The Ash Creek Papers

And then there was the day that Barbara gave me the finger. I forget what prompted it. I must have said something smart-assed. But I always say smart-ass stuff, it had to have been special smart-ass to warrant the finger. Giving the finger is not something we expect from our Barbara.

I just laughed, made a remark about the impropriety of the gesture, how it violated the decorum of the Bullpen… and then I concluded, “I love when a woman talks dirty to me.”

Then Barbara gave me her Grade “A” smile… a smile which I rank in the Top Ten of smiles.

There is good and bad about working in a small place. There is an intensity that is shared when there are fewer in number traveling the same road… experiencing the same peaks and valleys of the business day.

Grapes is a small business. On the good days the richness of the laughs and re-couping the day’s selling successes is unmatched. On the bad days the failures cut deeper, the sting of not hitting our objectives is acutely felt.

Each day we face a challenge… either real or contrived. This brings to mind a quote from Theodore Roosevelt. He referred to,

“the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by the dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes up short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause, and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails daring greatly; so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.”

Good quote, no? Perhaps a bit “over the top” considering what we do at Grapes… sell wine by the case over the phone.

Somehow, though, I have always seen our selling area (a collection of desks, PCs and phones), what I have called our “Bullpen”, as an arena of sorts… And I can’t tell you the number of nights I felt covered in dust, sweat & blood at the close of our business day at 9:00PM.

At our “closing bell” I would look over to Barb’s desk… her smile would restore me. And a pat on the back felt good, too.

Barb’s work day with us would begin with our evening “sell session” at 6:00PM. Her activity at Grapes was her second job (she works in the Insurance industry by day)… she held a variety of positions in her years at Grapes. Her most recent responsibility was doing our order entry, invoicing, running the credit card transactions, handling customer issues on the phone. Detail stuff. Taken for granted; but oh, so important.

But as important as that function was, it barely describes her importance to our business, and why she will be sorely missed now that she has put a close to her chapter at Grapes and has moved to softer pastures (and closer to her daughter!).

Barb gave us a soul… she provided a steady hand, she was a calming presence. And if we became slack in a sales call, or in our paper work, she would snap a whip (but in a way that still left us whole). She never lost her sense of dignity… of doing the right thing, of trying to help us along… trying to make our enterprise better, regardless of the challenges.

In an industry that has a “smarmy” side, Barb was a lighthouse of civility.

Even when she gave me the finger.

Have you ever wondered why the rest of the sporting world plays a ball game with their feet and we don’t… well that’s not exactly true… we’re learning.

But you know what I mean. Maybe it goes back to the Founding Fathers? Isn’t that what we usually attribute stuff to? Maybe it’s a Constitutional issue… there is something buried there that says playing “footsy” with a ball is unconstitutional… it’s un-American. It violates our sense of independence, pioneering spirit and our commitment to Democracy.

And then there are the whispers that it is “un-manly.” Besides, it’s plain foreign!

The fact remains that in any village or city on this planet Earth, look for 8 year olds at play (boys in particular)… odds are they are kicking a ball against a wall, practicing “juggling” the ball with their feet, and if there is friend or two, one is put into an imaginary goal… let the games begin!

In any village or city outside the United States, that is. In this Country? More often than not, the same scenario: boys at play… and the ball is being thrown against the wall, or guys are working on their cross over dribble (with a basketball, not a soccer ball).

Dribbling with either hand becomes a second nature skill to our kids… dribbling with either foot becomes a second nature skill to the rest of the world.

Is it any wonder that we are behind in the sport that the rest of the world calls “Football”? But what we call “Soccer.”

Every four years, the World comes to a standstill for the World Cup. 32 Teams that have gone thru all the pre-qualifying rounds represent Nations from all the inhabited Continents (they haven’t taught polar bears and penguins to kick a ball yet… when they do, my money’s going on the polar bears). To even make it to the tournament is an honor (sort of like being nominated for an Academy Award).

And then its Nation against Nation. That’s the way it appears. Fans in the stands waving huge banners, faces and bodies painted in the appropriate team colours, songs being chanted… cheers and shouts of glory for goal scoring and the countering jeers and accusatory fingers being pointed by the not-so-loyal opposition.

There is much at stake… National honor being primary. One would think that the losing teams (and their fans) had to return to fill out “hard time” in prison or something. There was a case of a goalie, who gave up an unfortunate goal, returned home to be murdered by an enthusiastic fan (if the killer was ever caught he probably would have gotten off… you know, a crime of passion… easy to accept).

So perhaps its understandable when a player is tripped on the field (which is surely a foul, if the defender didn’t touch the ball first), he will writhe in pain as if he had been struck by shrapnel from a claymore mine… the histrionics are for the benefit of the referee, perchance he didn’t see the foul, or if he did, to coax a “yellow card”, or even better, a “red card” from his pocket.

Of course this brings the partisans fans, of either side, to come to their feet to shout, hoot & threaten the opposition… and of course the “man with the whistle.”

