There's luck and then there's dumb luck. It has rained the past two days in NYC, making it impossible for the floating bookshop to open. By chance, my friend Arlynn had back to back doctor appointments, so not only did I earn some dough, I got to fill in some time between shifts on the computer and prevent wall climbing. I've also gone a long way in fourth round of editing Bob Rubenstein's The White Bridge. Fortunately it has become easier, although it still needs a lot of work. Just when I'm about to surrender, I come upon a polished part I enjoy, and it keeps me going. It is a wild ride, at times completely over the top. I think I can safely say there has never been a novel like it. It has potential - if the telling of it improves.
Those Ivy League rascals are at it again. The Columbia University marching band has been banned from the final football game of the season. During last week's game at Cornell, another lopsided loss in a winless season, the band used its own lyrics in school songs, lampooning the team. Although my high school went through the humilation of a winless season in '65, and one for which I was assistant coach won only one game in '72, I find humor in this. In retrospect, the pain of those failures has faded and only rich memories remain. I'm glad to have been a part of it. There are a couple of regrets regarding good teams I helped coach, however. In '73 I inserted our best player, whom I did not believe was really injured, onto the punt return team. Naturally, the ball bounced right to him, whereupon he was hit hard and fumbled, which I believe cost us the game, even though it occurred in the first quarter. He did not return to the game. I'll never forget that. That game plays a major part in my second novel, Adjustments.
I also remember a gaffe I made in '75. The clock was winding down and the offensive coordinator was late sending in a play. "Run the dump," I hollered, my conservative nature preventing me from making the better call - 654, a crossing pattern involving our best player. Sure enough, the opposition's best player, a linebacker, who surely heard me, stepped right in front of the short pass and intercepted it. To this day, whenever the clock reads 654, I am reminded of my stupidity. Fortunately, the game ended in a tie. We only lost one game that year, and I still believe we underachieved. We didn't make the playoffs.
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