of us. I came to that realization the instant I stepped through its majestic gates. Although the day was warm outside the interior of the cathedral was cool and soothing. The darkness that envelopes the nave and chapels of the cathedral provide the visitor a sense of sanctuary and space for contemplation, reflection, prayer, and purgation of the maniacal bilge that suffocates the soul.
I achieved refuge in that cool darkness. I found solace in the silence. I found peace in the history of the chapel (Henry IV of France, founder of the Bourbon dynasty, was crowned king in this cathedral). I did take the guided English-speaking tour of the place but it was after the tour when I was wandering by myself that I experienced the true wonders of Chartres. I felt God’s presence strongly and I knew God was working through me as I wandered through the cathedral as a humble penitent seeking to be healed by whatever means God willed.
And I was being healed. I knew it instinctively. The rage, self-pity, and depression I felt earlier in the day were gone. I felt renewed, boundless, and infinite. If there is a purgatory, would this be what the experience is like when you reach it?
I covered every inch of space in the cathedral and even dared to ascend the narrow circular medieval stairways towards the top of the great tower. Once you’re on top the balconies the views of the village skyline and the cathedral roof itself are stunning. (A word of warning: if you suffer vertigo going to the top of the tower will make your heart flutter wildly).
If you think I’m being melodramatic about visiting a Gothic cathedral let me say this. I’m not the only person who experienced a spiritual healing while visiting the cathedral. The late Joseph Campbell (famed author on mythology) in his seven part series of conversations with Bill Moyers (which aired on PBS in 1987) talked about how he had had a similar experience like mine when visiting Chartres as a college student. (In fact it was his mentioning his spiritual experience while visiting Chartres that inspired my decision to visit the cathedral in the first place!)
Even a spiritual high must come to and end sometimes. My comedown was quiet and smooth as I made my way back to the train station. It was late afternoon. By the time I returned to Paris it would be dinner time. I remember the sense of peace and reverie as I wove my way through the narrow streets and alley ways. A few people were out and about but mostly the village was peaceful and silent—it was as it should have been.
The train ride back was uneventful and once I got back to Paris I found a lovely Italian restaurant close to the train station and had dinner there along with a bunch of American exchange students from Harvard.
It was quite a day!
(The next day I returned to Fontainebleau and the palace was open to visitors and I had what British people like to call, a smashing good time!)
Friday, March 30, 2007
...And the war begat Nemesis: The Iraq War
For the first time in his relatively brief political career, George W. Bush is facing determined opposition. Despite his protestations to the contrary, his defiance of the Democratic Congress’ passage of a budget bill mandating a timetable for ending America’s involvement in Iraq must be seen as a desperate attempt at salvaging his already soiled standing in American politics rather than a plea for patience to ensure victory in Iraq.
His hubris in starting the war in Iraq (and he did start the war on his own initiative; it certainly wasn’t at the behest of his senior military advisers—his protestations notwithstanding) has begotten Nemesis in the Iraqi insurgency and the emergence of Iran as a major player in the region. The war he started to cow his political opposition and enrich his financial supporters has instead become political quicksand. The more the President thrashes out at his opponents and at other nations supporting the insurgency the deeper he sinks into the abyss which is Iraq.
The Iraq war is four years old and the sad part about all of this is that one year from now, we will be marking the fifth anniversary of this unnecessary struggle and we will be mourning the losses of many more brave Americans who have been needlessly sacrificed to gratify the vainglory of a few evil people. That is the tragedy of Iraq.
His hubris in starting the war in Iraq (and he did start the war on his own initiative; it certainly wasn’t at the behest of his senior military advisers—his protestations notwithstanding) has begotten Nemesis in the Iraqi insurgency and the emergence of Iran as a major player in the region. The war he started to cow his political opposition and enrich his financial supporters has instead become political quicksand. The more the President thrashes out at his opponents and at other nations supporting the insurgency the deeper he sinks into the abyss which is Iraq.
The Iraq war is four years old and the sad part about all of this is that one year from now, we will be marking the fifth anniversary of this unnecessary struggle and we will be mourning the losses of many more brave Americans who have been needlessly sacrificed to gratify the vainglory of a few evil people. That is the tragedy of Iraq.
