Ninety Years of Teaching, Learning and Leading

     My dad died on December 26 at the age of 90. Edmund L. Attanasio was known in Old Greenwich, CT and then later in La Canada, CA (where he resided for 50 years) as a great Little League baseball coach, mentor and father. Many of his former players still fondly talk about "Mr. A" and his championship teams, and that is why I am focusing on this aspect of his amazing life.
     After graduation from Columbia University and a stint in the Korean War, my dad got his Master's Degree from Michigan State; landed a job with Reader's Digest in the advertising department and worked there for more than 40 years. He eventually became the Ad Sales Manager for the publication when we moved to southern California and then worked for Sunset Magazine as an ad consultant during his semi-retirement years. He worked into his 70s and was also the President of the Los Angeles Ad Club.
     In the late 1960s, he was living a busy life with two rambunctious kids (to say the least), but he never lost his passion for baseball and teaching young men how to play the game right. He ran his teams like Vince Lombardi, but with a smile rather than a scowl. He coached all of his sons (Ed, John and Gino) and loved every minute of it.
     He treated it like a job. He studied to be a better coach during every offseason by reading books like The Science of Hitting by Ted Williams and The Winning Hitter: How to Play Championship Baseball by Charley Lau and integrating them into his drills.
     He continually drilled his teams teaching them the fundamentals of the game and you could tell because his teams knew how to bunt, sacrifice and take pitches deep into the count--and that's why they won year after year.
     Each season, my dad would invariably find some kid who was new to town with unfulfilled potential and turn him into an instant star. One teenager who played for my father threw the ball with a sidearm motion and his parents were scared that he would get hurt throwing the ball that way. But, my father took him to a local orthopedist and was told that throwing the baseball sidearm was natural for this young man. As a result, my dad's star pitcher struck out the rest of the league all season long, throwing a submarine ball.
     This overnight sensation reminded me of Mark Fidrych, Vida Blue or later Fernando Valenzuela. The following year the kid got drafted number one from some other team, but he wasn't able to emulate the 15 minutes of fame he achieved on my dad's team. But, by then, my dad already had another prospect to work with and mold into another champion.
     My father was a Yankee fan so we were initially Yankee fans too. I remember my first game. It was in 1967 at Yankee Stadium, the Bombers vs. the Twins, a Sunday doubleheader. The Yankees stunk horribly that season with a hobbling Mickey Mantle at the end of his career and flashy Joe Pepitone, with his ridiculously long hair (toupee) and swagger. I guess at the time he was going to be the next great Yankee star (laugh). We stayed after the game and hung out by the player’s parking lot to yell at them for autographs as they drove off in their Dodge Darts and Cadillacs.
     It became a ritual. First, we would go to the game and afterward to my grandmother's restaurant in the Bronx (149th St. and Southern Blvd.) for a meal of Pasta Carbonara, Eggplant Parmesan and Pasta e Fagioli with Escarole, and then it was back to suburbia in Old Greenwich, CT. (continued)

    

RIP Jim Bouton

I got to spend a few hours with Jim Bouton in 2006 at the annual SABR convention in Seattle, WA. There was a reunion of former Seattle Pilots players and he also spoke at the convention's dinner. I saw him sitting alone at breakfast one morning and asked him could I join him? I know it was a little invasive, but I loved Ball Four and wanted to talk to him about it.

It was a great conversation about certain parts of the book, as well as his second book ("I Hope You Didn't Take It Personally") and we covered a lot of topics, although most of them were not suitable for publication here. We talked about greenies, groupies, cake decorating., practical jokes, stealing signs, locker room banter, bench jockeying, the Yankees, the Pilots, and the Astros and the craziest players he ever knew.

When he was signed by the Yankees in 1962, many people thought Jim Bouton was a cinch to be a star pitcher, but he actually found greater fame as the author of “Ball Four,” an irreverent, best-selling book that angered baseball’s hierarchy and changed the way journalists and fans viewed the sports world, died July 10 at his home in Great Barrington, Mass. He was 80.

He had a stroke in 2012 and five years later disclosed he had been diagnosed with cerebral amyloid angiopathy, a condition that causes vessels in the brain to burst under pressure. The death was confirmed by his wife, Paula Kurman.

He won 21 games for the Yankees in 1963 and 18 the following season, helping lead his team to the World Series both years.

After an arm injury, he lost his fastball and was relegated to the minor leagues before trying to revive his career as a knuckleball pitcher.

Bouton had often regaled listeners with tales of his antics in baseball, and as he sought to make the roster of the 1969 Seattle Pilots, he decided to take notes.

