Growin' Up

I had no plans to attend another Bruce Springsteen concert. I've been to approximately 93 shows since 1980 and several years ago decided that unless someone (like my friend Denis) offered me the chance to see something unique (Bruce solo acoustic at the Paramount in Asbury Park in a benefit show for victims of Hurricane Katrina, thanks Denis), I'd call it a career.

And then last year I thought to myself...Bruce is about to turn 60 and cannot possibly be touring many more times, so I really owe it to my sons (then 12 and 9) to get them to a show. So, I forked over $100-plus for tickets and took them to Giants Stadium last July and got to see Bruce and Patti Scialfa bring their kids on stage for Twist and Shout and, well, it was pretty nostalgic. Me and my kids watching Bruce and his kids...all of us belting out the words and shaking our asses.

Glad I did it. But I figured that was probably it.
Until last week, when the lure of hearing all the songs from my favorite Springsteen album, Darkness on the Edge of Town, drew me back to Giants Stadium. I forked over $170 for a pair of tickets with a face value of $100 (below face value, a sign of the times) then started emailing some of my oldest, hardcore Bruce fans to see if they'd join me for an evening of Darkness.

The regrets were legit for the most part. Business meetings, youth sports practices, tickets to later shows, whatever. Still, I started to feel very 45 as one polite "no thanks" turned into 20. Finally, an old friend got back to me with a positive response. I had a running mate for the show.

There was, of course, a tailgate party. A tame one, to say the least, with another friend and his wife and their two kids, both under the age of six. I had as many burgers (two) as beers. Even with only two brews in me, it seemed like I had to make about a half-dozen trips to the port-o-potty. Another sign of the times. And around 8 p.m., it was time to head in for the show.

And as I stood on the floor of Giants Stadium, giving myself enough elbow room so I wouldn't have to worry about bumping into anyone, I just watched. I sang a bit, not like the old days when I'd leave a Bruce concert drenched in sweat, with no voice remaining. The early part of the concert was perfectly fine, but it didn't take long before I was glancing at my watch, wondering when he'd start the Darkness part of the show. Looking around at the crowd, looking pretty much as young, if not a bit younger, than most of the crowd, I wasn't sure if I should laugh or cry. There was a dude with a hairpiece in front of me dancing like it was 1984. I laughed.

The whole experience made me think about my first Bruce show, which I attended with my brother Bob back in 1980 at Madison Square Garden. I remember that show as an "out-of-body" experience. I was simply mesmerized by Springsteen for, I swear, over four hours. I was quietly thinking to myself that two hours, on this night in 2009, would be plenty. The experience was very much "in-body." Bruce's energy, while impressive for a dude who's 60, is really nothing like it was when he was in his early 30s (hard to fault him there). When I watch old youtube clips, particularly those from 1978-81 shows, I am still blown away by his raw passion. The passion is still there, for sure, but it's different. I'm different, too, so I am understanding.

But then, for nine minutes, I was transformed. At the risk of sounding like an old fool, when piano player Roy Bittan broke into Racing in the Street, I was once again 16 and standing in the Garden. It's never been Racing's lyrics that get to me, but rather Bittan's piano-playing. As Bruce finished the songs lyrics, "For all the shutdown strangers and hot-rod angels rumbling through this Promised Land, tonight my baby and me, we're gonna ride to the sea and wash these sins off our hands...Tonight, tonight..." I felt the lump in my throat growing. I closed my eyes and listened to Bittan play, extending the song some four minutes. It was just so...great to be there.

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Kids and Sports...Sports and Kids

I need to begin by saying, "I'm no saint" when it comes to kids sports. I've yelled at my sons during practices and games, including one time when I yelled so loud at my son Tyler that a few dads asked me to take a seat in the dugout to relax. Talk about embarrassing.

This past year, in a Memorial Day baseball tournament, I went semi-ballistic over what I thought was a missed balk call. The umpire, basically, told me to shut up or he'd run me. I shut up.

But later in the spring when I complained to my dad about a Little League coach who intimidated an umpire, my father (as always) was quick to point out, "Was it worse than when you argued the balk call?" My answer was, "Uh, no." Thanks, Pop.

So I make mistakes and, if there's a silver lining to my confession it's that I am usually overcome with guilt immediately. The point is, I know better.