Tuesday, March 20, 2007
Judicial Excess: The U.S. Attorneys Scandal
In a biography of Franklin Delano Roosevelt, Ted Morgan writes, “in presidential politics…it isn’t what you’ve done but what you can be attacked for.” When considering the political backlash caused by the revelations that the Bush Administration contemplated firing all the U.S. Attorneys and replacing them with politically reliable cronies devoted to the President’s political agenda, it’s not surprising that Democratic vituperation and criticism from certain G.O.P. members should reach such a crescendo.
The politicization of the Justice Department and the deliberate misuse of federal agencies to hamper or destroy political opponents are not new in American history. FDR used the IRS to prosecute publisher Moe Annenberg (a fierce opponent of Roosevelt). John Kennedy allowed his brother Bobby to use Justice Department machinery and the I.R.S. to prosecute (unsuccessfully) the late Roy Cohn—a personal enemy of Bobby Kennedy (please read Cohn’s side of the story in chapter nine in The Autobiography of Roy Cohn by Sidney Zion. It’s fascinating reading!) And who could ever forget Richard Nixon’s infamous enemies list brought to light during the Watergate scandal? Or when Reagan Administration Attorney General Ed Meese’s deputies at the Justice Department were present in the same room when Oliver North conducted his shredding party just before the Iran-Contra scandal broke twenty-one years ago?
The U.S. Attorney’s scandal is a puny zebra in the annals of Presidential scandals. What the Bush Administration was doing was not so much illegal as it was improper if you believe in the impartiality of the American Justice system. What the scandal reveals is the ham-fisted way the Bush Administration goes about it sordid business and how the Bush Administration’s inner circle tries to cloak its political machinations under the guise of national security and executive privilege. (Richard Nixon tried to use the same tack during Watergate). The scandal reconfirms that, once again, that Presidential Adviser (and political pit bull) Karl Rove can be a rather nasty individual when going after the President’s opponents or punishing those who fail to demonstrate the proper servility towards the Bush Family’s agenda.
The question that bugs me is why was the Bush Administration pursuing this line so late in its Presidency? One would have thought they would have done it years before. The only reason I can surmise from pursuing this course is that the President’s advisers (and by extension the President himself) wanted to political co-opt the U.S. Attorney’s Office so that they could use its powers to hamper or destroy the opposition in time for the 2008 Presidential election—so that G.O.P. candidate Jeb Bush could benefit from it politically in the hopes of winning the Presidency and then using the U.S. Attorney’s prosecutorial powers to consolidate his power once he became President—a chilling thought but a highly plausible one when considering the Bush Administration’s tawdry record in upholding the Constitution of the United States and its deliberate betrayal of the rights and freedoms contained within.
Voters beware!
The politicization of the Justice Department and the deliberate misuse of federal agencies to hamper or destroy political opponents are not new in American history. FDR used the IRS to prosecute publisher Moe Annenberg (a fierce opponent of Roosevelt). John Kennedy allowed his brother Bobby to use Justice Department machinery and the I.R.S. to prosecute (unsuccessfully) the late Roy Cohn—a personal enemy of Bobby Kennedy (please read Cohn’s side of the story in chapter nine in The Autobiography of Roy Cohn by Sidney Zion. It’s fascinating reading!) And who could ever forget Richard Nixon’s infamous enemies list brought to light during the Watergate scandal? Or when Reagan Administration Attorney General Ed Meese’s deputies at the Justice Department were present in the same room when Oliver North conducted his shredding party just before the Iran-Contra scandal broke twenty-one years ago?
The U.S. Attorney’s scandal is a puny zebra in the annals of Presidential scandals. What the Bush Administration was doing was not so much illegal as it was improper if you believe in the impartiality of the American Justice system. What the scandal reveals is the ham-fisted way the Bush Administration goes about it sordid business and how the Bush Administration’s inner circle tries to cloak its political machinations under the guise of national security and executive privilege. (Richard Nixon tried to use the same tack during Watergate). The scandal reconfirms that, once again, that Presidential Adviser (and political pit bull) Karl Rove can be a rather nasty individual when going after the President’s opponents or punishing those who fail to demonstrate the proper servility towards the Bush Family’s agenda.