“Ball Four” — the title was suggested by a woman who overheard Mr. Bouton talking about his project in a bar — was published in 1970, with the editorial help of sportswriter Leonard Shecter.
Jim Bouton in 1970, the year “Ball Four” was published.

It was in the form of a season-long diary and was modeled in part on “The Long Season,” a 1960 book by big-league pitcher Jim Brosnan. But no one had ever captured the humor, profanity and pathos of a major league clubhouse with the candor that Mr. Bouton did in “Ball Four.”
“When I made it to the Yankees,” he told the New York Times in 1983, “it was like walking in this wonderland, this crazy place . . . With ‘Ball Four,’ I never meant to make an investigation of a subculture. I just wanted to share the nonsense.”

RIP Mel Stottlemyre

I was sad to see that former Yankee pitcher Mel Stottlemyre (second from left in the photo) passed away the other day. It reminded me of a little story about him that goes back to 1965.
I lived in Old Greenwich, CT until I was 10 years old and the first team I ever rooted for was the NY Yankees, starting in '65.
Back then, they were awful, but they did go 82-80 that year and Mel won 20 games. I still clearly remember the sunny day when I first entered Yankee Stadium 52 years ago and the rush I felt. We didn't care that the team finished 6th that season, I was just happy to be there with my father and my brother.
We probably went to 3-4 games every season. We would always go to my grandmother's Italian restaurant in the Bronx after the game and it was always a wonderful day.
During one game, we realized that we were sitting next to the Yankees' wives and started asking them to sign our programs. I got autographs from Mrs. Kubek, Tresh, Hamilton, Clarke and Stottlemyre and asked them lots of questions, the way seven year-old kids do. I even remember asking them if they washed their husbands' uniforms--important stuff.
After the games, we would run down to where the players parked their cars. I remember seeing Mickey Mantle, Whitey Ford and Joe Pepitone up close, although we were never able to get their autographs. The parking area was fenced in and a lot of kids stood there yelling out to the players and every once in a while one of them would come over and sign, but most of them jumped in their cars (usually after a loss) and got out of there.
But, when Mel and his wife walked up to their cars that day, Mrs. Stottlemyre saw us and came over with her husband. "These are the boys who got my autograph," she told her husband, who chuckled.
We threw our programs over the fence and Mel signed them for us, right next to his wife's signature and spent a few minutes talking to us. The other kids looked at us like we were something, because he talked to us and gave us his autograph. It was a thrill for us, because we got to chat with a real major leaguer, something we could talk about at school for the next couple of weeks.

Rest in peace, Mel Stottlemyre and thanks for the great memory. 

Back on the Open Mic Circuit

In 1982, I started doing stand up comedy at open mics in the Bay Area at places like Cobb's in San Francisco, The Last Laugh in San Jose and other little venues from Santa Rosa to Morgan Hill and everywhere in between.

I remember a weekly open mic at a place called Emerson's in Palo Alto where the Stanford students and locals enjoyed heckling all the comics relentlessly. I also recall emceeing a show one evening in San Jose when a huge fight broke out with one comic and a crowd of young jocks from San Jose State that ended with all of them grappling on the floor in a puddle of cheap beer.

Ahh, the memories. 

I was inspired by some of the best--George Carlin, Richard Pryor (the best comic of all time, hands down) and the Smothers Brothers, just to name a few.

The stand up scene in the eighties was amazing and I got to see a lot of up-and-coming comics like Dana Carvey, Kevin Pollock, Will Durst, Larry "Bubbles" Brown, Rob Schneider, Bob Rubin, Brian Copeland, Tree, Steven Pearl and many more.

At that time, there were 3-4 comedy clubs in San Francisco that did open mic nights and comedy showcases, so you could get on stage. Sometimes it was at 1 a.m., but if you hung in there, you could at least perform for the other 5-6 comics still in the room.

Now, with a series of significant events happening in my life, I feel compelled to get back on stage. I've always believed that I could do this and make people laugh, but it's the hardest thing in the world I've ever tried to do.

But, now I am almost 60, and to honest, I don't really care whether I bomb or kill. Maybe now that I literally have nothing to lose, I will be funnier than ever. They say pain and tragedy brings out the sense of humor in some people, so I am going to find out.

I will write a blog here about my experience, including video clips, art and more on a regular basis. Follow my journey to success or failure, because either way I think it will be at least entertaining.

My last set 8 years ago shortly after I had a stroke and lost more than 100 lbs.

The Boy Who Cried Cancer

To be on this planet for as long as I have, I must be a little lucky. I have seen so many people leave before their time, and it's always tough to see. Life is precious, but it can be taken away in just seconds, and every time we see some tragedy on the news, we say--whew, I'm happy that it didn't happen to me or anyone I know. 

