Crossfire

 

Going up a small fight of steps, the entrance was on my right. To my left, a path of grass maybe 20 feet wide opening up to rows and rows of trees. I knew where I was going, but still asked which door I could use. Could is the key word here. They said I could go in the right-hand door, the implication being they wouldn’t stop me but wouldn’t vouch for what happened inside. I didn’t need to push my luck, so I chose the left-hand set of doors. And by “they” I mean two Secret Service officers, both in tactical fatigues, one with spotter’s binoculars, the other prone on the ground, .50 caliber sniper rifle resting on a bed of sandbags, facing those trees. And behind the right-hand door, the sitting Vice President of the United States, his staff, and Secret Service detail.

It wasn’t as if I shouldn’t have been there. I was working advance for the event, my “S” pin was firmly visible on my lapel, my look completed with an earpiece for my radio comms. I was used to crowds of large men with service pistols around me, but that sniper rifle had only one purpose, and I had no interest in finding out how the business end of its discharge felt. While taking place in Kalamazoo, Michigan, it was a Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore moment.

Much has been already written, and even more will come, about Saturday’s assassination attempt on President Trump. The immediacy was shocking, the intimacy of the photographs unprecedented, and the reaction came at warp speed. If circumstances had been different, I might very well have been walking around that rally could have been caught in the crossfire. What is important to keep in mind is to let the facts of the investigations come through, watch any testimony, and read the reports. Nobody has all the answers now; we still don’t seem to have a whisper of motivation for the shooter’s actions. There’s also an uncomfortable truth: despite the seeming glamor and wall of firepower, the Secret Service is still a government operation.

If you are lucky, the only government you have to face is filing your taxes. Yet as everyone knows, this is a process with rules, regulations, and paperwork. Presidential protection is no different. The highest levels of protection are for the sitting President and Vice President; further down are nominated candidates, declared candidates, and then somewhere in the mix are former Presidents and other dignitaries. As the sitting President, the setup in Butler would have been very different and far more encompassing to eliminate potential site lines of attack. As a candidate, the level of coverage is not as far reaching—hence much of the discussion about responsibility between local police and the Secret Service around various perimeter levels. Exactly who was supposed to do what, and what may have been missed will be the subject of multiple investigations and reports.

Unlike filing taxes, I found my dealings with the Secret Service professional, thoughtful, and filled with hard-working men and women performing a tough job under difficult circumstances. I was witness to (and mercifully not the target of) animated discussions about, yes, outdoor venues and how to maximize security versus visibility to the crowds. Experienced hands, however, always came to an understanding and the events moved forward.

But with a government operation comes political players, and none was more in the spotlight than Secret Service Director Kimberly Cheatle. She met with President Trump, which was an expedient move to reassure a protectee, as well as show leadership. Less reassuring was her surprise walk around the floor of the Republican National Convention, where her presence was met with the warmth given to vegans protesting in a cattlemen’s convention. Maybe she was scoping out how it will feel for the upcoming Congressional hearings.

As I’ve said, I want to sit back and take in as much information before I will place blame. This was right until published reports said that the Secret Service dissuaded President Trump from attending the funeral of Corey Comperatore because they couldn’t “secure the nearby forest.” Toto, I’ve seen the sniper’s nests outside the forest—it has been secured before and can be again.

© 2024 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Jetlagged

 

My wife and I like to travel. We’re not the go off to Borneo and hike around the jungle for two weeks types. It’s more like we can carve out 72 hours, so let’s zip over to Rome for a long weekend. After landing and dropping off our bags during day one, we did the Colosseum, Forum, and three museums before sundown. Sure it’s tiring, but with a little planning and some determination, you can pack much more in a day than you think possible. It helps that we get airline upgrades to aid with sleep going over and we cash out points for nice hotels once we are overseas. Getting back stateside, we spent six days in the Maryland hills in a well-guarded retreat recuperating and preparing for our television appearances. You see where this is going.