The question that bugs me is why was the Bush Administration pursuing this line so late in its Presidency? One would have thought they would have done it years before. The only reason I can surmise from pursuing this course is that the President’s advisers (and by extension the President himself) wanted to political co-opt the U.S. Attorney’s Office so that they could use its powers to hamper or destroy the opposition in time for the 2008 Presidential election—so that G.O.P. candidate Jeb Bush could benefit from it politically in the hopes of winning the Presidency and then using the U.S. Attorney’s prosecutorial powers to consolidate his power once he became President—a chilling thought but a highly plausible one when considering the Bush Administration’s tawdry record in upholding the Constitution of the United States and its deliberate betrayal of the rights and freedoms contained within.
Voters beware!
Saturday, March 10, 2007
Game Show Memories: 15 years on
“Everyone will be famous for fifteen minutes”
--Andy Warhol
Fifteen years ago I got more than fifteen minutes of fame when I appeared as a contestant on Jeopardy! I got twenty-two minutes of fame as a matter of fact (that’s the average length of a half-hour portion of television air-time when you take away the commercials).
March 12 will mark the fifteen anniversary of the airdate of when I appeared as a contestant on the Jeopardy! game show on March 12, 1992. (The contest was actually filmed during the first week of December 1991 but, back then, they filmed five shows a day for two days so there would be a time lag between the filming date and the airdate of an episode).
The experience of being on worldwide TV has always been an odd zebra in my life. To be honest, being a Jeopardy! contestant was not the greatest thing that happened to me. It’s not even in the top five of my greatest thrills and, maybe, not even in my top ten list. To be blunt there are times when I’ve forgotten that I was on the bloody show to begin with. (Interestingly, the few people who know I was on the show are more impressed with my appearance than I am—for which I am grateful, thank you!)
My memories of the whole experience vary. I remember the two-stage auditioning process in Atlantic City, New Jersey. You had to pass a ten question quiz done in ten minutes or less. Those who passed had to come back for a difficult fifty question quiz which lasted for quite some time. Those who passed that quiz then had to do an audition to see if you had charisma, personality, entertainment value, and courage to face the cameras. (I remember the support crew lecturing the aspiring contestants to project their voices, be animated, and show personality; to give the answers in a distinctive way; in other words don’t stand there like a wooden Indian speaking in a monotone). Interestingly there were some people who simply couldn’t project their personae onto the flat-screen—they were duly eliminated. Somehow, through the grace of God, I found out that I did have a personality, charisma, grace and style, and I was accepted.
When they accept you, you had to give them all your vitae. They make you fill out a sheet of paper listing five interesting life experiences you had in your life (that’s the info Alex Trebek uses when he talks to the contestants during the early stages of the game). I made out my list (most of which I have forgotten now—I cannot help but wonder what Ken Jennings had to go through to come up with interesting conversational material during his winning streak!)
All of this was done in the summer of 1991. I was told to wait until mid-autumn for the message to fly to Los Angeles to do the show. It was late October when I got the word. I was told to be in L.A. during the first week of December and to come prepared (proper wardrobe, etc.)
When I flew out to L.A. it was my first time in California—a rather interesting though unsettling experience for me. Back then you had to have enough wardrobe to last you through five shows. I had two suits and three sweaters to use if need be. I drove out to the studios in Burbank and entered the sound stage. Before you start filming you go through a lot of rigamarole. Before you can do anything you have to sign a release form which allows the production company to fleece you, screw you, do anything they want with you and you have no legal recourse. Indeed you’re not even guaranteed the right to appear on the show if they decide otherwise. You could make the trip to California (at your own expense) and they could still deny you a slot on the show if they decided.
It was a nice way to keep everyone in line but it gave me a wicked foreshadowing as to what really goes on behind the scenes there. After the legal nonsense, they give you a lecture as to what’s expected on the set and then you sit down for make-up—for guys it’s to close your pores and to reduce the shine brought on by the cameras.