It's so basic, isn't it? The games are for the kids. The games are supposed to be fun. There's really no reason to yell at a kid unless he's really misbehaving or possibly going to injure someone. I honestly believe this to be true, and try really hard to live up to it...even though I fail sometimes.

I do have my good qualities (in my own humble opinion) as a coach. I'm steadfast in my belief that baseball is a game that kids can only play well when they're relaxed. So I am pretty good at keeping kids loose (maybe not as good with my own sons) and staying positive.

I'm also pretty good at letting the kids decide the game. I've never been big on the "hands-on" youth baseball coaches. The guys who, in my opinion, turn the game into Kid vs. Adult rather than Kid vs. Kid. In all my years of coaching town-level Little League I've never told a kid not to swing the bat. In other words, there's no "take" sign. We do try to teach a kid that if he's going to swing at, say, a 3-and-0 pitch, he should be taking a good swing, not a defensive swing.

It's my personal philosophy (it's okay if you disagree) that it's my job as a youth coach to try and help the kids improve their baseball skills. Honestly, I do not think I need to teach a kid how to draw a walk. I've had a lot of my less-talented kids through the years make their best contact on 3-0 pitches, when the pitcher is trying to put the ball right over the plate. Pretty elementary.

I've got other philosophies, but I won't bore you with them.

But the point of today's blog is simply that, more and more it seems to me that the only people capable of ruining kids sports are adults. In recent weeks I've seen:

* A U-11 soccer game called at halftime due to rain, with the score 0-0. OK, fine that the game was called (even though there was no lightning), but then the league officials declared that the game was "official." Now, shouldn't these officials have asked the coaches of the two teams how they felt about that ruling? Don't you think, maybe, the kids wanted to play a full-game? If the coaches were able to get their kids to the field, either for a replay or a resumption, shouldn't the league have given that the ok? Nope. Of course, there was something in writing, in the bylaws or whatever they're called, to back the league's stance. Blech. Let the kids play.

* A U-14 soccer game where a team, depleted by injuries, down to 10 men, was forced to play, even when one coach asked the other ahead of time if they could re-schedule. "No," the coach responded. "Show up and play with 10, or forfeit." Think that coach asked his players, A. How they would feel about a forfeit, or even, B. How they felt about playing a depleted team? My guess is that the kids would've voted for playing against a full-team. Maybe I'm wrong. Doubt it.

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Remembering Johnny

Here's a column I wrote eight years ago on ESPNTheMag.com about my friend Johnny Salamone, who died on September 11, 2001. It had probably been five years since I'd last seen Johnny when he died, but his passing hit me hard. I guess mostly because we were both young dads. Memories of Johnny came flooding back to me and all I could do was get into my car, drive north and search for old high school friends to make sure they'd gotten the news. In the time that has past, I've thought so much about Johnny. He was truly a one of a kind character. When I go back and re-read this column, I know I could've done much better...but this is what came off my fingertips that day. The one line that rings true to this day is that it was indeed Johnny Salamone who taught me to laugh...hard...at myself. I can't thank him enough for that.

Anyway, because it's a stay-in kinda day, I've decided to go back through this column and make some comments. You'll find them in italics. Peace, Johnny. You'll never be forgotten


Go ahead, Johnny

by Jeff Bradley

ESPN The Magazine

Twenty-five years ago, or around the time I met Johnny Salamone at West Essex Junior High, I thought I'd forever remember the soccer games we played together. Sports were such a big deal, I figured the scores, the highlights, the details of every goal, would survive for eternity in my mind.

I was wrong.

All these years later, I don't remember much at all about the games. But as I learned this week, when I found out from old friends that Johnny had been lost in the World Trade Center tragedy, you never forget a teammate.

What's funny is that in the eight years that have passed, so many memories have re-entered my brain. Yes, memories of games and moments. Some of them you'll see in previous blog entries of mine. I want to thank Johnny for that. Of course, they're not memories of anything good I did on a field...usually the opposite.

On Saturday, Johnny will be eulogized at St. Aloysius Church in Caldwell, N.J. He was a bond trader for Cantor Fitzgerald, up on the 104th floor. Those closest to him will remember him, most of all, as a loving, doting father to his three children, Alexander, Aidan and Anna.

I regret that I didn't get to know that Johnny.

I am thankful to Johnny's family, his dad especially...and to some of my old high school buddies (Kenny, Fritz, Campy, Pete) that I've been able to hear so much more about Adult Johnny.

