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My Football Career

2009-02-15T09:58:00.000-08:00

1963. Falls Church, Virginia. I was a junior in high school. I loved sports of all kinds but I never made a high school team. I tried. I could blame my lack of success on my physical stature or lack of speed. I suppose I could come up with a lot of excuses. The real reason is that I’m just an average athlete. And that’s okay.

But to a sixteen year-old kid who was striving to find his place in the world I had not yet given up on the sports theme. Since high school football was out of the question the local Boys Club league seemed like the only other option.

It wasn’t a question of trying out. More like just showing up. About 20 kids were there for our first practice. The coach was Edd Shull. He had played college ball. Not sure where. Coach Shull was about 30. He was energetic and passionate about football. Looking back I’m amazed that he wanted to take the time to work with us.

We were the rejects. The kids who couldn’t make it anywhere else.

The football field was really the only place where we associated one with another. There were a couple of really smart kids. Some delinquents. Actually, quite a few of them. And there were some normal kids who were struggling to just find an identity. Some success in life. That was me.

I wanted to make a difference. Be someone. And somehow our sorry group of misfits seemed to be my only opportunity to do so. I don’t remember anyone’s name. A few faces come to mind. Actually, I do remember a name. Burr Hartman. I remember him because he was our quarterback and was killed in an auto accident after our third or fourth game.

Of the twenty or so that showed up at the beginning only about twelve or thirteen stuck around. There was a 140 lb. limit. Most of us were pretty short, I was about 5’ 3”, and we didn’t compensate with speed. My coach could have said something like “Flynn, you might be small, but you sure are slow.” And he could have said that about most of us. But he didn’t. He was always upbeat, expecting a lot of this group of young athlete-wanna-be’s.

I don’t even remember the name of the team. Lions? Maybe.

Our uniforms were hand-me-downs from various schools in the area. High schools. Junior highs. There was a big pile on the ground of worn out shoulder pads, pants and various other pads designed to protect our bodies from the punishment we were about to be given. We picked through the heap until we found something that sort of fit.

Helmets were a different issue. We had to buy our own helmets and then paint them blue with a gold stripe down the middle. Not all the hues of blue matched. The gold stripes varied in width. But, in a way, we started to look like a team.

Jerseys were pretty much the same. Again, discards from some school.

Like us.

Dad and I went down to a sporting goods store to buy cleats. Our coach told us to get some that were snug on our feet. For some reason my dad didn’t like the idea that my feet were only about an 8 or 8½. He wanted my feet to be bigger. They weren’t. I ended up with shoes that were too big for me. I played the whole season slipping around in my shoes in spite of wearing extra pairs of socks. Odd.

There was the usual bickering over what number we would get. I wanted 55. So did some other kid. We flipped. I won. He wore number 50.

We only had about three practices before our first game. We lost that one. And the next. Along about then we started to come together as a team. The delinquents decided that the rest of us could actually contribute to the team. The brainiacs thought their way through the process and started to kick in. The normal kids kept at it. Like normals do.

The delinquents, we called them “hoods”, were the most interesting group. About four or five of them. (Another name comes back. Smitty.) They would come to practice in their souped up cars. Their hair was always greasy and combed back. A pack of cigarettes rolled up in their t-shirts was not an uncommon sight.

I have to admit that they intimidated me to some extent. They were the tough guys. But, I soon found out that when I hit them they fell down just like everyone else. They weren’t really all that tough. Like most of us, they, too, were probably just trying to find themselves.

I played a variety of positions. Guard. Nose tackle. Linebacker. And a few others, depending on who got hurt and who showed up. As a general rule we had just enough guys to field a team with one or two on the bench.

So, after our second loss in as many tries we decided we were tired of losing. And we were getting better. We won our third game. And every game after that. In fact, after our second game no one scored on us the rest of the season.

Our most interesting win was against the Junior Varsity of a local high school. George Mason I think. I assume our coach called their coach and set up the game since it wasn’t on our regular schedule. We didn’t play high school teams. We were in the significantly inferior Boys Club League.

There we were in our mismatched uniforms and funny looking helmets. Just enough of us to vaguely resemble a team. Our opponent had matching everything. Including red and white capes. Three or four coaches to our one. They didn’t have the 140 lb. limit and some of them looked like giants.