And then you wait….
They would call out the names of those who would participate in each show. Once the names were called those people were sequestered from the others and would get prepped up to play. The rest of us waited.
We would sit in the crowd and watch the show as spectators. I remember the soundstage was small and cold as a meat locker. The smallness struck me. The game show set could fit neatly inside a tennis court. It’s that small.
They filmed three shows before we broke for lunch. During that time I got to observe how the backstage hands treat the contestants—not very nicely. It was like being back in Elementary school again—I hated Elementary school. You were herded like cattle, kept in the dark, spoken to like you were ignorant children. (I got scolded several times because I was asking the stage crew questions about what was going on).
By the time lunch came along I was feeling pretty down…and hungry.
Back then they must have been stinting on the food budget because lunch was some type of California macro-biotic stuff—utterly tasteless and non-filling. I remember sitting in the commissary feeling horrible and having the terrible premonition that when it came time for the fourth show to be filmed my name would be called.
And the time came…and my name was called.
I was sitting down in the lounge when this anorexic thin “woman” came up to me and told me I was going to play in game four. I sank back in my chair and the matchstick “woman” said to me petulantly “are you ready to play or not!”
For a millisecond I felt like telling her what she could do with herself because she exemplified the mentality of the stage crew. They thought they were the stars and the contestants were mere stage props to be moved and manipulated as they pleased. Personally I would have loved to have seen the stage crew get on that stage and stand before the cameras and display their intellectual strengths (or shortcomings) as all the other contestants must do.
If I got one lesson from being on Jeopardy! it was this: when you appear on TV in any way, shape, or form, you are standing naked before the world. If you’re appearing on a game show, you are exposing your mind and your thinking processes before hundreds of millions of people. You are exposing whether you can think quickly and effectively under pressure; whether you can process information pertaining to an extremely diverse group of subject matter.
Not a simple task, which makes what Ken Jennings did a magnificent achievement).
Actually that “woman” did me a favor when she got petulant with me. I snapped out of my funk and put on my game face. To those who saw me perform that night what you saw was me performing in a blaze of anger. I was pissed off. That “woman” got me mad and I used my anger creatively.
When the contestants walk on the set they’re supposed to do so slowly, deliberately. I wanted to rattle the stage crew’s sensibilities. I did the classic Rolling Stones way of taking the stage—I ran on which drove the stage crew nuts.
People have asked me what it felt like. To me, it felt like being in the eye of a hurricane. I was at peace with myself and never felt nervous while all around me bloody hell was breaking loose.
My family didn’t accompany me to L.A. for the show. A dear friend of mine Kris Millington (now Kris Godinez) was there in the crowd rooting me on. (Had I competed the next day, my cousin Mark-Erik DiBiase would have been in the crowd—thanks man!)
The only time I got nervous was after the first commercial break when Alex was talking to the contestants. When he came to me, my voice was nervous and fluttery. (You can hear my voice quaver for a moment and I have to collect myself. Alex asked me about my job and I gave him a thumbnail sketch of what I was doing in a rather nervous manner).
I did get a daily double but I flubbed the question: (This Southeast Asian country is the largest in population and landmass).
I blew it.
I did have some great moments which stunned several people afterwards. My boss at work, Bob Plowman was knocked out by some my answers: The Seminole War, embryology to name a few).
I was leading when I blew the daily double and then I fell behind as the defending champion took control of the board. At one point I had resigned myself to defeat. Strangely, though, after I had resigned myself to defeat I began to make a comeback. That’s the one part of competing in the game that has always pleased me. I had the strength to come back and make a game of it after conceding defeat. If you’ve ever seen the tape of my show, you will see me gritting my teeth and moving quickly to close the gap.
When it came time for final jeopardy, I was still in second place but I had a fighting chance.
If I had one gigantic fear of performing on Jeopardy! It was my fear of being blown out of the water by the other contestants. It was the possibility that I would do poorly or worse, fail to get the final jeopardy answer and end up with no money at all. When I said my prayers before the game, I didn’t pray for victory, all that I asked was that I finished strongly.
