The Black and White of High School Football

Orchard Lake Saint Mary Prep School has had a long proud tradition of academic and athletic excellence going back many decades.The school campus is situated in the lily white Village of Orchard Lake on the shores of that body.

For the greater part of its existence, the was a bastion of first rate education established originally for students of Polish extraction - kids who were students first and athletes second. The High School draws from the cream of Catholic scholastic achievers from across metropolitan Detroit.  Its reputation always stood at the highest level. Graduates went on to many of the top colleges in the country and then on to successful careers.

The school once drew a large number of their student body from the families of the large upper middle class Polish Catholic population in the tri county area of Detroit.The academic curriculum always took precedence over athletics. The Eagle teams were often compared to those from Notre Dame with its traditions and attitudes. They played in the toughest division of the Catholic League and usually fared quite well.

AS competition among rival schools intensifies, OLSM found itself becoming overwhelmed by the competition for talent around the area. As a remotely situated school, powerhouse teams like Brother Rice, Catholic Central and others were attracting players from the huge pool of Detroit athletes.

For the most part these players are primarily African Americans, non Catholic and certainly not Polish. They come to the school without the benefit of strong family backgrounds or a decent educational foundation, but boy, they sure can play football.

Those who would argue that opportunities should be open to all regardless of background or color disregard the truth in those instances. Exposing, then expecting a young man to adapt to an alternative society, where their new classmates are essentially upper middle class whites who by comparison are pampered and mostly genteel, not to mentioned better prepared academically to meet the demands of OLSM.

Grant Mason played football for OLSM and graduated in 2001. He was an all state two way player  who was also named Michigan's top athlete. He went on to play for U of M then made his way to the NFL. Grant was arrested this week for his role in stolen car plot after he was caught trying to sell a stolen Audi on Craigslist for thirty grand.

With his conviction and sentencing, his impossible dream came to an end. With it, hopefully the demise of a system of athlete recruitment that truly fails to fit the standards established a century ago by the school: He could never fit the profile. He was not caucasion, Polish nor Catholic. He had no  strong family background and support system, nor  a propensity for learning and advancement. How he made it through the tough curriculum at the school is a mystery, but not really difficult to figure. He could play football

If the goal of the school is to turn out a well rounded young man, the plan has gone awry.  They won a few games but tarnished their reputation. Step back and take a good look at yourself OLSM. Is It worth  bringing in mercenaries for 3 months of high ratings?

Truthfully, OLSM is  not alone in this folly. Catholic Central, Brother Rice, and the list goes on. U of D, a school that stayed in the D and is surrounded by 700,000 Afr-ams, is at least recruiting local talent from the huge black population that encompasses their campus in Detroit.

If schools are set on bringing in black athletes,why not pay them to entertain the wealthy alumni and boosters from the high class suburbs of the D. Give them some chump change to at least prepare them for what their future will undoubtedly bring after they leave their host schools.

Ask Grant Mason

Old Rock Star Blues Bob Seger

     

Bob Seger is an icon in many parts of the country. That’s especially true in Michigan where he lives and works. So anything he does rarely goes unnoticed near his home in Southeast Michigan. He has sold millions of albums during his long career and probably could have sold even more if he were able to increase his production. His latest album Ride Out took six years to complete. My curiosity got the best of me after hearing about his latest release and especially because he and I operate in the same orbit totally unaware of each other. That’s what possesed me to check out his initial tour stop.

I actually stayed up late last night to watch Bob Seger introduce his new album Ride Out to a large studio audience and a much larger national audience on the Jimmy Kimmel Show.  It was the least I could do for ol’ Bob. After all, he and I are contemporaries. We’re also practically next door neighbors. Well sort of, in that he lives on the lake adjoining the lake that I adjoin. I am within walking distance of the water. Bob is on the water in a home that is somewhat larger than mine by 15,000 square feet give or take an acre.

I can’t say that I am a huge fan of Bob’s. I am no one's fan in particular, but I did love Bob’s Chevy commercial. So where's all this leading?

As I mentioned, Bob was on the Jimmy Kimmel show (I think I have the right JImmy). All those young whippersnappers on late night shows look the same to me. Anyhow, as luck would have it, Seger ‘s segment came up; so at 12:20 AM or thereabouts, this old guy and his unhappy sleep deprived mutt were tuned in to the performance.

Truthfully, I felt sorry for the pink skinned, white haired, chubby old rock singer (sounds like a song title) who was trying his best to capture his long lost youth while imitating the night moves and Jagger gyrations, he had obviously practiced but forgot. I thought that while some old guys actually look pretty good with their greying hair and wrinkles, Bob looks too pink, too chubby to fill the role of a rock and roll legend. Besides, he needs a new hair style to replace the cut that was popular 40 or 50 yrs ago.