If the 2016 election was the reality show election come to life, 2024 is reality showing what life is really like. Despite choosing the channel, conditions, and time, Joe Biden managed to show the world how feeble he is, both mentally and physically. Among the many excuses Joe had were jetlag from his D-Day trip two weeks before, suffering from a cold, and, I think, the dog ate his talking points. All I know is that I’d be happy to borrow Air Force One for overseas jaunts if Joe finds it too much work.

Like Capt. Renault in Casablanca, supporters expressed how shocked, shocked! they were at the utter deterioration of the President. Since liberals block Fox News from their cable boxes, they wouldn’t have seen the cornucopia of decline that defines Joe’s existence—endless stairway tripping, wide orthopedic sneakers, blank stares, and meaningless muttering.

Now the words of crisis, panic, and catastrophe are used to describe the Democrats, this time by the Democrats themselves and the mainstream media. There’s an entire rabbit hole to go down about scenarios—Biden drops out, and Republicans start hearings about officials covering up Joe’s fitness for office; Biden wins but then resigns after the inauguration, and Republicans start hearings about officials covering up Joe’s fitness for office; on and on and on. You would think that Democrats might be a touch more worried about stubborn high inflation, high mortgage rates hurting the housing industry, oil prices touching historical highs, and America’s humiliation in international affairs, especially from Muslim countries. History, however, shows the Democrats are oblivious to it all.

Think back to 1980, with Jimmy Carter leading a nation with stubborn high inflation, high mortgage rates hurting the housing industry, oil prices touching historical highs, and America’s humiliation in international affairs with the Iranian hostage crisis. In this bleakness the Democrats overwhelmingly renominated Carter. Maybe it was post-Watergate hubris lurking around the party; even a young, thin, and energetic Ted Kennedy couldn’t make the needed headway as an alternative nominee. The Reagan years were about to begin.

But with barely a bump in the road, primarily because Joe barely traveled, Democrats overwhelmingly delivered the delegates for Joe’s second nomination. Yet here’s the unimaginable thing, the multi-twist pretzel scenario of where we are: without too much effort (not that Joe has much to give), Biden can win. Look at the numbers.

There are, effectively, six or seven swing states that will decide the election. This isn’t news, but it’s well worth remembering. Wisconsin, Michigan, Pennsylvania, Nevada, Arizona, Georgia, and North Carolina are the biggest names. Sure Florida and Ohio are out there, but the trend isn’t so blue. Joe took Michigan and Pennsylvania by multiples of Hillary’s loss margin. Maybe loosened mail-in ballot laws helped, but those are numbers to remember. Wisconsin flipped by the same margin of Trump’s 2016 victory. Republicans have screwed up the party in Nevada and particularly Arizona so much that they may blow the gift of the illegal alien invasion as a central campaign issue. And who knows about Georgia.

Most of this is the number crunching, inside political baseball that keeps something on the air for 24-hour news stations. We are just under four months from election day and anything can, and probably will, happen. Heck, in three weeks the Yankees went from league-leading juggernaut to old men needing help down the steps.

My suggestion is everyone take a deep breath, get some sleep, and be patient with this long ride—Rome wasn’t built in a day, and this election isn’t getting an upgrade anytime soon.

© 2024 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Requiem for the Pac-12

 

Of the thousands of baseball games, from t-ball to the bigs, that were played over the past long weekend, one stood out. It wasn’t for some solemn Memorial Day remembrance, but for lowering the flag on a sports icon. In Scottsdale, Arizona, the University of Arizona beat USC on a walk-off single, marking the final conference championship game of the conference of champions. That final hit to left with the runner just beating the catcher’s tag closed out the Pac-12’s existence.

Growing up, New Year’s Day in the Stephens household was nothing special. My parents did not do big New Year’s Eve bashes, preferring to raise a glass on London time, some six hours before midnight. New York City’s inevitable grey, chilly start to the new year hardly inspired long hours running around outside. But come late afternoon, one immovable and sacred ritual held forth: watching the Rose Bowl.