My prayer was answered.
The final jeopardy answer was this: this commander of the French National Guard personally stood between French Queen Marie Antoinette and a howling Parisian mob.
I had bet every penny I had on the question. (I had no choice the defending champ was $900 dollars ahead of me).
When I saw the question, I laughed inwardly and smiled for the camera. I couldn’t believe it was that easy. I was the first person who wrote down the answer. If you see the tape of my performance, you will see me making eyes at Kris in the crowd, letting her know that I got the answer right. In fact I double-checked because I couldn’t believe that it was so easy.
When it came down to end, all of us got the answer right. I ended up with $14,400. The defending ended up with $14,401.
People always ask me if I was bummed out by that. No. If I had to lose then that’s the way I had to lose. The defending champ was not smarter than me. He was luckier and I think he knew that fact.
I had some bad breaks at the start of the show and it cost me some dollars in the early going.
I’ve never regretted the way the show ended.
What was my prize for second place? A trip to Calgary, Alberta. Hubba, hubba and I had stopped skiing the year before. I never claimed my prize because I had to pay California state taxes if I did, also to get the trip to Calgary I would have to fly to L.A. at my own expense to claim the tickets. Sod that!
(In retrospect I should have claimed the prize, at least then I could have used the trip to interview various former NHL players residing in the greater Calgary area for my oral history of the NHL’s Original Six era—which I’m presently working on. Hahahahahahaha!)
When it was over, I was hustled off-stage and Kris and I left sooner afterwards to have dinner because I was starving.
And so it was over.
Oh yes, what about Alex Trebek?
Here are some things about him I observed: between shows he is cloistered. Once the show ends, he is off the set in a flash. He does not linger on the sound stage.
When it was my turn to play and the show ended and we were standing there as the credits rolled, he spoke to me the most of all three contestants. He asked me what question I was kicking myself over. I actually couldn’t remember. Alex was much shorter than I was and, at the time, he had salt and peppery hair. Today he is completely gray.
When we were talking, I told him that I remember watching him emcee the game show High Rollers which was a daytime game show in the 1970s. He made a mock groan and said laughingly, “Please don’t remind me.”
Actually Alex was the nicest person on the whole set and was about as nice as a celebrity can get. I was grateful for that.
I take that back. The announcer Johnny Gilbert was nice too. Before we began filming he made a special effort to say my last name properly. He came up to me to make sure he got it right. I wrote it out phonetically for him and he was perfect in his pronunciation.
Thanks Johnny!
I’ve often wondered if I had won that game or had become a five time champion what I would have done. I had notions of doing something unique in celebrating my victories.
I always liked the way the late Keith Moon of the Who used to exit his drum kit after a show ended. Other drummers would step out calmly from behind their drum kits and take their applause. Not so for Keith. He preferred to climb atop his drum kit, stand high and wave his arms about and then jump down with a thud to the floor below. (If you ever see the movie the The Kids Are Allright you will see a movie montage of him doing that several times).
I would have loved to have ended one of my victories by doing that: climbing atop the signaling boards the contestants used, standing there dramatically and then jumping down onto the floor; anything to put some hair up the collective asses of those pompous backstage bastard crew members.
It would have been beautiful.
How did my family react when my show aired in March 1992? When the show ended my father was decently impressed and said so. My mother’s reaction was typical of her and says a great deal about how she felt about me as a person.
When the show ended, I looked over at her and our eyes met. There was a silent pause and I remember her eyes turning white with rage and she bellowed out, “YOU SCARED ME!”
She was pissed off royally at me for performing so well and so gracefully under pressure. She realized that she betrayed herself and tried to wiggle out of her predicament but I knew deep down inside how she truly felt about my achievement. She was angry and filled with rage because I did something that she herself could not have the courage to do.
(Which is why, fifteen years later, I’m no longer on speaking terms with her).
In the days that followed the airing of my show, a few people came up to me and asked me if I had been on TV and for those fleeting moments I enjoyed a rare taste of celebrity.