I guess this obnoxious display is supposed to be exciting.

Forgive me… is this an athletic contest, or is someone auditioning for the Yale School of Drama?

As Zack has pointed out… a hitter in baseball gets drilled in the ribs with a 95mph fastball, or a wide receiver in football gets nailed chest high by a crossing 200lb safety… and these guys shake it off, not wanting the other side to think they have been hurt.

Still, there is no denying that soccer players have to be some of the best-conditioned athletes anywhere. And to see a well co-ordinated attacking team move the ball with crisp well placed passes — a midfielder deftly moving the ball thru a defender, then finding a streaking wing, putting the ball to his strong foot, in stride, as he is hitting the box, the wing then sending a laser shot to the far corner into the twine. Goal!!

Well… I guess that’s soccer at its best. And maybe you get it once in 90 minutes. Is it worth enduring the other 89 minutes? If the goal scorer is wearing a jersey that matches your face paint, I suppose so…

This is the World Cup… it happens once every four years (like the Olympics)… but unlike the Olympics which opens its competition to all Nations with fewer qualifications, the 32 contesting teams who have made it to soccer’s main stage warrant fan support.

Even for us Yanks. Even if we are below the premier level in the sport… it’s time to tune into the game when our team is involved. And the U.S. made this year’s party. Each team is assured of competing in 3 matches in the first round of play.

This year the American team faced off against the Czech Republic, Italy & Ghana. I was able to watch the first and third games over at my “second” Office (for those of you not in the know… that’s the Ash Creek Saloon).

There may have been other watering holes that attracted more of a soccer crowd… and afterall, the games were taking place during the day (two of them on “work days”) & not during the evening when fans can enjoy the camaraderie of following the fortunes of their favorite team, exchanging some insightful observations & downing a few brews.

But there, John, Ash and myself (aided by Sean for the Ghana match) cheered on the American team. Ash and John born & raised in Cape Town, had a background in the sport, although their sporting taste today is completely American… which is to say Football, Basketball & Baseball (in that order).

And when Reyna’s header hit the post in the match against the Czech’s we jumped up from our stools in anticipation of the goal. It was the closest the American’s got… a game where you had to wonder about the hype about how good we were.

I didn’t see the match against Italy.

The match against Ghana was disappointing. After the Yanks had tied it at one, the referee awarded a penalty kick to the Ghanaians… a call that was dubious to say the least & after the penalty kick was successful, the starch came out of our sails.

Sure… it would have been fun to see the U.S. advance into the next round. But I guess I am still of the mind that it was good to get to the tournament in the first place… and not advancing doesn’t sting the way getting beat in basketball or baseball does…

Aye, there is the rub. We are getting beat at our own games!

I think that for next World Cup it will be time for us to turn the tables on the world! Yeah, we’ll open a can of “whup ass” on the world. Brazil and the rest of them better watch out… the Yanks are coming!

I travel on Route 8 twice a day… in the morning coming either from Derby or Woodbury, and my return in the evening from Norwalk. Ride a road every day and you get to know the ups & the downs, the curves and where the gendarmes lay in ambush.

The landscape and sights become familiar, too. And the stretch just South of Seymour (Exit 13) running to the Merritt Parkway is just a pretty piece of road. No homes or commercial strips can be seen from the road… just thick stacks of trees and rock formations that line either side of the lanes and fill the generous grass covered island that separates the Northbound from the Southbound.

It’s a fast road, too. Great lines of sight. A joy to drive. Particularly if you’re looking to get from point “A” to “B” in a hurry. Just like I was this morning.

But even in a hurry I had to pause to notice something. It was a timing thing. It was early in the morning and I was cruising in the porsche, making 80mph, headed South on 8… That is the pace of the traffic at that hour, by the by… lotta vans, small trucks and cars intent on getting there quickly.

I reached a point in the road, a clear straight away, some two miles North of the Merritt when I first took notice of the evidence of the sun. From that spot the sun itself was well below tree level; but ahead I could see the deep green of the tree tops being touched by the sun…

It appeared like only select leaves were being lit by the new day; the rest of the landscape remained in early morning shade. As I approached I could now see the effect of the sun’s powerful path as it reflected on the windows, side mirrors and chrome of the vehicles ahead.

Then it happened… Route 8 briefly alters its Southward course, and pivots to the West putting the sun, now breaking up from the tree line in the East, squarely in my rear window. It was blinding. The entire road exploded in its light. A yellow glow that had a remarkable blue morning cast.

It’s 5:27AM on June 12. I was in perfect position, on a perfect length of road, to greet the new day… soaked in the sun, seconds either way and I would have missed it.

Sometimes you get lucky. Timing is a tricky thing, you know. Ask the architects of Stonehenge how hard it is to plan on the movement of sun and moon.

But I tell you what… come June 12, 2007 @ 5:27AM (give or take 15 seconds), I know where I’ll be.