I have no idea why this was so important to my father. His Harvard Crimson had not contended for a bowl berth since before WWII. But we sat in awe of the spectacle on our TV screen: warm sunshine, scrubbed stands, and a mountain backdrop—Hollywood perfect on Hollywood’s doorstep. And there was that sense of continuity; another year of the Pac 10 and Big 10 champions fighting it out as the California sunset closed the first day of the year. And in true movie style, the games seemed to be sequels of either USC or UCLA playing Michigan or Ohio State.

In the era before everyone-gets-a-trophy bowl games, it was also a proud regional display. Long Slavic names barely fit on the Big 10 linemen’s jerseys; tufts off blond hair stuck out from the helmets of the Pac-10’s quarterbacks. Dazed Michigan fans couldn’t understand how the sun lasted so long in the sky at that time of year; Angelenos wondered if the traffic would be bad getting home. Sure I exaggerate and even stereotype for dramatic effect, but look back at the video and you would say I was a lot closer to the truth.

Like so much else, maybe college sports is just morphing into the homogenized world of GAP and Walmart. The irony is that these stores are now more mall geographical points than drivers of taste—the exact opposite regional character. What’s left of the remaining power conferences looks more like the route map of this country’s major airlines—going to all sorts of places in seemingly random ways.

I’m not against some of the bigger changes in college sports, as NIL’s, stipends, and now flat-out revenue-sharing payments are here to stay. And especially for athletes who won’t get to the pros, there will be significant financial support during their student years. More importantly, gone is much of the NCAA’s hypocrisy and flat-out corruption. But are super-sized conferences with “students” swapping teams through the transfer portal really part of college? Are those in the stands really cheering on their team or just a show assembled by money-tossing boosters? It’s a recipe of nihilism swirling in a cauldron cynicism—hardly what today’s youth needs.

Many a columnist has said that college sports have not died but are just changed forever, and I’d like to believe that. But when the teams are just employees playing for money, directed by men and women making even more money, all of whom are subject to the whims of fan fashion and management change, you are left to call it that most American thing: Hollywood. Unlike the movies, the Pac-12 found out there is no happy ending. In fact I’m not even sure how interested I am in watching the Rose Bowl next year, even if it keeps the memory of my father alive.

© 2024 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

From The River To Graduation

 

In the spring of 2020, life handed high school seniors lemons. A big, stinking, rotting bushel of lemons. With the finality of their graduations in sight, Covid cancelled graduation ceremonies, eliminated sports championships, and otherwise wiped out all semblance of the normal rights of passage to adulthood. The only thing resembling lemonade was adult society pissing on these students’ dreams. Even worse, as history shows, all the restrictions, not only during that spring but in the ensuing years of college, were very, very wrong.

You would think that from this mess students would hold fast that, four years later, nothing would screw up their college graduation. For students and many of this country’s elite colleges and universities, you would, again, be very, very wrong.

Let’s be very clear what’s happening on the college campuses from the Atlantic to the Pacific oceans: thugs masquerading as social activists are, successfully, shaking down America’s universities to line their own pockets in the form of scholarships for Palestinian students and jobs for Palestinian faculty (courtesy of my alma mater, Northwestern). They are playing on, and winning big, at the game of liberal guilt and its related recoiling at conflict.

But why would college seniors let this issue and these agitators get in the way of their commencement? I won’t romanticize the era of Vietnam protests and the actions of students then. There were, however, direct consequences to graduating, which was that the men would be in the draft and have a good chance of fighting in a rice paddy. There are plenty of students and faculty who have direct or indirect family ties to Israel and Gaza, and this conflict is intensely personal for them. And sure, there are larger geo-political issues at play as well. Still, for the vast majority of graduating college seniors, even from elite universities, the greatest challenge next month is finding a reasonably-priced apartment to rent while working at their first professional job.

So what accounts for the lack of any pushback from the vast majority of unaffected students? I think the answer is students these days have no idea how to oppose. It’s less brainwashing than brain deadening. Students are masters of liking on social media and signing digital petitions. The normalcy of Zoom life has dulled any sense of indignation.