It was a tough game. On our second possession Smitty ran for about 60 yards right up the middle for a touchdown. We ended up winning 24 – 0. Their coach was livid. As we were trudging back to the parking lot they were getting a tongue-lashing for losing to a bunch of misfits. Their coach looked over at our coach and gave him a “Good game” acknowledgment. I still smile when I think about it.

Burr, our quarterback, was one of the delinquents. A hood. A tough kid. Curly, sandy blond hair. Taller than most of us. He was riding in a car with a bunch of other kids. It went off the road. Hit a tree.

We decided to play the next game with only ten players in tribute to our fallen comrade. Our halfback moved over to quarterback. We played some team from Maryland. They wore purple jerseys. It was 1963. We beat them 63 – 0.

After that season was over I never played another down of organized football. Pickup games here and there. Two hand touch. Flag football. But 1963 was the last time I had on shoulder pads. Or a helmet. The last time I wore an over-sized pair of cleats.

We had a team dinner at the end of the season. Coach Shull got up and gave a tribute to Burr, whose parents were in attendance. Tears streamed down his face. He said “I weep unashamed.” He really was a passionate guy.

After my stint with the Falls Church Boys Club football team I got into other things. I tried out for a play and found that acting, unlike football, was something at which I could compete. I’ve made a career in the performing arts.

I wonder on occasion what happened to the other guys. They clearly have no idea how their friendship and camaraderie left its mark on this impressionable 16 year-old. Apart from theater, it was the highlight of my high school experience. Those few months at the beginning of my junior year.

The practices. The games. The skinned elbows that never healed until a few weeks after the last game. The fights on the field. Finding friends in unusual ways. Most of all, the feeling of having accomplished something. Being able to go to school on a Monday morning knowing that on the previous Saturday afternoon we had walked onto a football field and beaten the other team. No one at school knew. There were no announcements over the morning PA in home room. No one slapped us on the back. But we knew.

The hoods, the brainiacs and the normal kids. We were the castoffs. The guys who couldn’t make it. But in our little world of Boys Club Football we were the best. As we walked down the hall at George C. Marshall High School, just outside Washington DC, we smiled and nodded to each other. No outward actions. We didn’t eat lunch together or talk to each other at school. That would have been too weird. It was sort of a secret. We would nod. The nods were always returned. Down deep inside we shared a secret. The secret that on some small scale, we were winners.

And winning feels good. Even if no one knows.

Yes, we won all but the first two games. Granted, the season wasn’t that long. Ten games, I think. The level of competition was undoubtedly questionable. After all, the other teams were full of rejects, too. There were no playoffs at the end of the year. No trophies. No write ups in the newspaper.

Just the memories.

As I walked off the field after our 63 – 0 drubbing of the purple Maryland team, one of the fathers came up to me and said “Good game, Mike.” I smiled through a few tears, wishing Burr had been there. Perhaps he was. I hope so.

1963. Football. That’s how I remember it. If I am ever granted a replay of my whole life I am quite sure I will slow down the playback when it comes to that season of Boys Club Football.

Thanks Coach Shull. And all you other guys.

Photos

2008-12-27T00:50:00.000-08:00

On the set of "The Dance".

Just a head shot.

On the set of "Heber Holiday". Scene with Jodi Russell.

Head shot.

Old Photos

2008-12-27T00:43:00.000-08:00

In cleaning out a storage area I came across some old photos. These were taken in the mid 1980's. Time will do what time will do. Yup.

Politics as usual . . .

2008-09-05T06:50:00.000-07:00

Politics are an ugly battleground. Both sides put forth their ideas. Ideas that are usually conceived by focus groups rather than the candidates themselves. The candidates are merely puppets in the hands of advisors, poll-takers and the like. The process really sickens me to a great extent.

But, it's all we have.

Politicians try to be everything to everyone. They end up in some muddy, middle ground and we find ourselves picking between the lesser of two evils. I long for a politician to stand up and really say what he/she believes. Regardless of the political correctness of the answer. Or what the polls indicate.