In the years that followed I have shown my tape to various people. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen the show by myself. It seems that others are more interested in it than I am.
That’s it folks: the story of my twenty-two minutes of fame.
Actually that’s not the only time I’ve been on national TV. I appeared on camera five or six times on C-Span when they were broadcasting the bicentennial of George Washington’s funeral in December 1999. You can see me in the crowd.
Hopefully the next time I appear on TV it will be as a talking head for a lovely educational documentary of some sort. I’d give anything to do something like that. Appear on camera and give my “expert” opinion on something.
Forlorn hope!
--Andy Warhol
Fifteen years ago I got more than fifteen minutes of fame when I appeared as a contestant on Jeopardy! I got twenty-two minutes of fame as a matter of fact (that’s the average length of a half-hour portion of television air-time when you take away the commercials).
March 12 will mark the fifteen anniversary of the airdate of when I appeared as a contestant on the Jeopardy! game show on March 12, 1992. (The contest was actually filmed during the first week of December 1991 but, back then, they filmed five shows a day for two days so there would be a time lag between the filming date and the airdate of an episode).
The experience of being on worldwide TV has always been an odd zebra in my life. To be honest, being a Jeopardy! contestant was not the greatest thing that happened to me. It’s not even in the top five of my greatest thrills and, maybe, not even in my top ten list. To be blunt there are times when I’ve forgotten that I was on the bloody show to begin with. (Interestingly, the few people who know I was on the show are more impressed with my appearance than I am—for which I am grateful, thank you!)
My memories of the whole experience vary. I remember the two-stage auditioning process in Atlantic City, New Jersey. You had to pass a ten question quiz done in ten minutes or less. Those who passed had to come back for a difficult fifty question quiz which lasted for quite some time. Those who passed that quiz then had to do an audition to see if you had charisma, personality, entertainment value, and courage to face the cameras. (I remember the support crew lecturing the aspiring contestants to project their voices, be animated, and show personality; to give the answers in a distinctive way; in other words don’t stand there like a wooden Indian speaking in a monotone). Interestingly there were some people who simply couldn’t project their personae onto the flat-screen—they were duly eliminated. Somehow, through the grace of God, I found out that I did have a personality, charisma, grace and style, and I was accepted.
When they accept you, you had to give them all your vitae. They make you fill out a sheet of paper listing five interesting life experiences you had in your life (that’s the info Alex Trebek uses when he talks to the contestants during the early stages of the game). I made out my list (most of which I have forgotten now—I cannot help but wonder what Ken Jennings had to go through to come up with interesting conversational material during his winning streak!)
All of this was done in the summer of 1991. I was told to wait until mid-autumn for the message to fly to Los Angeles to do the show. It was late October when I got the word. I was told to be in L.A. during the first week of December and to come prepared (proper wardrobe, etc.)
When I flew out to L.A. it was my first time in California—a rather interesting though unsettling experience for me. Back then you had to have enough wardrobe to last you through five shows. I had two suits and three sweaters to use if need be. I drove out to the studios in Burbank and entered the sound stage. Before you start filming you go through a lot of rigamarole. Before you can do anything you have to sign a release form which allows the production company to fleece you, screw you, do anything they want with you and you have no legal recourse. Indeed you’re not even guaranteed the right to appear on the show if they decide otherwise. You could make the trip to California (at your own expense) and they could still deny you a slot on the show if they decided.
It was a nice way to keep everyone in line but it gave me a wicked foreshadowing as to what really goes on behind the scenes there. After the legal nonsense, they give you a lecture as to what’s expected on the set and then you sit down for make-up—for guys it’s to close your pores and to reduce the shine brought on by the cameras.
And then you wait….
They would call out the names of those who would participate in each show. Once the names were called those people were sequestered from the others and would get prepped up to play. The rest of us waited.
We would sit in the crowd and watch the show as spectators. I remember the soundstage was small and cold as a meat locker. The smallness struck me. The game show set could fit neatly inside a tennis court. It’s that small.