In the big picture, should America worry about a bunch of students who didn’t get to wear a funny hat and walk across a stage to get a piece of paper? No, this class will survive, if not annoyed by yet another disruption to their lives. But America should be very, very worried once this class gets out into the workplace and starts to ascend to positions of leadership. What have been the life lessons from these college year? What examples were set for them? How did they overcome an utter vacuum of adult “leadership” that offered neither hope nor competence? In the next decade or two we will learn how badly these years have thwarted their development. It’s not a stretch to think that this will be in complete contrast to what comes out of China where, for better or worse, nothing gets in the way of their pursuit of global domination.

It is said that West Point’s class of 1915 was the “class the stars fell on” with the record number of graduates becoming generals. Of course these men were at the perfect place in their careers when WW II broke out. Timing, even if they had nothing to do with it, was everything. And it isn’t to say that each and every general (or admiral from the Naval Academy) was the greatest ever. But they were pretty damn good, and rose to the challenge of defeating tyranny across the globe.

For the college class of 2024, they can’t event get a glass of lemonade.

© 2024 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Gone But Not Forgotten

“They’re tearing the old place down.”

It’s a phrase that evokes memories—some sharp, some faded, but always with some emotion attached to it. Often times there’s a sigh of relief when some eyesore shack finally getting its due; other times it’s the wistful memories of a bar that could not outrun Father Time (or the Liquor Authority). For Northwestern grads, the physical manifestations of the Ryan Field (née Dyche Stadium) we knew are about to turn to dust with wrecking balls starting their work leveling the century-old edifice. Whether there are fluttering hearts of despair is an entirely different issue.

As befits the tangled relationship of Northwestern football and its fans, the news of rebuilding the stadium hit hard with cries of worry for…the beloved hot dog stand next to the stadium. Would it survive? How? With two years of hungry construction workers on site, Mustard’s Last Stand’s future seems assured, and probably very lucrative. The apparel shop across the street had a different view—it saw two years without game day fans’ wallets and the storefront mysteriously fell victim to a devastating fire. I’m not saying it was all in the name of insurance money, but some things in the Chicago area never change.

My own feelings are a little mixed. Visually, the original stadium had pleasing, dare I say grand, arches echoing the collegiate building style of the 1920’s. Over the years, additions and skeletal bleachers gave the place a hodge podge look which was exacerbated by the hodge-podge look of the few fans in attendance. Aesthetics aside, there were plenty of festive tailgates and our fraternity had members in the marching band, which was incentive enough for us to stay through the halftime show.

Fun game day festivities eventually morphed into a workday as a campus newspaper photographer. It was a great gig, and every game I got to improve my photographic craft as well see how D-I football moves and sounds on the field. When TV announcers comment that broadcasts don’t convey just how fast the game is, they aren’t joking—those clips of photographers getting run over by players hit a little too close for me.

I also got to know the other side of sports, the side without the money. Sunday mornings were for my hangovers and covering women’s field hockey and lacrosse at the stadium. The players were there mostly for the love of the game (even if they managed to wrangle a scholarship), but it was a relief to cover an event without the press pass bureaucracy or sheer volume of people around the field. The large stadium surroundings created an unusual intimacy with only the players, coaches, and refs on the field and a few friends in the stands. For a place that could fit 50,000 people, it’s amazing how clear one voice could be heard.

And what does the grand future hold for the new Ryan Field? The drawings of the outside have an unfortunate likeness to a prison toilet seat. Inside, however, no expense will be spared with state-of-the-art lighting, sound, and Jumbotrons—all great for the video-addicted students and, more importantly, TV coverage. And maybe this is what slightly gnaws at me. The first thing that came into my mind when I saw the renderings is that this whole thing looks like an oversized TV studio. It’s not like the old place was Wrigley field, but when you walked by, you knew exactly that it was a football field. The new place could be an alien landing pad, which might explain the toilet seat aesthetic.

In a few years the shiny new thing excitement of the stadium will have worn off, and I’m sure I’ll catch a game there. Maybe one of the super-ultra-high-def TV cameras will catch me in the stands. I’ll be the guy wiping sauerkraut off my shirt—Mustard’s makes a messy dog.

© 2024 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.