I want someone to stand up and tell the environmentalists to take a flying leap and that we are going to drill for oil in Alaska. And offshore. Yes, it will take years before we see the results. But that's the argument that was put forth years ago. If we had started then we'd be reaping the benefits now. If we start now we won't be complaining years from now. The future hits us faster than we care to think. We've become a nation that wants everything now. We can't put oil on a credit card and have it delivered to our doorstep a few days later. We have to plan for it. Save for it. Ideas that are foreign to the American mind. So, foreigners fill our immediate need while we refuse to prepare for the future.

I suppose that , in a sense, this election comes down to what battlefield(s) we wish to fight on.

I guess the sanctity of life is my biggest battlefield. I abhor this nation's view on abortion. Especially partial birth abortion. And Obama is fully in favor of it. Why? Because he cottons to the female vote.

I have always been amazed that the women of this country are more in favor of abortion than are the men. A mystery. One would think that the maternal instinct would take over and be in favor of keeping the child. Guess not.

Another battlefield is the issue of God in our country. I see the liberals, in particular the Democratic Party, as doing everything they can to get God out of our communities. They strike at the very personal level of society. The small towns that want to have a Christmas manger on the lawn of city hall. The county courthouse that has a plaque of the ten commandments in its lobby. The schools that wish to start the day, or graduation, with a prayer. The community that wants to put up a cross at the side of the freeway where a public servant, a highway patrolman, was gunned down by some illegal alien drug smuggler.

They cry separation of church and state. What they get is separation of God and state. That's their real target. The Almighty. Perhaps the liberals feel they are above the Almighty. Their egos just won't let them acquiesce to a higher power.

And not one politician has every explained to me the connection between prayer and church. There is no connection. The only connection is between prayer and God. The problem is that if the liberals go after separation of God and state the country would rebel. Church is an easier target. The liberals don't really care about Church. They're after God.

They just won't admit it.

So, I come down on the side of the conservatives. Are they perfect? Of course not. Was Iraq handled well? Nope. Is George Bush a great president? Probably not. I'll let history decide.

But do the conservatives welcome God into our communities? Yes. Do they decry abortion? Yes. Are they in favor, as a general rule, of fiscal responsibility? Yes. Do they realize that the National Treasury is not a bottomless pit of money for every possible social service and special interest? Yes. Do they want to keep the Federal Government out of my life? For the most part, yes.

So, they get my vote. I'll let other things slide. I can only fight so many battles.

A lot of my battles have to do with putting food on my table, paying the rent, being nice to my neighbors, being a good dad, and so on.

And I don't look to the Federal Government, or any government for that matter, to help me. Just protect the borders and stay out of my way.

Barack Hussein Obama is on a freight train and he's headed for a head on collision with mainstream America. He shouts "Hope" and "Change". I hope he changes his mind. I hope the change we see is that Americans see through his shallow mantras and send him "barack" where he belongs. To Illinois where he is welcome to serve as a state senator.

That's where he will do the least amount of damage.

nuf sed.

The Flynn Children . . .

2008-03-11T08:23:00.000-07:00

My Kids. Michael, Sean, Katherine, Sarah, Richard, Darby and Morgan. I could go on forever about them. Suffice it to say that they are truly the most wonderful children I could ever hope for. They and their spouses and their children are a tremendous blessing in my life. They have been supportive through tough times and have always been there for me. I'm not sure I deserve them, but I will be forever grateful for them.

2008-03-11T07:58:00.000-07:00

This was taken on the set of Heber Holiday in December, 2006. Jodi Russell is the actress with whom I was doing a scene.

High School Picture.

2008-03-11T07:50:00.000-07:00

I was 16 and entering my senior year at George C. Marshall High School in Falls Church, VA when this picture was taken. It was a good year. Really cemented my desire and passion for theater which has benefited me throughout my life.

Baseball

2008-01-06T23:00:00.000-08:00

I was eleven. I had a baseball mitt with Jim Finigan's name inscribed in it that my dad had bought for me. I went to Timber Lane Elementary school in Falls Church, Virginia. My teacher's name was Mrs. Groschan. I was in sixth grade. The principal's name was Miss Snodgrass. We had some fun with that. She was a large, kind woman. Not pretty. None of us marveled at the "Miss" in her name. This was before the advent of "Ms".