They filmed three shows before we broke for lunch. During that time I got to observe how the backstage hands treat the contestants—not very nicely. It was like being back in Elementary school again—I hated Elementary school. You were herded like cattle, kept in the dark, spoken to like you were ignorant children. (I got scolded several times because I was asking the stage crew questions about what was going on).
By the time lunch came along I was feeling pretty down…and hungry.
Back then they must have been stinting on the food budget because lunch was some type of California macro-biotic stuff—utterly tasteless and non-filling. I remember sitting in the commissary feeling horrible and having the terrible premonition that when it came time for the fourth show to be filmed my name would be called.
And the time came…and my name was called.
I was sitting down in the lounge when this anorexic thin “woman” came up to me and told me I was going to play in game four. I sank back in my chair and the matchstick “woman” said to me petulantly “are you ready to play or not!”
For a millisecond I felt like telling her what she could do with herself because she exemplified the mentality of the stage crew. They thought they were the stars and the contestants were mere stage props to be moved and manipulated as they pleased. Personally I would have loved to have seen the stage crew get on that stage and stand before the cameras and display their intellectual strengths (or shortcomings) as all the other contestants must do.
If I got one lesson from being on Jeopardy! it was this: when you appear on TV in any way, shape, or form, you are standing naked before the world. If you’re appearing on a game show, you are exposing your mind and your thinking processes before hundreds of millions of people. You are exposing whether you can think quickly and effectively under pressure; whether you can process information pertaining to an extremely diverse group of subject matter.
Not a simple task, which makes what Ken Jennings did a magnificent achievement).
Actually that “woman” did me a favor when she got petulant with me. I snapped out of my funk and put on my game face. To those who saw me perform that night what you saw was me performing in a blaze of anger. I was pissed off. That “woman” got me mad and I used my anger creatively.
When the contestants walk on the set they’re supposed to do so slowly, deliberately. I wanted to rattle the stage crew’s sensibilities. I did the classic Rolling Stones way of taking the stage—I ran on which drove the stage crew nuts.
People have asked me what it felt like. To me, it felt like being in the eye of a hurricane. I was at peace with myself and never felt nervous while all around me bloody hell was breaking loose.
My family didn’t accompany me to L.A. for the show. A dear friend of mine Kris Millington (now Kris Godinez) was there in the crowd rooting me on. (Had I competed the next day, my cousin Mark-Erik DiBiase would have been in the crowd—thanks man!)
The only time I got nervous was after the first commercial break when Alex was talking to the contestants. When he came to me, my voice was nervous and fluttery. (You can hear my voice quaver for a moment and I have to collect myself. Alex asked me about my job and I gave him a thumbnail sketch of what I was doing in a rather nervous manner).
I did get a daily double but I flubbed the question: (This Southeast Asian country is the largest in population and landmass).
I blew it.
I did have some great moments which stunned several people afterwards. My boss at work, Bob Plowman was knocked out by some my answers: The Seminole War, embryology to name a few).
I was leading when I blew the daily double and then I fell behind as the defending champion took control of the board. At one point I had resigned myself to defeat. Strangely, though, after I had resigned myself to defeat I began to make a comeback. That’s the one part of competing in the game that has always pleased me. I had the strength to come back and make a game of it after conceding defeat. If you’ve ever seen the tape of my show, you will see me gritting my teeth and moving quickly to close the gap.
When it came time for final jeopardy, I was still in second place but I had a fighting chance.
If I had one gigantic fear of performing on Jeopardy! It was my fear of being blown out of the water by the other contestants. It was the possibility that I would do poorly or worse, fail to get the final jeopardy answer and end up with no money at all. When I said my prayers before the game, I didn’t pray for victory, all that I asked was that I finished strongly.
My prayer was answered.
The final jeopardy answer was this: this commander of the French National Guard personally stood between French Queen Marie Antoinette and a howling Parisian mob.
I had bet every penny I had on the question. (I had no choice the defending champ was $900 dollars ahead of me).
When I saw the question, I laughed inwardly and smiled for the camera. I couldn’t believe it was that easy. I was the first person who wrote down the answer. If you see the tape of my performance, you will see me making eyes at Kris in the crowd, letting her know that I got the answer right. In fact I double-checked because I couldn’t believe that it was so easy.