Kmart and the Christmas Spirit

If you are looking for a sign of Christmas cheer, Manhattan’s Astor place is not where you would start. Dividing the East and West Villages, it is a portal through which visitors can pass to seedier parts of town no matter how much neighboring NYU tries to spruce up the place. More than a century ago the area housed millionaire mansions and John Wannamaker built a branch of his eponymous department store to serve the local society ladies. As times passed and money moved uptown, only a few local stalwarts–Cooper Union, the Public Theater, and McSorley’s around the corner–kept any order in the area’s mess. Into this descended Kmartnsome 27 years ago, where a national brand and low prices on everyday goods brought together college kids, low-income locals, and, it turns out, Santa’s helpers.

Now charity shopping days are hardly unique, whether it is picking up a letter from the post office or dropping off canned goods to help feed the hungry. But when the Archdiocese of New York (the good folks behind St. Patrick’s Cathedral) puts their mind to a Christmas shopping event, you are in a whole new league. Not just the pros, but the major leagues. As with any organized sport there are rules, and the number one rule for St. Nicholas Shopping Day (hey, the name doesn’t have to be that original) is…no toys. 

You read that right.

You see, Catholic Charities runs its own social services, and many might argue far more efficiently than anything the government could come up with. And so with a budget of New York-sized proportions, a targeted and complex operation of military precision and scope opened up on the first Saturday of December. Which brings up back to Kmart and the no toys policy.

If the point of the church’s social services network is to support the indigent, then what better way to give a true gift than to make sure their congregants in need have clothes on their back and a blanket over their bed? And what better way to match this need than assembling a couple of hundred volunteers with a specific list of items for each family and requiring them to keep a strict per person budget? And where could you maximize this strict budget? Kmart.

And so my wife and I, along with mutual friends, would zip down to the Astor Place Kmart on the appointed day and get to work. Upon checking in, a volunteer would hand us a t-shirt (red or green, again, not much need for excessive creativity) and a shopping list. It was an eye-opening experience, reading the needs of what we took for granted. The lists were their own story, similar to ones of generations of those in need, but each spoke in a different way. The social worker responsible would assess the family’s needs. Some families might be recent immigrants from Central America with, understandably, no winter clothes. Others might have just moved with the clothes on their back but, literally, no sheets on their beds. And so the social worker would create the list–a father needs a work coat for day labor; a wife needs a coat for church; a two-year-old needs pajamas; a teenager needs school clothes; the whole family needs sheets and towels. Ages and approximate clothing sizes were provided. And then the competition began.

Sure we were volunteering and helping, but this being New York everyone was trying to outdo everyone else, even if it was for God’s work. Calculators came out, discount percentages were precisely calculated, and bargaining ran amok. While each recipient had a budget, usually $50, it meant that a family of four had an overall budget of $200. So the horse trading would begin–my wife would insist a four-year-old needed an extra dress for school while I countered that dad’s winter work coat wouldn’t do any good without gloves and a hat. Angry stares ensued, un-Christian language was whispered under our breath, and even harder bargaining ensued. But the beauty was that everyone was in the same boat, and everyone heard the conversations. Other volunteers chimed in–a new set of hats, scarves, and gloves just went down in price, $3 more dollars in the kitty; a new rack of girls’ dresses just hit the floor, half off. And so it went until our budget was met and everything on the list was checked off.

And we wanted more. For half a dozen years the event got bigger and bigger. We got to the store earlier and earlier and wanted only the largest of families. Pushing shopping carts, we would ask other volunteers how things were going, and they would bemoan the difficulty in shopping for a family of three. We would nod in serious consolation and then casually mention this was our second family of six that morning. While it may have all been in the name of Jesus’ army of followers, we weren’t about to lose the war of looking good doing it. There was a certain absurdity to the whole thing–bewildered regular shoppers could not understand why the store was so crowded; we would use the store’s freight elevators to go between floors; more than a few prayers were said that warm weather would drive down the price of overcoats. It was a coffee-fueled blur, an urban bazaar of constant motion grabbing items off of racks and shelves, a race to find an empty shopping cart to start all over again.