But I'd like to tell you all a little bit about the Johnny Salamone I knew. Because I have a feeling you know him too.

If you know a guy who never lost at anything, you know Johnny. In our little suburban world, Johnny ruled the street hockey court, the Wiffle ball field and, later on, the poker games. And he never let you forget about it, either. "Suckers!" he'd shout when he bluffed everyone to win a hand.

Johnny's college friends from Oglethorpe appreciated that last line. Made me feel better than me and my high school buddies weren't the only suckers out there. Also, years later, we rented the ice at South Mountain Arena in West Orange for some 2 a.m. ice hockey. I had no idea that Johnny could even skate, but rest assured he made us all look like fools that night, weaving around us like traffic cones. Suckers again.

If you played soccer and know a guy who wasn't particularly good at the nifty little skills, like juggling a ball, but was always one of the first players chosen once the real game started ... you know Johnny.

Truth be told, Johnny was a blade. He was the kind of player, when you went in for a ball, even if you came away with it, you got dinged in the process. He took no responsibility for his elbows and knees. Not a dirty blade, but a blade. You wanted him on your team. You didn't want to play against him.

If you know one guy who was not the least bit afraid of things like "tryouts" and "cuts," then you know Johnny. When we were freshmen, about 75 of us tried out for 20 spots on the baseball team at West Essex. Most of us were petrified, trying to show a coach in two days we could hit and field. Johnny? He nicknamed himself "The Cobra" and used the tryouts as a chance to brush up on his imitation of then-Pirates star Dave Parker's batting stance. Oh yeah, there was never any doubt he'd make the team.

Years later, most of my teammates remember even more than those freshman tryouts the way Johnny used to do spot-on impersonations of JV Coach Tony Ortiz, complete with rubber Spock ears. Johnny's gift is that he could do the impersonation right in front of Coach Ortiz and all anyone could do was laugh.

If you know a guy who could hurt you physically and make you laugh about it at the same time, you know Johnny. The game he invented in our high school cafeteria was called "Fresh Bait." Basically, it meant if you put a hand flat on the table, it was "fresh bait" and anyone who could reach you had the right to hammer it with their fist. When your hand was pulverized by Johnny, he'd just say, "You know the rules."

Just thinking of this game makes my hand throb. The truth is, at times, this game would set me off. But what was I supposed to do when 15-20 kids were laughing at me? All I could do was laugh at myself.

If you know a guy who called you by your last name, but your parents by their first names, you know Johnny. "Bradley, Bradley, Bradley, what are Mary and Jerry going to think about you getting a D?"

If there's someone out there who was your first "ride," you know Johnny. Better yet, if you know a guy who could take the least-cool car of all, an old family station wagon, nickname it "The Jet" because of its loud engine and turn it into something cool, then you really know Johnny.

Have to add that The Rolling Stones "Some Girls" was usually blasting from the tape deck.

Most of all, if there's someone out there who taught you how to laugh at yourself, then you know Johnny.

Not only do you know him. But you're never going to forget him.

Since this is a soccer column, I would like to share one story of Johnny from the field. A junior varsity game, can't remember where, but I'd been taking every free kick for our team, with no success to speak of. Finally, late in the game, a foul is whistled, another free kick, Johnny brushes me aside, says, "This one's mine, Bradley."

"Go ahead, Johnny," I said.

I knew what was about to happen. Seriously.

From about 25-30 yards out, Johnny nailed a ball into the upper corner. He didn't celebrate. He looked at me and said, "See how you're supposed to do it, Bradley?"

Then he smiled.

Go ahead, Johnny.

Hope to see a lot of you on Sept. 21st at Green Brook Country Club. It means the world to Johnny's dad and his entire family for people to show up and reminisce.

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What's Inside?

I've had to criticize my share of athletes through the years. I'll never forget having to write about the decline of the great Don Mattingly during my days on the Yankee beat.

I wrote how he could not possibly remain the Yankees No. 3 hitter if he was going to only hit 10 home runs a season. Many times I had to flesh out his failings with ugly numbers. I never liked doing it, but knew it was part of my job. I could not lie.

But I also could not make stuff up. And that has always been my approach when having to write critical analysis. Back it up with facts. Don't make stuff up. Don't write what you can't support.