When I found out on Friday that I didn't have prostate cancer, I was obviously relieved. But, then I felt a little guilty--I wrote a blog back when I found out that I might possibly have it and posted it on Facebook. Thanks to a lot of people who responded, I found out that it's a very curable type of cancer and PSA numbers are often all over the board. So was it a case of much ado about nothing? That crossed my mind. 

But, now that I know I don't have it, I feel a little guilty for scaring everyone. It reminds me of the old classic tale called The Boy Who Cried Wolf. Because I was a very creative kid and told my share of outrageous stories, I heard this one more than a few times. To refresh your memory, it's a short story written by Aesop. A shepherd-boy, who watched a flock of sheep near a village, brings out the villagers three or four times by crying out, "Wolf! Wolf!" and when his neighbors come to help him, he laughs at them for their pains. The wolf, however, did truly come one day and the shepherd either lost his job or the wolf ate him, I can't remember. 

But, my point is--maybe I should have waited until I got the biopsy before publishing it to the world. If I made you anxious in any way, I am sorry. But, it was real and the support I got from folks has been incredible. So many people stepped up with kind words, phone calls, private messages--I am so humbled and I love you all. 

I know now that I have a lot of wonderful friends and I need to get more involved in their lives as well. In the past, I saw that some of my them were going through times, but I was more concerned about my situation than their problems. I didn't call them, I didn't reach out. I told someone the other day that I was feeling guilty about only calling him when I have problems. And he forgave me and said. "That's why we have friends." Now I understand that. 

Thank you everyone, because this is a tough time, but I know I will get through this and not having cancer sure helps. But the big takeaway here is that I have a lot of friends--real friends and with their help and support, I can take on the world.

One Shot of Creativity Please, But Hold the Misery!

They say that you have to experience true pain before you can create great art, but I've seen the paintings Van Gogh did after he cut off his ear and they weren't any better, although they were all excellent of course.

If I have to go through a series of personal tragedies to be a better writer, I'll pass and why does misery have anything to do with creativity? I guess it's supposed to be about the struggle.

I'd rather be a mediocre writer and live a comfortable life, as opposed to dying in the gutter like Edgar Alan Poe just to be brilliant. Well, for people who have been reading my blog or been following me through social media, last week was memorable, to say the least. I found out on Monday that my 9-year marriage was over and the next day, I got a biopsy because my doctors fear that I might have prostate cancer. The weekend before, I was hanging out with my dog and enjoying time with my wife and a little more than 24 hours later I was lying on my side while my urologist punching little flesh plugs out of my prostate.  Wow, what a turnaround for someone who thought who had it all! The message is never get complacent and expect nothing, because we're entitled to zero and tomorrow is not guaranteed.

I realize now that I do have it all, because I have great friends who are wonderful and care about me. I also know that I need to be a better friend to the people I love, because they're more valuable than anything else in the world. I was putting so much love and care into my marriage, I discarded a few people along the way and now I want them back. I know they will forgive me and some of them have done so already, but re-connecting with them will soon be something I really want to focus on now more than ever.

For an update, I still don't have my test results yet, but either way I'm ready for the next chapter. I don't know whether or not I'll be a better writer after all of this, but I do know that I'll be a better person and a better friend and maybe that's all I need. 

Putting Things in Perspective

When something in your life goes sideways, most of us go through the three stages--panic, realization and more panic. I tell people I am going to stay calm, until there's a reason to panic, and then let the panicking begin!

It's been less than two weeks since I was told that I might have prostate cancer, but it seems like it's been two months. In just 12 days I have changed and it's all for the better, as I've become more focused on what's important while shedding a lot of the crap I was carrying around.

I've always been impatient and sometimes act a little entitled. I get surly with people who don't agree with me about the fact that I am an amazing individual. I am a bad listener at times; thinking about the next brilliant thing I'm going to say as opposed to what someone else is sharing. I get upset about little things like the person in front of me in line at the 15-limit check stand with 16 items. I yell at people who cut me out off while driving, which happens almost every six minutes here in San Francisco. I dismiss people who don't interest me sometimes and that's uncool, because everyone has something to share. Often, I forget that each individual standing on the planet right now deserves their very own piece of the whole picture, whether it's a CEO of a large company or someone with nothing.

There's an older lady down the street who is in her 70s and works part-time at Safeway. She is actually a delight and a very sweet woman. She loves dogs and every time I encounter her on our street, she wants to say hello. If you stop, it could be a 20 minute detour and to be honest, she keeps telling me the same stories. She talks about her beloved cat that died in 1998 and how she still isn't over it. She tells me about all of the other dogs in the neighborhood, their names, the breeds, their ages--she knows it all. If she ever forgets her stories, I can recite them back to her word by word.