On stage, Bob attempted all manner of moves and gyrations that some expensive choreographer put together for the little white haired chub to make himself legend-like: stage gimmicks like microphone twirling and pointing to "in the know" individuals in the front rows, then finally rounding off his performance with suggestive facial expressions, toothy smiles, a 6 foot saxophone solo and band cues for his Silver Bullet posse that were not at all spontaneous or necessary.

Camera angles made it difficult to determine if he was hitting it off with his large audience. His  dance steps were fitting I suppose for an elderly old guy who dared put his bones to the test with every move. At the end he did receive a big hand from the crowd,  but that can be made to happen by flashing cue cards to the audience.

I have to admire his stamina for the last number he did. His voice tended to fade in and out, but when you go live that happens. The local papers here tell about his daily workouts to build strength for the tour. I hope the old guy makes it and his Marlboro lights don’t cause any breakdowns.

But it’s over. Bob set out to do a job and he accomplish his goal. All things considered, he put on a decent show. Good work neighbor, but when this tour is over, it will surely be time for you to Ride Out of Dodge the last time. Write a few more great Chevy commercials but syop your silly stage strutting. You're too damn pink, too chubby and you need a new hair do,

The Lost Art of Haggling

My Dad was an expert at haggling. Even my uncles who were pretty good at it themselves would ask dad to come along when they shopped for cars, furniture or any big ticket item. Much of his best haggling was directed towards the Jewish furniture store owner who prospered in his Lumberg Furniture Store on Michigan Avenue.

Harry Lumberg was a Polish Jew who immigrated here about the time many of the local Poles did sometime in the early 1900s - before things got too heated back in Poland. He spoke Polish and knew the ways of the people. He was my father’s favorite opponent  in the haggling arena where he and my father first met in 1939 when my parents were outfitting their first apartment.

If he or anyone he knew wanted to buy any furniture, my father would say, “"let’s go see the Jew,” as if Harry was the only person of that persuasion in town. Once he set foot in harry's store, dad would gaze around and look at the prices affixed to the stock. It was unthinkable for my father to buy anything at the prices listed on the tags, even if they were marked down. He would look at that tag then turn to Harry and with a dismissive chuckle say: “So what’s my price Harry”?

That’s how the drills began - a flurry of bids and counters, feints and thrusts masterfully served and returned. The men used all the tricks alternately raising and lowering their voices and tempo. Hand signal, finger pointing, arms thrust in the air in exclamatory gestures, it was always entertaining to  watch these two masters have at it.

Just when you thought that someone had won or was about to concede,  someone would try a new tact and change the direction of the negotiations  360 degrees. New pathways would open up only to be tossed aside. Options would be discussed before reverting back to square one."what's my price Harry"? The discussion would get more heated and contentious as the session went on.

Dad knew all the tricks. But Harry knew a few of his own. One of Dad’s favorites was the “walk out “ play. When he didn’t feel he had squeezed enough out of his opponent, he would make a move towards the door while telling Harry that he couldn’t be serious about making the sale if he insisted on those prices.

Often Harry would stop him before he got too far and another round of negotiation would break out. If that didn’t get the results he wanted, dad would simply shake his head in disgust and leave the store again. That was his classic double walk out move. Harry followed close behind shouting  "wait - wait"

To a first time observer, the antics could be embarrassing, but to these two pros it was business. It was a game they played and Harry expected it. The men respected each other. Dad sent many a customer to Harry over the years.

A few years later, when I got married I tried to use Dad’s tactics when I needed furniture.  I had watched the master apply his methods for years. I had it all down. So the day finally came around for me to face Harry at the haggle court. Harry and I took our positions and began the game.        

I was foolish enough to think I had old Harry backed into a corner. I tasted victory after only 10 minutes or so of amateurish haggling. So I allowed Mr. Lumberg to close the deal and hold on to those few pennies I allowed him to earn. I actually felt sorry for the poor disadvantaged Jewish retailer.

Proud of my victory over Harry, I stopped to see my father and of course Dad asked how I did. “Great dad, I replied”. Are you sure, he asked?  Let’s see! He headed off to see Harry. After a half hour, he returned home and handed me  50 or 100 bucks - complements of Harry Lumberg.   

I will never forget “But what’s my price”?  When the day was over Dad would puff his chest and proudly exclaim, “I got that old Jew good today.” while almost 20 miles away, while sitting at his dinner table, Harry was telling his wife about his great day-beating that old Polack at his game.

That's the way business was done back in the day.

Pole1 

Jew 1  

tie game

Years later I ran into Harry long after he closed his store. The first thing he asked was: "How's your dad? I miss him"

My Old Friend-Milan

My oldest friend is a delightful chap by the name of Milan. Some people call him Doobie. I never found out why. It doesn't matter. To me, he will always be Milan. Even though I've only known Milan a tad over ten years, he is still my oldest friend.  You see, my good friend Milan, was 100 yesterday. He called to remind me.