The United States was on the gold standard then. Not that I cared. I was more concerned with baseball and the little dark haired girl named Carol Skalnik who sat in the back of the room.

But baseball was king. Mickey Mantle was my hero. The humid spring days were full of running, catching, hitting. Joking with my pals. Little League tryouts. I was "drafted" by the Braves. The Howard Johnson Braves. You see back then private enterprise supported Little League. Different organizations or businesses would sponsor the teams which would then sport their names along with the team mascot. McGonegal Plumbers. (They were the best team.) The VFW Veterans. And one more that I can't remember. But I didn't care who sponsored the teams, I was just glad to play. I still have the team picture. There I was squinting in the sun (I still do that.) and wearing my bright orange hat. It was embroidered with a black "B", for Braves. My mom sewed it on and it was just a little bit crooked.

I remember that season as if it were yesterday. I kept track of my batting average on a piece of white paper inside one of the kitchen cabinets. We came in third out of four teams. I played center field. Just like my hero, Mickey Mantle. My son Richard plays center, too. And, I reluctantly admit, he's much better at it than I was.

My next door neighbor, Kalvin Moore, was the catcher on the McGonegal Plumbers. My first hit that year was a home run. Right over the left field fence. We were playing the Plumbers and Kalvin slapped me on the back as I crossed home plate and said, "Good hit". But, that was a long time ago. I haven't talked to Kalvin in twenty years.

Dad went to work. Mom stayed home. We had one car. An old one. One TV. Black and White. I shared a room with my younger brother. I didn't worry about money. Except for my allowance, which was always there. I worried about baseball and how I was going to pass Mrs. Groschan's test on the capitals of the South American countries.

But baseball was my biggest concern. And I never did figure out why the Senators couldn't win games to save their lives. But we went to Griffith Stadium and cheered them on anyway. Or, we would watch them on TV. Hot humid nights in front of the old Motorola when my dad and I would drink beer and root for the home team. Except when they played the Yankees. And especially except when #7, Mickey Mantle, came to the plate.

I didn't worry about how much he made. I didn't want his rookie card because it was worth more than his 1956 card, the year he won the triple crown. (.353 BA, 52 HR, 130 RBI) I wanted his card because he was my hero. It never occurred to me that it might be worth something. I didn't care whether or not he smoked or drank. I just loved to watch Mickey Mantle play. The swing. From either side of the plate, was magic. I never really noticed that he was white. He'd have been my hero if he had been black or yellow for that matter.

I was just a kid. Concerned about kid stuff.

It was before Viet Nam divided our nation and well past the unification brought on by WWII. Nobody really talked about Korea. At least not to us kids. Deficits, national debt, welfare, unemployment and affirmative action were all things of the future. Things about which I couldn't have cared less.

I didn't know what a homosexual was. Wasn't paranoid about sex. Had never heard the word abortion. I never concerned myself with racism. I said the "N" word once, not really knowing what it meant. My dad corrected me and said I should never use that word. I never have.

Dad paid the bills. Mom cooked meals and made sure I did my homework. Sometimes. Things weren't perfect. We fought. I got knocked around once in a while. My brother and I were always at each other's necks. But we survived. Sort of. On our own.

Remote controls, CDs, boom boxes, cruise control, Nike's, and designer jeans were not part of what I thought was important. We didn't have computers or even calculators. But we did learn to read. I didn't care about Europe or the Middle East or Southeast Asia. Falls Church, Virginia was the beginning and end of my world. Except for our occasional trips to Connecticut to see relatives. I thought the New Jersey Turnpike was the longest road in the world.

I was just a normal kid. Concerned about normal things.

I collected baseball cards. Hundreds, maybe thousands of them. I collected them because the ball players were my heroes. I knew everything about them that the cards would reveal. I marveled at the way the Yankees won. And at the way the Senators lost.

I don't have the cards today. Some people say: "What a shame. Do you know what they'd be worth?" That's okay. I didn't collect them for that. I would rather remember them the way they were. Worn at the edges. Folded in the middle, some of them. Fastened with a clothes pin to the front fork of my bike to make it sound like a motor cycle. Stuffed inside my pillow at night so that I could be close to my heroes and have some of their magic rub off on me.