For a while, if I saw her when I was walking the dogs, I would act like I was on my cell phone or quickly duck down another street before she noticed me. But, since my recent incident, if I see her I approach her and let her talk. Yesterday, it must have been at least 30 minutes, to the point where she said that she had places to be and said goodbye. She blew me off!

Most of us live fairly cushy lives. We have our lattes or espressos in the AM; do yoga; take Uber to wherever; enjoy good food and all of the entertainment we want is right at our fingertips. Many of us get to work virtually or only go into the job four days a week. Sure, there are a lot of unpleasant things that we have to deal with--financial issues, health problems, traffic, relationship issues, politics, even a bad hair day now and again--and that can make us snarky and depressed.

So, how have I changed?
I no longer yell at people while driving. Some guy blatantly stole a parking space from me the other day. After he did it, he looked over at me, expecting me to react and I just smiled and waved. Normally, I would have sprained my middle finger flipping him off while finding some real spicy things to share with him, but I let it go.
Also, I'm not blaming Millennials anymore for all of society's ills and last week I actually talked to one, although she was texting the entire time.
I'm more patient. I saw the movie Black Panther the other day and this gentleman in front of us at the theater kept talking, but I let it go and he eventually shut up.

I still get mad and frustrated like any other human being, but I'm trying not sweat over the little things as much anymore.

So, what's my point? It's called re-calibration--like refreshing your computer screen or cleaning your pool--now and again we have to get some perspective and come back down to terra firma. We get caught in the labyrinth and start bouncing off the walls in the same patterns and that's when it's time to shake the bottle.

It always takes something significant to change my attitude and I've always said that all my lessons have been learned the hard way. But, after this is over, I promise myself that I will never take anything granted ever again, because life is a gift and you can't take it back to Macy's (even if you have a gift receipt).

No More Anxiety!

Today was a big day when I found out if I need to continue on this journey or not, but for some reason, I'm not anxious about it anymore. When I found out last Wednesday that I might have prostate cancer, it hit me hard. I've been trying so damn hard to stay healthy; exercising every day and eating right, and now this thing comes out of left field? While some people have nerves of steel and can be stoic in stressful situations, I'm not one of them. I thought of crumbling like a bleu cheese, but instead I'm coming back harder than a parmigiano-reggiano.

Friday night for some reason was really tough as I made a lame attempt to shed a barrage of depressing thoughts without success. I  tried to clear my mind, but the more you try the worse it gets. But, after writing my first blog about this experience and posting it on Facebook on Saturday, all of my anxiety went away suddenly and completely.

So much that when I was waiting around for today's appointment, I still remained calm. Now, how is that happening, I asked myself?  I guess when you're in it, you just figure out how to deal. The wonderful response I got from so many of my friends on Facebook surely didn't hurt. People from as far back as elementary school shared their experiences about cancer through comments or private messages and I want to thank all of you. It meant so much you can't imagine.

So, what did the doctor tell me today? Well, my PSA number went down slightly (from 11 to 10), but not dramatically enough to bypass a biopsy. So, in two weeks, I'll be getting a biopsy to determine if I have prostate cancer or something else.

Sure, it's still scary, but now I have a lot more information and even though I'm not sleeping well, I am fine and prepared for whatever transpires. During this process, I found out that a friend of mine is also in the same boat as I am. He is getting his biopsy next week, so we've decided to start a two-man support team to help us through this ordeal.

I told him that in October when we're both cancer-free or at least on the road to remission, we can dress up as the Biopsy Twins for Halloween. Hopefully we'll be looking back on this period soon and say--it all came out just fine.

Did you read the Bobbsey Twins series when you were a kid?

Or maybe we'll go this route

But not this one

It's been an unusual week, to say the least, but something amazing has happened during that time, so I'm riding it. I think we all find an inner strength when we need it, to survive and make it to the next day intact mentally and physically, and at this point, I'm not going to argue with the results or freak out about the future.

Another Battle to Take On

I went to the doctor earlier this month for a checkup and got the requisite blood test before the appointment. When you get to be my age (60 later this year) a blood test is a big deal. How has your body held up after rigorous (or non-rigorous) activity and all of the things you've done and ingested over the years? How's your LDL, HDL, RA Factor or CBC? It doesn't matter if you feel great, it's all in the numbers. Today's medical technology is amazing, because just one simple blood test will tell you pretty much how you're doing.