And for that reason, I never, ever, ever...(emphasis, EVER)...felt comfortable writing about what was inside an athlete. I could question Paul O'Neill, for example, when he slammed down his bat and did not run hard to first base on a pop-up that ultimately fell in for a hit...because I had the video evidence to support it. I would not, however, write that O'Neill's head wasn't into the game. Why? Well, how could I know exactly where O'Neill's head (aka his brain) was? A media credential got me into the lockerroom, but not into his brain...or his heart.

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Why I'll Never Be Any Good

It was 1989, I was 25 years old, and I'd just been granted my dream job, a reporter's position at Sports Illustrated. This was going to be the ultimate. I was an SI fanatic through my college years. poring through each issue, reading every word, clipping my favorite stories and filing them away.

I idolized SI writers as much as I idolized professional athletes as a kid. Peter Gammons. Steve Wulf. William Nack. Gary Smith. Craig Neff. I knew them all and studied their styles. When I got the job at SI, I could not wait to meet them face to face and pick their brains. And I did.

But one lunch meeting from 20 years ago stands out more than any other. It was a sit-down with E.M. ("Ed") Swift, a former Princeton hockey goaltender who could turn a phrase with the best of them. Ed wrote mostly about hockey and figure skating, but could really write about anything. What fascinated me about him, also, was that he was a former college athlete. In fact, one of my favorite Swift stories of all-time was a first-person story about tending goal for a horrendous (1-22) Princeton hockey team. While I can hardly call myself a "former college athlete" (unless a year of JV baseball at Carolina counts), I did consider myself more athletic than the typical sportswriter. I mean how many scribes can say they even practiced alongside guys like B.J. Surhoff, Walt Weiss and Scott Bankhead? Anyway, I couldn't wait to talk to Swift.

And I'll never forget what Ed told me...as soon as I referenced that Princeton story and the fact that I'd dabbled as a utility player at UNC. "In order to be any good at all as a sportswriter," Ed said, "You've got to forget just how hard it is to play. Wipe it from your memory."

Swift's point was, more than anythinng, that if I achieved my goal of writing at SI, I'd be writing about the best athletes on the planet...that they were expected to perform amazing acts in front of millions of fans...and I could not be sympathetic to their failures just because I knew what it was like to face a 90 mph slider ... or in his case, a 110 mph slapshot.

Twenty years later...I'm a writer for ESPN The Magazine, not SI (never elevated above reporter status there), but I've never really been able to heed Swift's advice. I've never, ever been able to overlook just how hard it is for professional athletes to perform at such high levels. Sorry, Ed, it's nothing against you (still think you're an amazing writer), but having grown up now in a house where one of my brothers (Scott) made it to the big leagues as a player and where another (Bob) has worked his way through the ranks to become the coach of the U.S. national soccer team, and where my nephew (Michael) has battled his way through Europe as a professional soccer player, it's just impossible for me to ignore how difficult it is (in Scott's case was) to play or coach at the highest level.

Maybe I'll just never be any good.

Or maybe I'll just have a different opinion than those who write or speak as if it's easy.

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Win it For...

So, the Tar Heels are making their fourth straight trip to Omaha for the College World Series, which is pretty damn impressive. But isn't it high time they win it?

I don't know any of the current Tar Heels, but fully expect I'll be watching Dustin Ackley and Alex White play in the big leagues soon, at which point I'll introduce myself and tell them that I once carried the water and picked up dirty jocks for the Tar Heels back in the early 80s.

But before I get that chance, I'd like to tell the 2009 Tar Heels to win it for the old gang.

For the obvious guys...

Win it for Walt Weiss, my suite mate, the slick-fielding shortstop who used to ask me to hit him ground balls at, oh, 3 a.m., if the lights were on over at "the turf." Weiss was a famous insomniac at night, maybe because he'd pound Coca Cola and pizza nightly at 1 a.m. He'd more than make up for the lack of sleep during the daytime hours...when he was supposed to be in class. Walt will not be happy for me saying this, but I'd pay money to see what his final Carolina transcript looks like as he began searching for "slides" beginning in the second semester. Gotta stay eligible.

Win it for B.J. Surhoff. To know him was to love him. To not know him? I can only imagine. We knew him by various (usually ironic) nicknames, including Mr. Laughs, Mr. Happy. My favorite line from B.J. came one night in Purdy's (a disco, I will admit it). With the music pumping, hot girls everywhere, beer flowing, BJ looked at me and said, "I'm outta here. It's way too crowded and there's nobody here." Yogi Berra could not have said it better.

