I’ll admit to having a conflicted relationship with organized sports. Now before you turn the page, I promise this month will include some musical moments, and please do read to the end as I’ve a special request (or challenge if what you read herein turns you pugilistic). But to get there, I must share the atmosphere in my home as a young child. While both my parents encouraged my musical growth, my father was (and still is at 83) a jock. He skied, he earned his black belt in karate, he was an expert marksman, he played tennis (now he’s turned to that “overnight” hit, although invented over 50 years ago—Pickle Ball); up until recently, he’d play hockey three times a week with guys 20-40 years younger than he was. I was tall and slim with long legs and arms. He had big athletic plans for me.
For his initial attempt to lure me into a team sport, remembering how much I loved skating in the winter on a nearby frozen pond, he enlisted me in a junior hockey league. On the pond I could meander at a relaxed speed with no direction in mind; now I had to keep up with everyone else, wear a helmet and mask, elbow and knee pads, carry a stick, and lurch around trying to make contact with a (hard) black rubber object until I fumbled it into a net. Charlie Chaplin couldn’t have taken more pratfalls, but my constant falling made me feel like a prat!
The coach took pity on me and,