I choose to remember them that way.

Somehow baseball threads its way through my life. My father and uncle both played for the University of Connecticut. I used to watch my Uncle Edgar play the University of Maryland. He was a great catcher. My grandfather played semi-pro ball in the thirties. My great-grandmother, we called her Great Ma, was one of the world's biggest fans. Especially of the Red Sox. I used to sneak a small transistor radio into school so I could listen to the World Series. This was when they used to play all the Series games in the daytime. Regardless of the financial ramifications.

I still go to games when I can. I'll go over and see the Rockies play this year.

But somehow, baseball has changed. Right along with life. The salaries, the strikes, the egos. The steroids. The self aggrandizement that players go through.

Where am I going with all this? I'm not really sure. Maybe I'm trying to say that somehow I think life was better then. More innocent. More naive perhaps. But better. My parents lived better than their parents and believed that they would hand me a better world than they had. I suppose they did. But I can't make that promise to my children. I am afraid for them. I fear for their safety and sanity in a world bereft of both. I worry about America becoming so debt ridden that the only answer will be rocketing inflation and interest rates that won't allow anyone, including my children, to pursue what we called the American Dream.

And I'm afraid that baseball will kill itself. It will go down swinging as we read headlines with words like "Free Agency", "Fifteen Million Dollars a Year", "Drug Scandal", "Unions", and "Strike".

I try to deal with all this. I try to maintain a positive attitude. I do have hope for my children along with the fear.

But I must admit I sometimes yearn to be a boy again. A small boy with sandy brown hair, big brown eyes, and his baseball cards. Sleeping with his Jim Finigan mitt. Dreaming about the home run he hit in that game against the McGonegal Plumbers.

What? You've never heard of Jim Finigan?

No matter.

It's the best mitt I've every owned.

Passion

2007-12-20T12:56:00.000-08:00

(This is an email to my friend Dan Clark. He had given me a book, which he had written, that I was reading and enjoying.)

Something you mentioned in your book truly resonated with me. Actually quite a few things got my attention and were quite stimulating. But I'd like to comment on one in particular. Just wanted to say some things while they were on my mind. Before they fell through the ever-increasing cracks of consciousness.

You spoke of passion. I gravitate towards passion. I crave it in its many forms. I have taught acting over the years. I really enjoy working with young people. I always ask, in my first class: What is an actor paid to do? I get answers that are all over the map. Memorize lines. Create a character. Become someone else. Be someone else. Be real. And the list goes on. No one ever gives me the answer for which I'm looking. The answer incorporates some of the above. Yet without the answer all of the above are meaningless. In my opinion - and whose else should I proffer? - an actor gets paid to find and communicate the passion. Acting is all about passion. We sometimes hear that art imitates life. I suppose it depends on one's definition of the word "imitate", but in a general sense I would heartily disagree with the above statement. Art consolidates life. Boils it down. Gets rid of the dross and leaves us with the rich, pure, interesting aspects of life. The passion of life. We really don’t care about anything else. Think of the songs you love to listen to. Especially those that you enjoy over and over again. The ones that stick with you for years. Why do they? Because they invoke passion within you. Same is true of the movies we watch more than once. The books that draw us back year after year.

I suppose a definition of passion would be in order. For some it is only mentioned when referring things sexual. It is much more than that. Enthusiasm. Energy. Fervor. Excitement. Zeal. A powerful emotion.

Don’t we seek these things when we watch a film? Read a book? Listen to music? Kiss? In everything we do?

Bringing it back to acting, the actor must find the passion in what he/she is doing. If it isn’t apparent, it must be created. But passion is what we all seek in our lives. Relationships are empty without it. Life is devoid of meaning without it. Without passion we might as well crawl into a cave and dissolve, leaving no evidence of ever having lived.

And who was the most passionate person to have ever lived? Christ. Did He leave evidence of His sojourn on earth? Yes. It’s what we call the ultimate gift to mankind.

The Passion.

I like the way your book is so easy to read. It is filled with passion. My guess is that that is the reason it is so popular. It moves us. Makes us think. Motivates us to improve. Rocks our world.