Sharp as a tack and possessed of a wit that is fresh and ageless, Milan decided that he would start watching over me.  After my numerous encounters with medical issues that my many doctors  couldn't handle.  I found myself somewhat home-bound.  It's not as bad as it sounds, mainly because Georgie, my wife takes very good care of me. But, my situation is such that I don't do very well driving and I am not very mobile. Georgie is much better at it. Besides, that walking thing that comes natural to most folks doesn't work too well for me.

Milan decided a couple years ago - when he was 98 that he would visit with me on occasion to buoy up my spirits. As long as he was stopping by, he felt he should bring with him some nourishment to help sustain me.       

Until fairly recently, I could usually expect to get a call from my driveway where his big Buick Electra  had pulled into.  It was Milan making certain I was home before he made the strenuous effort to take his walker out of the trunk then shuffle up the drive, up the steps to my front door. His legs are weak and his body aching, but, with considerable effort, he makes it up the steps, rings my bell and when I open the door, he hands me a loaf of bread. This was pretty much a weekly happening.

It seems that Friday is bridge day at the Senior Center and Milan is the undisputed master. Over the course of the year, he had accumulated over $300 in winnings at a penny a point. As I had mentioned, his mind is sharp as a tack, consequently, he is able to separate many a man from his money.

Getting back to the bread. It seems that one of the well known bakeries around town brings day old  bread to the Center for the benefit of the old folks who gather there. Milan feels entitled, so every week he takes home a loaf for himself and every other oldster he knows. He actually made a list of all his old friends, myself included and developed a route which he follows meticulously every week. I was always the last stop so that he and I could chat for a time. And chat we would. He loves the exchange filled with stories, often  repeated and repeated and, well you get the drift.  Somehow, I enjoyed the experience that was dotted with Milan's dry humor, old lines, corny jokes and just plain fun.

There are things about the man that are unique and just plain fun.  Milan is a dapper old gentleman. He stands all of 5 foot tall in heels. He has a full head of hair that guys half his age would die for. Every day of the week he wears one of his two or three what might be described as "vintage" sport coats, dress pants with a collared shirt and bow tie. The sleeves are a  bit frayed and ingrained with layers of ground in wear marks, representing decades of daily wear and meals, all of which added character.

He can barely reach the pedals on his cavernous full size auto. When he backs out of the drive, neighbors run for shelter and grown men shudder.  Mailboxes and trash cans are in great danger as he roars confidently out of the sub, then turns into the traffic on the main arteries without fear or hesitation. He is what some might say,  somewhat aggressive behind the wheel.

Anyone driving in back of him, if they could keep up, could not see any sign of a human being behind the wheel. The car looked as if the headless horseman was at the wheel. Milan never brakes for squirrels, but if he sees a golf ball fly across the front of his windshield, he will slam on the brakes, pull to the side of the road and retrieve the golf ball. He was not a golfer, but he likes the hunt.

A few of his friends are sure he shouldn't be on the road. When they hint at that, Milan gets defensive about his driving skills. Who could argue. One afternoon while parked at a local senior center, Milan parked in a handicap spot. For some reason, he  left his parking permit at home.  Impossibly, his vehicle was ticketed for parking in that spot. Later that day, while delivering bread to me, he sheepishly admitted that he was ticketed  and was facing a fine of $250.  AS much as hated to admit it, he said - he was guilty and deserved to pay the fine.

After he left, I called over to the police post. I actually got the officer who had written the ticket earlier in the day. I told him about Milan, his age and so forth.  A week or so later when Milan showed up to pay his fine and face the consequences, the charges were dismissed. It made his day.

Almost forgot to mention ... Milan has a wife, to whom he has been married for over 75 years. Mary resides in a center for Alzheimer patients. She often doesn't recognize her devoted husband, but Milan visits her regularly at least twice every week. He knows they will never share their home, but one day they might live together again in her facility.

His car was totaled when as he sees it, a car backed into him at 45 miles per hour. He spent a month in the hospital healing his broken bones.  The first day out he had his driver stop at his mechanic's shop. Milan wants him to locate a good used car, something big and heavy like the 15 year old Buick he loved so much. He's thinking about bustings Mary out of the joint so the two of them can head out to Florida where they spent many a winter before Mary developed her mental issues.  It won't surprise me one bit if he pulls it off.

Dog Days of Summer, Fall, Winter and Spring

Dog Days of Summer, Fall, Winter and Spring

Back in 2007, shortly after a disastrous back surgery, I had a lot of time on my hands. Georgie was working at Bank of America so I was alone for a good part of the day. Unable to walk or do much of anything during the recovery period, she had an idea:
To help relieve my boredom, we decided to buy a dog. That's where Zosia entered the scene. She was a game changer.