The doctor told me my numbers were fine, so I thought--wow, victory! But, then a week later I got a call and he told me that he had missed one particular number that had him concerned. My PSA number went up from 4 to 11 within eight months and that's not a positive sign. In a fog, I heard the "C" word and it made my feet tingle. Any time something bad happens (even when I see someone on TV getting hurt) my feet tingle.

Oh ----, I thought here we go. Shock followed by the realization that we can't control anything in this life. With a carousel of scary things traveling through my brain, I called the urologist for an appointment. "We can't see you until late March." "But I may have prostate cancer!" I said. "Oh wait--we had a cancellation today. Can you be here at 2 p.m.?" I thought that's a little soon, maybe I should wait a day or two to process this before I jump in. But, I figured no--let's deal with this now. Let's take it on. So, I made the appointment and met with Dr. Ed Collins at CPMC here in San Francisco.

He told me some things I wanted to hear and others I didn't. For one, if you're going to get cancer, prostate is one of the preferred forms. One out of every 36 men get it, but it's treatable if caught in time. So, they are re-testing my blood and urine and I will find out more next week. It's an anxious time obviously, waiting to find out. If my numbers are still the same, the next step will be a biopsy, that doesn't sound pleasant, but what is the alternative?

No one likes going to the doctor. They stick you with needles and prod you with other devices and it's never fun, but it's necessary. This recent scare makes me think of my late mother, Ann Veronica Johnson. In the mid 1960s, she got a diagnosis of breast cancer and she was so freaked out she didn't go back to the doctor until it was too late. They gave her a mastectomy, but the cancer had already spread and by 1966 she was gone. It was a bummer, because they didn't want my brother and I to visit her in the hospital toward the end, so I only got to see her probably twice during those last two years. I can't blame her--she was obviously scared and just wanted it to go away.

I still think of her literally every day. 

So, when I got this news last week, I promised myself that I would make every appointment and take this battle head on. I have lived a good life and I love my family and I have a supportive wife and wonderful friends and I don't plan on leaving the world any time soon. I have dodged a lot of bullets in my life (I used to be 350 lbs. and had a stroke in 2009, but I lost 120 lbs.), so hopefully I don't have cancer. I have been very anxious and can't wait to find out one way or another, but I'm in this to win it and ready to do whatever it takes.

We get happy and complacent in our lives, until fate throws you a wicked curveball, and then that's when we're tested. My therapy now is to write about it, because after all--I am a writer. As long as I can write, I will tell my story and I hope it doesn't depress people. Life is a miracle that all started when you beat the other thousands and thousands little sperm cells to the egg, so the odds were stacked against you from the beginning. I am hoping and praying to look back on this frightening moment several years from now and say, "Wow that was a scary ride, but it made me a better person and a better man."

-Ed

The Teddy Turnaround, Month #1

Years ago, we started adopting senior dogs and since then it has been a roller coaster. When you adopt an older dog, you set yourself up for heart break and most people can't handle it, including me. And don't get me started about the vet bills--OMG. But, in the end, the sense of satisfaction that you get outweighs those other things.

In March, we lost our beloved Freddy, a Cairn Terrier that my wife Simone found him online. He was allegedly 10 or 11 years old when we got him, and he was a mess--overweight, overgrown and depressed. He had been in a few shelters in Sacramento and then later with the Milo Foundation in Marin, but when he arrived here he had what is known as "shelter trauma."

When Freddy became a new member of our family, I told my wife if we have him for five years that would be a miracle. So, when he passed on March 14th of kidney failure, we looked at his adoption papers and he passed one day short of exactly five years!

 Freddy was a unique looking dog who always got a lot of attention. "What is that--a raccoon?" people would ask. 

He started us on the path of adopting older dogs, which led to Teddy. The parallels were uncanny. When we found Freddy he was approximately 11 (we think, no papers) and he was originally from Sacramento. So, when we heard about Teddy, an 11-year-old Cairn also from Sacramento, we knew this wasn't random or merely coincidental. 

 When we met Teddy for the first time at a meet and greet in Sacramento, he was a mess! The people who owned him loved him so much and it was difficult giving him up. Due to their lives changing, they had to move to an apartment that didn't allowed dogs and broke and it was obviously very tough for them. But, they are happy knowing that he went to a great home! 

 Here we groomed him and did a full dental procedure on his teeth, he was a completely different dog. Now Teddy has tons of energy and wants to be walked 3-4 times a day!

 He's a little fashion plate with his snazzy new rain coat 

He is already dictating with his walks and meals after just five weeks with us. On Saturday it was his 12th birthday, so we pampered him and got him a bunch or designer treats from Le Marcel, the doggy bakery here in San Francisco, but he didn't want any of them.