For a few minutes, though, everything stopped. Walking through the front door, clothed in a perfectly-pressed black cossack, white collar, and silk scarlet zucchetto on his head, was His Eminence Timothy Cardinal Dolan. He moved through the crowd shaking hands, posing for pictures, and sharing a few words with a television reporter. And then the perfect moment arrived–taking a microphone his voice would go throughout the store giving thanks to the volunteers and reminding us all of the importance of the work we were doing. It was a blue light special of faith.

My wife and I live in Florida now, so we aren’t there to do the shopping. During Covid, Catholic Charities bought all the materials ahead of time and volunteers assembled the requested packages. Kmart is now long gone. But I know that for thousands of families over the years, there was a helping hand to those in in true need. It’s a reminder of the real Christmas message, a reminder that needs no toys.

© 2023 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved

Take A Cab On Sunday? Not For This Runner

 

Looking back at it, I must have been the easiest mark. As the attractive brunette woman approached me, my bag bulging with posters, t-shirts, and assorted sports drinks, her question was obvious, “Are you running the marathon on Sunday?” 

“Yes.” I replied, hoping for some praise and, perhaps, some social interaction the following week.

“I’m not running this year, but I have before.” she said. “Let me give you just one piece of advice—you’re going to have a blast!”

And with that she walked away, having dispensed her wisdom and not her phone number. As the first Sunday in November approaches, I think back on that moment in 1992 and reflect on why I ever ran 20 marathons, 14 of them New York.

In the summer of 1991 my father died. During the race that year, one of the 25,000 runners stood out, a man in his mid-40’s plodding firmly along in the middle of the pack. His t-shirt read, “In memory of my son Michael,” and in the center a picture of a young man, probably no older than 20. Having turned 26 that year, only one thought came through my mind. If he could do that for his son, then I could do it in memory of my father.

The ludicrousness of this plan amused my friends and family alike. I’m a decent enough athlete, but nobody would have even joked that I would run a marathon. This was made abundantly clear by my brother who, after surgery, overheard me mentioning to my mother that I had gotten into the race. The following day, still lying in his hospital bed, he asked, “Was it the morphine or did you really say you were going to run the marathon?”

I finished that first marathon in agony from a knee injury and twenty minutes slower than my predicted time. But walking back home in the November twilight, I heard the crowd roaring. Surrounded by a coalition of supporters, a frail, bearded runner was shuffling his way along the final few miles. The man was the founder of the race, Fred Lebow. Cancer was ravaging his body, but he was determined to run this course, the one he created, at least once. If you can’t get inspiration from watching that, perhaps you don’t have a pulse. And interestingly, if it hadn’t been for that bum knee I would have finished sooner and missed the whole thing. Between that random t-shirt and a nagging injury, I was starting to get some interesting messages about marathons.

So why did I run those races? Suffice it to say I knew I wasn’t going to win. My money is always on some fast, skinny African coming in first (and second, third and fourth for that matter). Was it to be in good health? Of course. In memory of my father, and to commemorate the spirit of Fred Lebow? Sure. But still, why?

As it turns out, on marathon day runners become The King of New York, and the people do everything to help. And in return, I gave everything I had over 26.2 miles to thank them. 

As befits royalty, the streets are closed off. Legions line the streets cheering on the thousands of runners streaming by. Toward the end, the crowds clap, cajole, and convince you that yes, the finish line was almost there. After the race, a smiling volunteer, in the best Olympic tradition, places a finisher’s medal around your neck and then wraps you up in a fashionable-for-a-day silver Mylar blanket. Complete strangers, eying my stiff post-race gait and ambulating baked potato look, come up and congratulate me. Even my regular bartender buys me drinks. Who wouldn’t put in the time and training for this treatment? Who wouldn’t want to return year after year?

So if you are part of the crowds on Sunday, or just watching on TV, know this. Those grimaces of pain on the runners’ faces and looks of exhaustion are all real. But at the end of the race, everyone has a blast.

© 2023 Alexander W. Stephens, All Rights Reserved.