When it came down to end, all of us got the answer right. I ended up with $14,400. The defending ended up with $14,401.
People always ask me if I was bummed out by that. No. If I had to lose then that’s the way I had to lose. The defending champ was not smarter than me. He was luckier and I think he knew that fact.
I had some bad breaks at the start of the show and it cost me some dollars in the early going.
I’ve never regretted the way the show ended.
What was my prize for second place? A trip to Calgary, Alberta. Hubba, hubba and I had stopped skiing the year before. I never claimed my prize because I had to pay California state taxes if I did, also to get the trip to Calgary I would have to fly to L.A. at my own expense to claim the tickets. Sod that!
(In retrospect I should have claimed the prize, at least then I could have used the trip to interview various former NHL players residing in the greater Calgary area for my oral history of the NHL’s Original Six era—which I’m presently working on. Hahahahahahaha!)
When it was over, I was hustled off-stage and Kris and I left sooner afterwards to have dinner because I was starving.
And so it was over.
Oh yes, what about Alex Trebek?
Here are some things about him I observed: between shows he is cloistered. Once the show ends, he is off the set in a flash. He does not linger on the sound stage.
When it was my turn to play and the show ended and we were standing there as the credits rolled, he spoke to me the most of all three contestants. He asked me what question I was kicking myself over. I actually couldn’t remember. Alex was much shorter than I was and, at the time, he had salt and peppery hair. Today he is completely gray.
When we were talking, I told him that I remember watching him emcee the game show High Rollers which was a daytime game show in the 1970s. He made a mock groan and said laughingly, “Please don’t remind me.”
Actually Alex was the nicest person on the whole set and was about as nice as a celebrity can get. I was grateful for that.
I take that back. The announcer Johnny Gilbert was nice too. Before we began filming he made a special effort to say my last name properly. He came up to me to make sure he got it right. I wrote it out phonetically for him and he was perfect in his pronunciation.
Thanks Johnny!
I’ve often wondered if I had won that game or had become a five time champion what I would have done. I had notions of doing something unique in celebrating my victories.
I always liked the way the late Keith Moon of the Who used to exit his drum kit after a show ended. Other drummers would step out calmly from behind their drum kits and take their applause. Not so for Keith. He preferred to climb atop his drum kit, stand high and wave his arms about and then jump down with a thud to the floor below. (If you ever see the movie the The Kids Are Allright you will see a movie montage of him doing that several times).
I would have loved to have ended one of my victories by doing that: climbing atop the signaling boards the contestants used, standing there dramatically and then jumping down onto the floor; anything to put some hair up the collective asses of those pompous backstage bastard crew members.
It would have been beautiful.
How did my family react when my show aired in March 1992? When the show ended my father was decently impressed and said so. My mother’s reaction was typical of her and says a great deal about how she felt about me as a person.
When the show ended, I looked over at her and our eyes met. There was a silent pause and I remember her eyes turning white with rage and she bellowed out, “YOU SCARED ME!”
She was pissed off royally at me for performing so well and so gracefully under pressure. She realized that she betrayed herself and tried to wiggle out of her predicament but I knew deep down inside how she truly felt about my achievement. She was angry and filled with rage because I did something that she herself could not have the courage to do.
(Which is why, fifteen years later, I’m no longer on speaking terms with her).
In the days that followed the airing of my show, a few people came up to me and asked me if I had been on TV and for those fleeting moments I enjoyed a rare taste of celebrity.
In the years that followed I have shown my tape to various people. I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen the show by myself. It seems that others are more interested in it than I am.
That’s it folks: the story of my twenty-two minutes of fame.
Actually that’s not the only time I’ve been on national TV. I appeared on camera five or six times on C-Span when they were broadcasting the bicentennial of George Washington’s funeral in December 1999. You can see me in the crowd.
Hopefully the next time I appear on TV it will be as a talking head for a lovely educational documentary of some sort. I’d give anything to do something like that. Appear on camera and give my “expert” opinion on something.
Forlorn hope!
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