And that’s passion.

Thanks, Dan.

Messiah

2007-12-19T23:18:00.001-08:00

We went to the Messiah Sing-in tonight. We had some close friends over for some edibles and then we ventured up to Abravanel Hall where we encountered upwards of 3,000 other people. All there for the same reason. To sing Messiah, Handel's masterpiece that celebrates the birth and life of Jesus Christ.

We gathered together in the lush surroundings of that great hall with the symphony, chorus, soloists and conductor on the stage. And us in the audience. And we were privileged to sing aloud the selected choruses. Accompanied by members of the Utah Symphony. Conducted by a maestro. We filled the hall with strains of praise and admiration and compassion.

Thank you. Carol Nelson, Colleen Butler, Grayson Hirst, Gerald Dolter, Ed Thompson, the Symphony and the Chorus. You will never remember the person sitting in the middle of the sixteenth row. But I will remember you.

The many talents that conspired to bring us this evening of entertainment are truly exceptional. For them I am grateful.

Yet the overwhelming feeling I had was that this whole evening is so, so civilized. These musicians, singers, conductors, technicians, ushers, audience members all have lives that are full of commitments. Full of other things to do. But for some reason we all got together tonight and sang. Some better than others. Some couldn't sing at all. They only wanted to be part of the experience. But it was civilized.

I get the impression that the body and mind react in very real ways to the influences to which they are subject. To what were we subjected tonight? Well, we sang aloud phrases like: "Glory to God. Glory to God in the highest. And peace on earth. Good will towards men. And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed. For unto us a child is born. Unto us a Son is given. And His name shall be called Wonderful, Counselor, The Mighty God, the Everlasting Father, The Prince of Peace. Hallelujah! Hallelujah the Lord God omnipotent reigneth. The kingdom of this world is become the Kingdom of our Lord and of His Christ. And He shall reign for ever and ever. Blessing and honor, glory and power be unto Him for ever and ever and ever. Amen."

You cannot sing those words and have your spirit sit idly by. Something moves within you. There is a stirring that is brought on by goodness. Maybe that is what is missing in our world today. Goodness.

But really, why did we go there? We went there not because there was a show. Not because of spouses, friends. Not even because of Handel. We went there because about 2,000 years ago a baby was born whose destiny it was to change the course of the world. Whose very life would be the catalyst for good and evil. We experienced the good. I felt better about my career, my life, my family, my country, my God.

As we embark on this holiday season let's focus on goodness. Let's realize that the spirit of man is almost always a good spirit. One that can be reached and touched and loved.

At the end we sang the Amen Chorus. We applauded. Forever it seemed like. I noticed the soprano soloist wipe tears from her eyes. I felt the power of the human spirit as we all stood there applauding. Smiling. Having forgotten the worries of the day for a little while. A lump rose in my throat when the conductor, after all the bows, held up the work of George Frideric Handel which we had just sung. It received, by far, the loudest and most appreciative ovation of the evening.

Messiah.

What a wonderful word.

Random thoughts to my son Mike and his wife, Kim

2007-12-19T22:45:00.000-08:00

It's interesting that as I look at your blog, visit your house, spend time (not enough) with you and your kids I get a sense of a wonderful family that is doing things right. The video of your family at Goblin Valley is very cute. The Moab pictures. The other pictures of family.

It appears from my end that the two of you have made good choices in your lives. I see the commitment between you. To each other and your children. I delight when I see pictures of Michael and Bren walking hand-in-hand. Of the family all together. Of the two of you on the cruise. You seem to take good care of yourselves and each other. And the family as a whole.

I've thought a lot about the concept of "Families are Forever." I see that emblazoned in so many places and homes. In trying to wrap my mortal brain, with its severe limitations, around that particular concept I have found it difficult to comprehend. What does the word "Family" mean in that context? Families get so huge and convoluted with marriages, children, divorces, remarriages, etc. Just who is my family? And how does the "Forever" play into it? There are in-laws and their families. Cousins. People whom we've never even met! Are we all supposed to be together? Even the word "together" gets confusing.