Win it for Scott Bankhead. Twenty straight wins over two college seasons for Bank, but we never got to Omaha. Back in '83-84, with mullet and mustache, there was no finer collegiate pitcher.

Win it for Todd Wilkinson. Born in upstate New York, there was no more Southern dude than Wilky in Chapel Hill by the time his career was over. Cried like a baby when we won the ACC championship at Boshamer. Someone tells me they've got the newspaper photo to prove it.

Win it for Jeff Hubbard. Magnum PI 'stache, Porsche 944, a legendary Trust Fund, and that memorable semester in the spring of '84 when Hubbard -- so sure he would be drafted after a good season -- majored in baseball. I did appreciate it when "Marv" would let me drive the Porsche, to take him to Henderson Street just before we'd leave on a road trip. Marv would knock back a few beers and play Donkey Kong. It was a pre-road trip tradition.

Win it for Mike Jedziniak. Hard-hitting (on and off the field) second baseman from Toms River NJ. Jedz was Pedroia before Pedroia. Loved to scream at the hardest throwers, "Throw harder!"

Win it for Hawks, and for Boopie too.

Win it for Chris Mench. Because, it's called "Big Cheese-al" and we know who can survive. And for Tim Kirk, because he spit out the only sip of beer he ever took. Win it for Bill Robinson, because he's still the only dude I've ever met in my life who likes Circus Peanuts. Win it for Roger Williams because even when State had lit him up for about 11 runs, "Crow" was still PISSED that Coach Roberts was on his way to the mound to take him out. Win it for Ken "Butch" Turner for his ability to fart on demand and for Glenn Liacouras, for his germaphobia. Win it for Paul Will and his bowl of fries.

Win it for fellas from my brother Scott's era. For Barney Spooner and Gals. For Peanut and Roy. For Pitter and LB. For Oshe. For the late Dwight Lowry. Win it for Joe Reto.

Win it for me, because there's no way there's ever been a less-talented player who was even allowed to take batting practice or groundballs at Boshamer Stadium. Win it for my shoulder, which I blew out freshman year throwing Jon O'Leary December batting practice. Win it for me and Matt Barratta and Grafton Garnes, for folding Carolina laundry and polishing Tar Heel shoes. We had some great teams in '83-'86, and we never got to Omaha. The program is bigger and badder than it was back then, and I'm sure there are characters too...so win it for yourselves.

Me and my mates will surely raise a glass if you do.

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Simple Things

So, I just got back from lunch with an old buddy, Jedz.

Jedz and I went to UNC Chapel Hill together from '82-86 ('87, actually, but who's keeping score?) I met him on a hot August day, as I was taping a Springsteen poster up on the wall of my dorm room. He did not greet me with, "Hello" or "What's Up?" but with a question.

"You like Bowie?"

Soon, we realized we were kindred spirits, passionate about our music, our sports, but more than anything, we loved to laugh. And oh how we laughed. Some of the things that made us laugh were sophomoric and childish, others, I must say, a pretty high-brand of humor.

Twenty-plus years have passed since we would stay up all night, because we couldn't stop laughing...but we've still got a bond. I can send Jedz a three-word email and I know he'll get, as we used to say, "an abdomen workout." I send these emails because I know he'll respond in a matter of seconds, and get the same reaction out of me.

As I've grown up, become a husband and a father, been able to earn a living to feed and clothe my kids, pay the mortgage, etc., I can say, it's all been good. It's also amazing that my kids have grandparents that live 10 and 20 minutes away. Truly, I'm a lucky guy.

As those T-shirts say, "Life is Good."

But if there's one thing I miss, it's the laughter I shared with Jedz and other college buddies. I don't know, it's been the one thing in my post-college life that I've never been able to replace. I think I've gottean along well with co-workers, and made some great friends in my profession from age 25-45, but...none could make me laugh like Jedz.

Honestly, it's a void in my life.

And why am I choosing to write about this today, after more than a month in hibernation? Because Jedz works about a half a mile from my house and this was the first time I'd seen him in probably five years. How the heck does that happen? I know, I know, people tell me, life gets in the way. Jedz has a 14-year old daughter and a six-year old son. I've got my boys.

There's always stuff going on.

But doesn't there have to be time to laugh?

Thanks Old Pal...let's do it again soon.

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