Now over nine years later, the little critter has completely taken over our lives and now runs the household. There's not much we can do without passing things by her. She has saved us thousands of dollars in vacation costs to exotic destinations as well as a huge bundle in other entertainment costs. We can't really leave her for over 5 hours and her vet and grooming fees run a few hundred bucks a year. Even when we do steal 3 or 4 days away without her, that's a $25 /day fee. The truth is we don't mind one bit because we are rewarded every day by her constant displays of unquestioned love for us. It is difficult to imagine our lives without her.

That's the danger of owning and loving a dog. 

If that;s the largest danger we will face, it comes at a small price.

Mild mannered? Hardly

Most people who know me would probably agree that 
I am not by definition a mild mannered person. On occasion, I can come across as combative and somewhat aggressive -often because I simply responses defensively and vociferously. Like in: "I am not yelling at you sweetheart, I am  simply speaking louder than you" -

 I often wonder how and why I react that way and why that has become part of my identity. I'm guessing its because I've responded that way too many times over 75  years of my existence.  I have given it a lot of thought and did manage to form a few relative conclusions. Some of these ideas may be a stretch but then again its all I have to go on.

The first reason I respond like I do is simply because like Popeye,  I yam whut I yam. It is a learned response and reaction. We neve spoke in soft tones, we spoke up and then some.

The family name gives some clues. The name derives its meaning from the word for vendor which probably is the profession followed by generations of my Polish family, possibly dating back to the middle ages. Back then it was quite common to take on the name of the family trade.

 My last name was derived from shopkeeper or vendor, a trade that demanded a loud powerful voice to attract customers to your tiny stall in the middle of a larger, louder marketplace. I can't say what they sold, but my father told stories of his grandfather in Poland having been a somewhat successful business owner.

My grandfather, shortly after his arrival in the US,  became a grocery store owner and my father followed in his footsteps. No training, just an unknown unseen inner directive drove them to that profession. As I entered the business world, I too became a vendor of sorts, then a retail shop owner. My two sons and my daughter followed into variants of that career path. They all sell and can be quite loud as well. Chips off the old mouth so to speak. It seems to be in our blood.

Could the choices we made be a result of genetics or happenstance ? Who can say for sure. I ended up as a retail shopkeeper and have always felt comfortable in that line of work.

How does this relate to aggressiveness and competitiveness?. I was raised in an environment that believed that competitors were not friends. The family never socialized with their many competing grocers, including one from across the street or the one down the block. They were the enemy and our job was to beat them at the game. Friendly competition did not exist in our world, nor in mine.

Later on my early jobs were intensely competitive. I worked for the giant  Procter and Gamble Corporation and my responsibilities lay in fiercely competing for shelf space, advertising space in newspapers, flyers and in gaining favor with the store managers. Our competitors  were companies like Colgate, Lever brothers and even against competing units of our own company. Fraternizing with the competition was strictly forbidden. Business was war.

Every subsequent job I held  was intensely competitive which carried on all through my career. There were no Kumbaya moments.

When we started our Nature and wildlife business, we were pioneers in a niche that was in its infancy. We
competed against a national franchise group Wild Birds Unlimited and protected our ideas and our turf as much as possible from infringement from others looking to gain a foothold in the market.

The unique business I founded and began franchising saw numerous parties attemptto copy our ideas and avoid paying me for the rights. I personally escorted numerous "spies" out of our stores and fought for special favors from our suppliers.  

Once again even in this so called "genteel" industry, we were competitive and aggressive unlike the more civilized sorts . From the beginning, our primary goal was  to make money not watch birds and decorate gardens. That part could come later.

Back in my earlier business career as a sales manager, competition between my sales crew and those from competing companies was extremely keen. Ditto the commercial restaurant chinaware industry where I fought tooth and nail for supremacy in the that industry. It was a very tough cutthroat way of doing business. I loved it.

Never during the 40 years or so of my various undertakings was I anything but a hard driving competitor.  Thank goodness we weren't carrying weapons as there might have been many casualties along my path.

I think back to high school and earlier when I began playing sports. We were always out to beat the hell out of competing teams. There was little of the namby pamby handshaking between teams going on. We were not taught to  "like" our opponents as the facebook generation does. We were instead  taught to destroy them. That's where I come from.


Back in my developmental phase,  we protected our street corners, our neighborhoods, the girls from our neighborhood from the onslaught of the Italians, southern whites, mexicans, Protestants and of course the Negroes who threatened all of our institutions. Those parties in turn protected their interests in similar fashion. It was normal and expected, much like the Sharks and the Jets from West Side Story

How could you not become competitive, loud and civilized?