In thinking about it, quite a lot actually, I have the impression that it is a lot simpler than we might expect. (I expect that is often the case when a mortal mind tries to comprehend the eternal aspects of life.) I think it has to do with DNA. Genes. Bloodline. Either literal or adopted. Having come to that idea I think I've chosen to move on to other concepts. Other mysteries. It just gets too confusing. And mortality just has too many limitations when it comes to understanding the eternities.

Suffice it to say that if through some miracle I am able to be in the eternities with the likes of the two of you and your "family", I would be delighted. You are lovely people. I admire the personality traits that I observe. Kim, you are one of the most blunt, lay-it-on-the-line people that I know. You always ask the hard questions. Yet you seem to be one who will be accepting and forgiving. You just want to know what's going on. That can be a little difficult to deal with on occasion, but overall it is refreshing.

Michael, you are my first born. I see in you a mature adult who has experienced some difficult times. In spite of the difficulties imposed on you, you have risen above them and have crafted a life of meaning and substance. Not an easy thing to do under the circumstances. Bravo. I loved you the moment I saw you and have ever since. In a lot of ways you have taught me a lot more than I have taught you. Thanks for that.

So, as I sit here on a Wednesday morning, planning out my day, I saw, again, the email from you, Kim, in my inbox. I seem to recall that you mentioned a while ago that I should get a blog and share thoughts about my life, etc. Or maybe I'm just imagining that. Not sure. But, to that end, I've shared some thoughts with the two of you. Somehow in so doing the day looks a little brighter. I have reached out to two people who are very important in my life and I've told them I care about them. That I love them.

And that's a good way to start the day.

Dad/Michael

In defense of Santa Claus

2007-12-19T22:36:00.000-08:00

A recent story depicts the efforts of one man to do away with Santa Claus. It seems that he was offended.

I am sick of the squeaky wheels in America who want to do away with anything and everything with which they disagree. Why should we do away with something because someone is offended? People are offended every day! I'm offended by the way a lot of people drive, but I support their right to do so. I don't like the way some of my neighbors raise their children. They may not like the way I raise mine. Yet we live in peace. Side by side.

Since when did anyone promise the populace of America that they would never be offended? There are many facets of life that are offensive.

But Santa Claus? Please.

This gentleman holds that Santa Claus is a religious figure and as such should not be promoted in any kind of a public way. He should not be in the schools, the government or anyplace else where someone might be offended. So, let's take a look at it.

We have Uncle Sam. We have the Easter Bunny. We have Johnny Appleseed. We have a long list of American and worldwide folk heroes. Should we do away with them? What harm to they cause? Do they offend the masses or only a few sensitive souls who have nothing better to do with their lives than interfere with others.

We too often offend the sensibility of many in deference to the sensitivity of a few. And that's wrong.

There is nothing wrong with Santa Claus. There is nothing wrong with being a Christian, or at least Godly, nation that stands its ground and says we have certain traditions here that will be observed. Santa Claus happens to be one of them. We also believe that the Constitution was inspired by God and that the Founding Fathers were a bunch of great men. We believe that George Washington was a wonderful guy who helped get this nation started. We believe that Adams, Madison, Lincoln, Roosevelt, John Wayne, Einstein, Madam Curie, Golda Meir, and a bunch of other people were bigger than life. We like Mel Gibson, John Denver, Kate Hepburn, Jimmy Stewart, Crazy Legs Hirsch, and anyone who played on the 1927 Yankees. We like the girl who lived next door to us when we were ten who had red pig-tails and could throw a mean snowball.

We like 57 Chevys. Drive ins. Hamburger stands. Kids. Baseball. Hot summer days. Swimming pools. And best friends.

We cry at weddings, funerals, sad movies and home runs hit by our very own 10 year old.

We love summer vacations. Superbowls. The Jazz. Starry nights. And anything else that touches us.

Which brings me back to Santa Claus. Yes I love Santa. He touches me. I love that he comes every year. I love that young and old eyes alike sparkle at the very thought of him. I love the joy he brings. Do I worship him? No. Do I believe in him? Absolutely.

And if you're offended by that, it's your problem. You have the right to turn the other way. To refuse to see and hear and, most of all, feel. That's your choice. But don't take away my right to enjoy the spirit of Christmas the way it has been enjoyed for generations.